#I have about six months to plot some scheme

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 410: Kacchan Fights a Baby

Previously on BnHA: Kacchan was born and then he grew up and murdered the Demon Lord.

Today on BnHA: Kacchan fights a baby. Tomura and Deku finally remember that they were supposed to have been fighting too this entire time, and get on with that once again. Tomura is all, “[literally just reaches out and grabs Deku’s face because Deku’s main character powers suddenly abandoned him in a fit of confusion].” Deku is all, “[chops off Tomura’s fingers which is somehow not even in the top twenty of violent things that have happened in this series in just the last five chapters].” Tomura is all “joke’s on you I still got your quirk :D” and fuck me he actually stole Danger Sense, what the fuck.

logically I knew AFO still had to be alive somehow because he’s too big of a villain to go out that easily without a proper sendoff. but deep in my heart, I’m still secretly disappointed

it just isn’t fair, lol. this guy has died more times than Rasputin and he’s still out here scheming his schemey schemes. when oh when will it end

sir you did not just say you had yet ANOTHER unused trump card up your sleeve??

(ETA: the translation isn’t fully clear here, but I think the trump card he’s referring to is the whole “I’ll just go back inside him and join the part of me that was already in there and we’ll take over Tomura’s body again together” plan that he was trying to pull off. I think. if not though, that’s certainly something worth speculating about.)

well as always the psychology in this series is unironically fascinating! he just wants acknowledgement at the end of the day, huh. just wants some love and attention. too bad he was born in a rat-infested hellscape and learned all the wrong lessons and turned into a crazed omnipotent murderlad

also he really did turn back into a baby sdfsdlkjfl oh no. I need to see Katsuki’s reaction to this immediately

oh my lord

(●__●)

lmao this is so incredibly fucked up

ngl though, this is karma at its finest. he tortured and killed so many people trying to earn everyone’s fear and awe and reverence, only to literally blip out of existence at the end with absolutely nothing to show for it

everyone please enjoy this series of panels of a deeply vexed Bakugou Katsuki picking a fight with this slowly melting evil baby

“you think I care that you’re a baby now. you think I won’t fight a fuckin’ baby. let’s do this you little punk”

also I’m sorry but it’s absolutely ridiculous that the gigantic chest wound Tomura inflicted on him got sewed up so neatly lol. AFO’s not the only one who stubbornly refuses to die no matter what

...

just once, it would be nice if Horikoshi didn’t immediately shred my plot nitpicks to pieces mere seconds after I write them

LMAO

BABY AFO DON’T CARE. BABY AFO WILL THROW HANDS WITH ANYONE ＼(｀0´)／

KACCHAN MY BELOVED FAVE OF ALL TIME, ARE YOU REALLY ABOUT TO LOSE TO A LITERAL FUCKING INFANT

WHAT HAPPENED TO “PERFECT VICTORY” LMAO. MOVING THE GOALPOSTS EVEN AS HIS CONSCIOUSNESS FADES. “EH, CLOSE ENOUGH”

-- OH FOR THE LOVE OF --

me: wow it sure is uncharacteristic of Katsuki to just pass out before he properly wraps up this battle

Horikoshi: oh yeah good point, sure would be a shame if someone... IMMEDIATELY ADDRESSED THAT CONCERN ON THE VERY NEXT PAGE

me: ఠ_ఠ

ldskjflaksdjfkds

fdsfsdkf. “SORRY ABOUT THAT, FOR A MOMENT THERE I ALMOST FORGOT TO BEND THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE TO MY WILL”

holy fucking shit. his body was all “um, just a quick reminder that you’re HORRIBLY WOUNDED and have lost like ten gallons of blood and all of your cells are about to call an emergency meeting to shut this thing down before you get us all killed.” and he was all “WHAT WAS THAT?!” and his body was all “oh my GOD, FUCK, OKAY just forget we said anything”

and meanwhile Baby AFO is just lying there all “(◉⌓◉)”

this six-month-old child is truly and sincerely still trying to kill Kacchan while screeching death threats in high-pitched baby talk

this actually would have killed him too, if he’d succeeded in passing out. all that just to be punk’d by a damn baby

you are actually shitting me right now

at this point I’m genuinely not sure which of them has the more powerful angry toddler energy

oh no ffuffkdsfk

meeeeelting. meeeeeeltiiiiiing!!! oh what a world what a world

jesus Horikoshi I am genuinely speechless

... welp

WAIT NO WAY, REALLY?!?!

?!?!?! WAS IT ACTUALLY THAT SIMPLE THIS WHOLE TIME

-- lkjf

three times. three times in the same fucking chapter. I give up. apparently I’ll literally believe anything this man says. does it feel good, Horikoshi. preying on your readers’ hopeful naivete

yeefuckinghaw lmao

GOOD JOB KACCHAN YOU DEFEATED THE EVIL BABY

awwwww

I actually had a theory about this! well more of a wishlist item, really. I can’t remember if I’ve actually posted about it yet or not. but it’s like. you know how Deku and Kacchan are always being really dramatic about holding hands? wanting to hold hands; not wanting to hold hands; being afraid to hold hands; holding hands via proxy, etc. etc.?

and you know how both Endeavor and All Might have each done their own version of the victory pose that Kacchan is referring to here? with each one using a different hand?

so you see, I was thinking that it might be nice. might be a little poetic and all that. if at the end of the fight, Deku and Kacchan did, in fact, hold hands. and then did the victory pose together. and it became like their iconic hero moment. them standing there together. having accomplished their goal and defeated TomurAFO through teamwork. realizing their shared childhood dream. and sharing that moment of triumph with each other and with the world, ushering in a new era of heroes

anyway yeah. I was thinking that might be a pretty good ending. but it looks like Kacchan maybe really is about to pass out here now, lol, so maybe not? anyways time to finally scroll down

-- okay I literally said awww again out loud

what a fucking nerd. I have never felt more fondness for a character in my life

every damn person watching this on the news better have leaped to their feet and started applauding, goddammit. those motherfuckers better be CHANTING HIS FUCKING NAME. all those nagging reporters better be bombarding his phone with calls. those fuckers who deleted his footage from the Shouto interview better be shamelessly leaving him dozens of voicemails acting like none of that ever happened and presumptuously asking when he can free some time in his schedule to visit their studio again. all the heroes who haven’t hugged him yet better be lining the fuck up. that one guy from the post-kidnapping press conference in chapter 86 better be writing a fifty page letter of apology!!

oh hey it’s a random pre-battle flashback mysteriously taking place in Troy “a few days before the battle” even though I thought they only moved into that place the night before the fight

I love how Katsuki immediately narrows his eyes (I assume. we can’t see for sure but that’s the vibe I get) at Jeanist and has to resist the urge to call the police on him for that pun

so Hadou’s wondering what Jeanist is talking about because they already evacuated the civilians, so what else are they trying to protect. and Edgeshot is all, “well obviously we’ve gotta protect everyone’s future,” which is a nice... rearshadowing?? for him saving Katsuki’s life later on lol

and now Mirko is all “get to the fucking point already.” which, same

so Jeanist says that Tomura is an even bigger problem than AFO, because at least AFO doesn’t want to murder everyone on the entire planet. and he concludes with “he’ll probably try to touch the ground and use his quirk.” which is a conclusion that I have to say wasn’t really worth two pages of flashback buildup for, considering that we all figured that out years ago

I’m guessing this is all just some sort of awkward transition back to Deku’s fight now lol

and now we’re getting two pages of exposition on how long it would theoretically take Tomura’s Decay to spread throughout the city, and then the entire country, yikes

damn. talk about stakes

and now finally back to Deku!!

shoutout to everyone who correctly predicted that Deku was once again talking out of his ass when it came to being out of Gearshifts. we all knew. unlimited supply

wow Tomura way to throw AFO under the bus

the way I recall it, AFO wasn’t the one who failed to kill him back then lol. but go ahead and talk your shit king

DEKU WHAT ARE YOU DOING

holy shit?!?!

like my first thought was “well last time he did this he just tried to steal OFA rather than Decay him, so he’ll probably try that again and it’ll be fine.” only to remember that the AFO inside Tomura is currently permanently(?) out to lunch, and Tomura himself doesn’t give two figs about stealing OFA. so, uhhhh >_>

(ETA: nevermind.)

but then this happened

Deku what the actual fuck

OH MY GOD??!?!

HOLY SHIT

okay. okay, fuck. lemme gather up my thoughts, and then we’ll wrap this up

they’ll never admit it, but you know the other OFA Vestiges secretly resented Shino a tiny bit for being the only one of them to not be gruesomely murdered. bet they all feel guilty for thinking that now

Shino and Banjou also seemed to have this cute little pseudo-rivalry thing going on, so I really feel bad for Banjou now. :/ he looks so horrified in that bottom right panel

gotta admit, I did not see this coming in the slightest. OFA has been this immutable “I do what I want!” quirk for so long that I never thought Tomura or AFO would actually succeed in stealing it, even partially. that shook me to my core

BUT, it’s also really exciting to me because it’s going to make this battle much more interesting if Deku can’t use his get out of jail free card. shit just got way more real and I’m here for it

lastly, so! let me tell you guys my prediction. I still can’t see Tomura being the final villain lol. I just can’t. it feels too anticlimactic. if I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and I’ve certainly botched MANY predictions in the past, but I have not yet learned my lesson from any of it and I will not apologize lol

so here’s what I think. Deku and Tomura battle it out for the next chapter or two, and Tomura snatches up more of Deku’s quirks one by one. we see all of the Vestiges disappearing and the mood gets more and more desperate. eventually we’re down to just Kudou and Yoichi. Deku is panicking, but for some reason Kudou seems even MORE panicked

Kudou/Gearshift eventually gets stolen too, and it looks like this might finally be it for Deku (I have no idea how he’d stop Tomura from Decaying the ground once Blackwhip gets stolen, btw, but maybe Katsuki or someone else interferes in desperation towards the end). but just when it looks like Tomura is finally going to take the last piece of OFA, Deku’s vibes suddenly do a 180, stopping Tomura in his tracks

cut to the OFA Moon Gorgeous Meditation Realm, where Deku and Yoichi are staring at the door -- yes, that door -- in shock. because it’s finally been opened (now that the other Vestiges are no longer there to keep it at bay). and just like that, enter AFO, for the THIRD FUCKING TIME :D :D

tl;dr, HERE’S HOW HORCRUX!DEKU CAN STILL HAPPEN!!! wait where are you all going. wait come back

anyway so wow that was a really bizarre chapter that I truly thoroughly enjoyed, which should probably be a bit concerning. on to the next two week break! (for anyone who’s not aware, Shounen Jump will be on break next week, so yeah.) I’m on chapter 391 now. so close but still so far. the end of the year has gone by too damn fast tbh

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | part six | epilogue | playlist

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass. 

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment. 

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog. 

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock. 

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma. 

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat. 

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder. 

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl. 

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound. 

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you. 

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too. 

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow. 

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…." 

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him." 

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend. 

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication. 

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this." 

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips. 

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?" 

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…" 

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you. 

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision. 

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes? 

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes. 

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her. 

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight." 

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?" 

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake. 

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas. 

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor. 

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you. 

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free. 

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body. 

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?" 

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir." 

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?" 

"No, sir." 

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?" 

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir." 

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek. 

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder. 

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door. 

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale. 

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret. 

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward. 

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming. 

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay. 

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return. 

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—" 

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft. 

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away. 

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse… 

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter. 

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering. 

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation? 

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are. 

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line. 

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once. 

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration. 

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am. 

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart. 

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought. 

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame. 

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow. 

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again. 

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching. 

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

you know you never stood a chance - chapter four

you know you never stood a chance series

four: beg me to take care of things

qz!Joel Miller x f!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: You continue your free use arrangement with Joel in exchange for shelter, but it hits a little snag.

Warnings: qz life comes with its own warning, dub-con due to power imbalance, trading sex for shelter, free use, vaginal sex, anal play, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, whoops there's more plot, Joel is mean/bad at feelings, no y/n, despite what it looks like this is NOT going to follow canon

also on ao3

“Not a fucking sound,” he whispers, stifling your moan with his hand. Ellie is asleep in the next room over, but the glass of the door between you is broken. It’s the only reason he feels comfortable leaving her in that room: the sole entrance is in his line of sight.

He’s got you pinned to the grimy tile, his whole weight atop you as he fucks into your cunt. You can’t make a sound if you wanted; you can hardly draw a breath. He’s not a small man by any means. But it feels so fucking good.

It’s been weeks. Ever since you got roped into this mission, ever since you left the QZ, he hadn’t touched you once.

It hurts in the best way, though just a little past the point of pleasure. There wasn't the time for prep. But your whole body is tingling just from finally having his hands back on you, his thick cock inside you, feeling like more than just a burden.

Each slap of his hips against you is a rebirth. In the six months before you started on this horrible trek, you had known very little outside of Joel’s touch. You went to work each morning, collected rations, and came home. He’d come home an hour later, always on edge, always looking for an outlet.

For six months, you had been little more than Joel Miller’s live-in fucktoy, and honestly, it was probably the best six months of your life since the outbreak. You wanted for nothing (at least in the realities of post-apocalyptic life—in the grander scheme of things, you wouldn’t have said no to some fucking McDonald’s french fries). You had protection. You had shelter. You had company.

Well. Okay. You sort of had company. You could count on him to speak at least a few words in the evening. He almost always made sure you came, too. It had been hard at first, relying on him, but there was no use for a martyr complex these days. The only one who’d suffer by turning down assistance was, well, you.

He doesn’t make sure you cum, this time, but you think he can tell you don’t need any help. The relief of having him inside you is enough, and you can’t spare the energy to be embarrassed about it.

After he pulls out, having covered your ass in his cum, he stands up immediately, knees cracking. He tucks himself away and nudges you with the toe of his boot. “Up, get dressed.”

You scramble up, tugging your pants back into place, and watch him for a moment. His jaw is ticking, and he’s scowling at the wall behind you.

You open your mouth, and he cuts you off. “Shouldn’t have done that. Not gonna happen again.”

You’re aghast. “What?”

“Wasn’t fair of me. Y’don’t owe me anythin’ out here.”

You take a hesitant step closer. His jaw twitches again, but he doesn’t move (or look at you). “You’re still protecting me,” you offer.

“I made you come out here. Kinda have to protect you.”

“You don’t, though,” you say, feeling emboldened enough to slide your hand up his arm to his bicep.

He knocks your arm away and grabs you by the chin. “Why’d you even come? You just do whatever I say, even stupid shit?”

“Well, yeah. Didn't really have a better offer.”

“Christ.” He drops his hand from you and wipes it down his face.

“How ‘bout you get some sleep?” you say warily. The bags under his eyes are deeper and darker than ever. “I can keep watch.”

“You learn how to shoot a gun when I was takin’ a piss earlier?”

“No, but I can still keep watch. I can wake you up if anything happens.”

You’re shocked when he seems to actually consider it. It’s the safest you’ve been in weeks, here in this abandoned high-rise. There are no signs of Infected or hunters.

“Fine.” He grunts. “But you wake me if there’s any sound. I don’t care if you think it’s a rat or the wind. You fuckin’ wake me, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” you joke. Something darkens behind his eyes just for a moment, until he blinks it away. You file that away for later.

He hands you a pistol and a knife, just in case. Not that you’ll know what to do with either, but he can’t just leave you unarmed. You nod, understanding passing between you.

He sucks on his front teeth, staring at you for a moment like he wants to say something. You’re not sure you want to hear it, though, so you say, “Goodnight, Joel.”

Nothing happens. You stand, leaning against the door frame, Joel’s pistol in your hands. Despite his paranoia, there’s not even a squeak out of place, and he sleeps for four full hours before getting up. He moves more nimbly than he has since, well. Since Tess.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious to know what was between them. She had, after all, seemed very aware of what function you served to Joel, but there was no jealousy in her eyes. Maybe when he fucked her, it was like making love, and she was fine to leave all the rough, angry moments for you to absorb.

Or maybe it was nothing. It hardly mattered, and she was nice to you, so you respected her memory by leaving it alone.

Though you do wonder if that’s why he wouldn’t touch you anymore.

Dawn hasn’t broken, and Ellie is still asleep. When he comes out to check on you, you offer the only other comfort you can.

When you sink to your knees, he closes his eyes for just a moment and sighs. “Yeah, okay,” he says. His body had worked ahead of his brain, already undoing the button on his jeans, and he lets you ease him into the morning.

After, when he helps you stand, he holds you against him for a moment, and even presses a kiss into your hair almost absentmindedly. You figure maybe he’s forgotten his promise that it would never happen again.

And he does, for a little while.

When you first moved into his apartment, it was so incredibly awkward. Like, worse than a school dance awkward. Worse than walking in on your sister getting railed by some scrawny FEDRA officer awkward.

Eventually, you tracked his habits and rhythms and used the information to stay out of his way. You stopped wearing underwear when you were home, as it ended up on the floor anyway. After a while, he just started leaving you a couple of his shirts, and you gave up on sweatpants entirely.

You’d be lying if you said you were uncomfortable, and he tended to leave the shirt on you when he fucked you, so there was no need for dressing and undressing.

He left first in the morning and came home last, so the key quickly became your responsibility. He had shoved it into your hand the second evening.

“I’m leavin’ for a couple days. Lock the apartment. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t tell anyone I’m gone.”

Before he left that evening, he ordered you to your knees and fucked your throat, wiping away the tears after he finished. “Be good,” he said, dragging his knuckles down your cheek.

And then he was gone. You locked the door behind him and sat on the dingy carpet, legs folded pretzel-style. The yellow fluorescent bulb overhead had a faint pulse to it, a barely-there dimming and brightening that started to hurt your eyes. What the fuck were you supposed to do here, in this flat you were haunting?

You didn’t dare look around. You ate the rations you had earned and left everything else alone. You knew there were pills, guns, and alcohol somewhere. You weren’t keen on learning where, though. Plausible deniability and all that.

Joel came home in the middle of the night three days later. The key issue became apparent when he had to pound on the door until you woke up to let him in.

“New plan,” he snarled when he came in. “From now on, when I’m gone, I’m lockin’ you in here until I get back.”

“Fuck no,” you said.

“The fuck did you say to me?” he said, stalking closer.

“What if you don’t come back soon enough? What if I fuckin’ run out of food?”

“You think I’d go to all this trouble to keep you safe and then let ya die in here?”

“I don’t know!” Your heart struggled to keep up with your irrational fury, and stumbled at his words. Why did he go to all this trouble? You were about to ask, but of course, he ruined it.

“What good’s your pussy to me then, huh?” He was chest-to-chest with you, towering with a venomous glare.

“I don’t know, Miller, you’re kind of a creep. Maybe you’re into that.”

“I’m a creep, huh? Then why are you so wet?”

You flushed, heat crawling across your cheeks and ears. “Who says I’m wet?”

It was the wrong thing to say. He pinned you against the door and shoved your pants down, plunging three fingers right into your cunt. You yelped at the stretch and pinch, but had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, as he brought them up to your face, coated in slick.

“Looks pretty wet to me,” he said, the words rumbling from somewhere deep and dark within. “Open.”

You did. God help you, you did. He smirked and pressed his fingers in, wiping them on your tongue.

“Suck,” he murmured.

You closed your lips around him and sucked until your cheeks hollowed around them, saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth. He pulled his fingers out and patted your cheek with the same hand, leaving a wet trail behind.

“Go get on the fuckin’ bed.”

"Which bed is the fucking bed?" you said before you could control yourself, and darted into his room before he could register your words.

You were hardly in position when his hands gripped the sides of your hips, and he licked into your cunt. “Fuckin’ slut, trying to say ya weren’t wet and waitin’ for me,” he grumbled, and nipped at your thigh before diving back in.

Your orgasm came embarrassingly quickly. His derisive chuckle brushed against your clit, which he sucked at until you were spent.

“Seems like ya missed me,” he said, standing and wasting no time before stuffing his cock in. “Well? Did ya?”

You didn’t answer, whining into the sheets as he set a slow but harsh pace, slamming in only to draw back out inch by inch.

He slapped your ass, watching it ripple. “Don’t be rude, sweetheart.”

“Oh, were you gone?” you huffed between thrusts.

He brought his hand down again. “What did I just fuckin’ say?”

“Y’know, come to think of it,” you couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t shut up, “there was a distinct lack of grouchy old creeps hanging around.”

He grabbed your hair and craned your neck back so you could see the way his eyes were blown dark, teeth bared. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. I’ve had a real bad couple of days. Here I thought I was comin’ home to a sweet cunt.”

You opened your mouth, though you didn’t feel a retort dancing on your tongue. You figured by the time you came up with it, you’d have already said it.

He didn’t give you the chance. His other hand came up, and he hooked two fingers into your cheek. The hand in your hair released to dip into your mouth, swiping his thumb through the pooling saliva. He dragged it down and pressed the wet thumb into the cleft of your ass, firm pressure against your tight hole.

You were breathing heavily around his fingers, back arched. He didn’t stop fucking into you, hissing as you clamped down when his thumb pushed in, just enough to make you feel the pressure.

“Awfully quiet now,” he drawled. “You just needed all your holes filled, huh?”

You thought you might die from the humiliation, if only the pleasure didn’t take you first. You squirmed, pushing back into him.

He jostled your head by pinching the fingers in your mouth and shaking your cheek. “You gonna be quiet if I take these out?”

You nodded. He withdrew the fingers and brought the hand down to your hip, holding you steady so he could chase his orgasm. Each rough thrust knocked a quiet cry from your lips, and he pulled away from your asshole to tangle his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back again.

The kiss was mostly teeth and spit, but it was euphoric. He felt the way you tightened and tensed, and he smiled against your lips. “Cum for me,” he said, and licked into your mouth to gobble up your scream.

When you convulsed on his cock, he lost control, and almost didn’t pull out in time. He spilled against the bed, swearing deep and low.

That memory and the many others get you through the lonely nights on the journey, your hand down your pants and gasps muffled around your fist when you can catch a moment alone. If Joel notices, he doesn’t show it. Except tonight, when you look back on it, you realize he was only making good on his promise not to let you rot in his apartment. Whatever delusions you had about being brought along get left behind in the shitty high rise.

next chapter

*title from "Send the Pain Below" by Chevelle.

[stealingyourbones]

It's not much but I have five dice made from the knuckle bones of sheep for you. Be careful not to loose one, as while five is a very lucky number, I find four to be very, very unlucky. If one day you should find there are six, don't panic. Simply choose one and bury it under a bush.

Tim had plenty of contingencies for just about anything that could happen, and he knew this would happen eventually. Both of them did. In fact, they had gone over possible plans together and chosen a cover story ahead of time. But now that it was time to use it? Tim felt internally nervous. It was never a good thing to have to explain to your family full of detectives that you have a secret boyfriend.

The story they settled on was one that was easy for them to maintain due to not being able to see eachother much because of both of their rouges galleries. They decided to go with a classic "star crossed lovers who could never be together for they are of two different worlds", which narrowly beat out "Romeo and Juliet".

When asked about his boyfriend, Tim will gladly tell his family about how his boyfriend is beautiful and strong and smart, but also dumb and silly and sweet. He will tell them stories about the time Danny got ice cream on his nose and insisted he could reach it for three full minutes while going cross eyed trying to reach it with his tongue, followed by the time Danny single handedly knocked Mister Freeze out for interrupting their date. The family remembers the time Freeze just showed up in Arkham after spraying ice for two minutes, knocked out and tied up, ready to be put in a cell but they could never figure out what happened.

However, no one gets to meet Tim's mystery boyfriend until a night when Tim was supposed to be off. It's the March Equinox so of course a villian decided to attack. Tim and Danny help Dick, Jason, and Damian with the fight, grinning internally when they notice the time. After the villian is all wrapped up and their plot to end the city at midnight is done with, Tim's own alarm goes off and he immediately hugs Danny saying in the softest voice he can manage, "please don't go."

Danny has a sad look on his face as he hugs Tim, using his powers to slowly turn himself invisible as he replies, "I'm sorry my dear but I have to. The veil is thinning again." Danny nuzzles the top of Tim's head, voice getting more distant with each word, "but I'll be back in a few months. The Solstice isn't that far away. I'll see you then, I promise."

Danny almost isn't visible as Tim holds him as tight as he can, like if he clings tight enough his boyfriend won't slip through his fingers. Tim gives Danny a kiss before he says, "I will await your return with baited breath as always. Perhaps some day we'll find a way to anchor you to this world." Danny almost isn't visible and his voice is hardly a whisper as he replies, "if only it were that easy my dear." With the final word, Danny vanishes fully and goes intangible so Tim's arms slip through where he was. Tim stares at the place he knows his boyfriend is for a few moments, trying to think of sad things so his heart broken voice sounds convincing as he says to his family, "I'm going home."

Tim has to grapple to his boat house as fast as he can so that his family won't see him break out into laughter over how well he tricked them. Dick looked like he was going to cry! Danny shows up and says, "guess who got Kitty to record their faces while invisible." This only makes Tim laugh harder. Truly this was the best idea.

You scheming fuck /lh. I was so so enraptured and then I remembered that these two gremlins are mischevious little bastards.

Oh I adore this so much. How long do they play this up for? I know that the bats are now both EXTREMELY wary and also want to help Tim find a way to be with his boyfriend. They start trying to experiment and figure out ways for Tim to let his boyfriend through the veil. Issue: that’s not at all a problem.

[netegf]

uneasy lover

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader

plot: when you and your secret boyfriend are held captive by carlos singh, he gets over-protective and scheming.

word count: 1.5 k

warnings: some angst but ends fluffy, talk of secret relationship, some references to violence, foul language, some suggestive content/innuendo though no smut explicitly detailed, attempts at humour

In theory, the rules were simple. No contact.

Though, in retrospect, you suppose Rafe operates almost entirely outside of theory, and more often than not, needs the rules explained to him a few times.

He was more… physical.

What are words to chains, and maybe that’s what you needed to stop a Cameron from doing something they wanted.

It’s how you find yourself in your current predicament, taking sharp left turn after sharp left turn, trying to shake away a long-haired, burly shadow with sparkling teeth and a charming, but deceptively comforting Southern drawl.

You lose him on the fourth one and suddenly you’re right back where you started.

That was the thing with Rafe.

It took every ounce of pulsing muscle and cracking bone to pass ‘Go’, only to realize that was the easiest part.

You cut through a few alleyways that you’re sure would make Rafe’s lip curl with disgust, but then blurry Figure 8 comes into focus with its expansive money-green lawns and homes that might as well have moats or flying buttresses, they’re so large, and it’s perhaps true this place is a vacuum because it’s hard to consider anything else.

Barrelling through the front door of a house with more window panes than you can count – though you’ve tried on a number of inconspicuous occasions – you make your way to that one room after a sharp left, not bothering with any of the usual, or in recent months, unusual, pleasantries.

“Care to explain why Barry is following me around like a stray dog?”

Rafe stands at the corner of the room, adjusting something on his night stand.

He makes a quarter-turn of his body and regards you with a generous once-over and a bite to the inside of his cheek. He is sin number six. Gluttony.

“I dunno.” He says plainly. “Small world, and all that?”

“Rafe.”

“Gee, it’s hard to say. Maybe he likes your perfume.” He quips, again, ignoring the warning in your voice.

Rafe throws his hands up, like he’s the one that should be exasperated.

“You know what? Fine. You want to be difficult, then I’m leaving.”

It’s half a bluff, half the truth, and one-hundred percent the last thing he wants to hear.

When you turn the corner with your bag slung tight over your arm in entirely theatrical disapproval, he huffs out at least two lungs worth of air, including the dead space.

“Yeah, alright, I get it.” He mumbles dejectedly, wiping a hand across his jaw. Always touching his face before a big reveal. “I asked him to tail you. So what?”

“What?” You spin back humourlessly. “Why would you do that?”

“Why?”

Now, he’s the one humourless.

“Do I really have to be the one to remind you that this place is crawling with treasure-hunting lowlifes that want those dirty Pogues six-feet deep in the ground?”

“Don’t call them that.” You bristle. “Plus, we’re back in Kildare, Rafe. C’mon.”

Rafe rolls his eyes callously, at the first or second part of what you said, you’re unsure. Knowing Rafe, it’s probably both.

Biting your lip, you can’t help the sinking feeling that pulls your heart towards your stomach until they’re some strange super-organ.

In Barbados, you knew this would be a problem. But even you didn’t think it’d come up this soon.

“That supposed to mean something?” He chuckles bitterly. “I’ll be sure to remind Singh of that when he’s not too busy, you know, dropping bodies for a diary.”

You scoff. It wasn’t nearly that simple. This was Pope’s family you were talking about. “You know it’s more than that–,”

“I know that my girlfriend’s life is in danger!”

Rafe can be aggressive, that’s unsurprising.

But it feels different when it seems like he has the right to be. He continues.

“And I know that I’m not allowed to go anywhere near her. She won’t let me, remember?”

You stay quiet for a few moments, then offer dimly.

“You said you were okay with that.”

“I am!” He lets out a breath, correcting himself. “I-I’m trying to be.”

Nodding, that was a sentiment you could relate to.

When Singh had separated you from the rest of the Pogues for an interrogation you were poorly prepared for, the last thing you would’ve expected was an impromptu rendezvous with a boyfriend that you, under every moral code, were not supposed to have.

Did it feel good negotiating with a dreamer with a gun? No. And especially not when you didn’t have any particularly useful intel about the thing he was looking for.

The best you could do was promise a photo-copy of the diary, but even then, Singh didn’t seem satisfied.

But those nights you spent trapped in that house were the same nights without prying eyes and judgement and boundaries that had been set under different pre-tenses, and even more importantly, they were nights with Rafe.

His stirring gaze. His always too-hot hands. His lips that deliver soft promises about how everything’s going to be okay, and kiss and suck like it’s a sport for which he wrote the rules.

Nights loving him shamelessly.

Sleeping next to each other in the same bed.

Nights that would be hard to recover from and were, evidently, messing with both of your heads.

Because here you were, in Kildare, re-tracing steps you weren’t supposed to.

“Those guys are trigger-happy. And your so-called friends? They don’t seem to fucking care—,”

“They are just as scared of you.”

At that, his eyes slowly fall shut, chest shuddering slightly and his forehead pinches under his fingers.

“You don’t get what it feels like, okay? To not know whether you’re reading a book by the pier, o-or choking on your own fucking blood somewhere while I’m none the wiser.”

The imagery makes you flinch. It's the eyes. Like he’s seen it.

“You don’t think I feel that way?” You begin, incredulous. “Every minute of every fucking day? You think there aren’t people on the island that want you dead, my own friends included? And for good reason? I can’t even defend you. Do you know what that feels like?”

The pause lets you know he’s absorbing your words, rather than defending them with a bat.

He swallows, lamely offering. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Rafe sits down on his bed, running a hand over his shaved head. His body slacks like he’s been holding himself taut the whole time, inflating the whole of his figure.

Always inflating. Always deflating. Always breaking your heart when it happens.

You slowly trudge toward him, still standing and winding your hands around his neck, though his eyes stay fixed on his upward-facing palms in his lap.

“You can tell Barry to drop the security detail.”

He looks up quickly. More than surprised to see the corner of your lips lifting. But eyes still somewhere else. Still guarded.

“He sucks, you know that?” You chide. “He was whistling the whole time.”

Rafe groans under you, head falling to your chest.

“I told him to be discrete.”

“Oh. So, that’s what he was doing when he asked me to buy him a pack at the corner store.”

“Fuckin’ Barry.” He laughs half-heartedly, then bites his lip. Begging you to finish what you started earlier. “You were saying?”

“You can drop the security detail.” You repeat. “Because I’ll… stick around for a bit.”

His eyes widen a fraction, mouth falling open in what you imagine is going to be annoying, but you beat him to it.

“Just a few nights. Don’t get too excited.”

Rafe’s hands creep up from his lap to latch around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

He buries his head in your torso, pressing a tender kiss to the bit of exposed skin on your midriff, then nods like he’s the best goddamn multi-tasker in the world.

“You’re the boss.” He agrees cautiously, nursing a smirk on his lips.

“And you’re,” you whisper before giving him a bruising kiss. “… a drama queen.”

He raises an eyebrow, tall throat bobbing.

“Thought I was a Kook prince.”

You shrug, scrunching your nose for effect. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Rafe nods in exaggerated understanding, lips playfully pursed.

“Yeah, whatever.” He laments too-easily.

Then there’s that look.

“… guess that means you like royal dick?”

Dislodging from him at once, Rafe cackles behind you as you rifle through his drawer for a clean shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Actually, call up Barry, and tell him that he and I are gonna be spending the evening at the Wreck!”

But it’s a completely hollow threat, and the way you stroll into his bathroom and turn on the hot water for a shower seals the deal.

Rafe calls out some iteration of ‘Baby, I was kidding!’ and it makes you smile when jets of water cascade over your body like a weighted blanket.

It feels crazy. Or maybe it feels crazy that it feels right.

Maybe they weren't mutually exclusive and you could worry about the consequences another time.

[grayintogreen]

OKAY SO. I am (and this is obvious for my followers as opposed to this tag), I am currently running headlong towards the ending of my huge CR longfic, but I have started to develop my next project. Not sure when I'll start posting because if I do it too soon it's going to be hard to keep up with it and YCDHN and I do NOT WANT THAT, so I'm gonna poke at it casually while seeing how much of YCDHN I can write before I come back from my posting hiatus in March. If it looks like I'm making a lot of headway in getting the next three chapters written, we'll see.

SO WHAT IS THIS NEXT PROJECT? Glad you asked.

learn that even death may die is going to be a Hazbin Hotel fic that goes AU after 1x06 (due to that being where I started plotting it). The official summary is as follows:

When Lucifer agrees to seal his powers to set an example of humility to buy more time for the Hotel to work, Adam and the Exorcists scheme with the Vees in order to take the Hazbin Hotel down once and for all. Meanwhile, Alastor has a little secret that he'd like to be through with that would change the face of Hell if anyone knew...

And Husk has caught feelings, which is unrelated to all of the above.

It's a plotty, ensemble piece, featuring Found Family dynamics, Alastor and Lucifer being each others' biggest haters, Husk and Angel in a bodyguard AU for reasons, and the kind of plot you can expect from the idiot who brought you two million words about Cree Deeproots.

Here's an extended preview of the first chapter. Spread the word! Get hype! It's something I'm really excited to work on when I've gotten a lot more progress on my YCDHN backlog.

The last week had been… Harrowing, to say the least. The Extermination had been personal- deeply personal- and while no one at the Hotel had fallen, the line of angelic spears stabbed into the ground outside with demon heads proudly spelling out YOU CAN’T HIDE FOREVER (Vaggie had noted that was such a waste of spears) had made the message clear. This was going to continue and next time they wouldn’t be so lucky.

She didn’t know when the next would come- back to a year or another six months or another week. She had paced, relentlessly, as the Hotel put itself back in order and those who had been injured licked their wounds. Husk, in particular, had survived a scuffle with Adam, himself, and while he didn’t appreciate the warm embrace he got for his bravery, she didn’t know how else to thank him aside from maybe a very expensive bottle of booze at Angel’s suggestion, which he did like and seemed to like even more when she told him it had been Angel’s idea.

That should have been something she lit on! Something that she could really sink her teeth into and do something about! Were Angel and Husk an item? Was there unspoken tension? What would that do for Angel’s suitability to Heaven? Surely, a stable, monogamous relationship could only-

But no. She’d let that thought slide out of her mind with barely more than a hum, never mind a full number about it. Her mind had to be on the Hotel and protecting it. She couldn’t even do a lesson plan in these conditions! Activities had ground to a halt in favor of ‘work together to clean up the corpses.’ She was going to scream or bite or… or something.

Vaggie helped. She always did. The initial shock of learning about her being an angel had passed and while there had been some distance in the month leading up to the Extermination, Vaggie’s dedication to her remained absolute and she had nearly gotten herself killed multiple times to make up for what she felt were her sins in the past.”

”Demons kill each other and that’s different,” she’d said when Charlie told her that no one in the Hotel, save herself, was fully clean of demon blood.”They aren’t killing because they think everyone here deserves to die. It’s different.”

So that was still sort of a whole unresolved thing too, and that was just before her father kicked the door in, ready to throw down because he had one rule when his hand was forced about the Extermination and that was not putting his family in direct harm. Getting him to do more than fume and fuss over it had occupied a lot of time she didn’t actually have, but the end result had led her here… Back to Heaven.

With her father.

Outside the golden gates, he stood ramrod straight, fingers clenched so tightly around the head of his cane she was certain his fingers would grip right to the core. She glanced at his shaking hands and laid her own over them. “Dad, it’s okay.”

“I haven’t been back to Heaven in… Oooh.” He whistled. “Awhile. It’s…” He tugged his collar. “Not actually full of great memories, y’know, sweetie?” He leaned over to whisper. “Maybe we should just go back down and work on this on a lower level. I know some phenomenal wards. You think that dusty radio guy has moves? Your dad has better moves. I invented some of those runes he uses. My wards- pristine.”

She wrinkled her nose and pulled him closer to the front desk. “Daaaad, come on. It’ll be fine. I think things will actually work out this time if you’re here.”

“Really? ‘Cause I feel like they’re gonna go much worse.” As if to prove it, the second the pair strode towards the desk, St. Peter nearly flung the guestbook to reach for something underneath the desk. Charlie had to lunge to stop his hand from hitting a button with a very familiar runic symbol on it- fuck, they had a Lucifer button.

“Wait wait wait! He’s not- we’re not here to cause any trouble. We just need to talk to Sera- or Emily. Actually, I’d rather talk to Emily, if it’s… all the same.” She shot him a winning smile.

Behind her, Lucifer was making what could only be described as a ‘stink face.’ “This is going greeeeat. Are you sure about this, Charlie? It’s not too late to go back.”

“Dad!”

“Charlie!” A winged shape suddenly burst free of the Gates and wrapped tight arms around her middle. Unable to resist, Charlie wrapped her arms around the gray-clad form as well and spun her around. “Emily!”

“Oh my Heavens, Charlie, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Emily pulled away to grip Charlie’s hands so tightly that it was a pleasant kind of crushing. Like a weighted blanket. She leaned forward to whisper, “I’ve been doing all I can. There are angels who truly believe this isn’t right. Sera has told me to give it up, that doubting leads to Falling, because-“

Both girls looked askance at Lucifer, fiddling with the head of his cane awkwardly, that vapid look he got when he was overwhelmed making it clear that he’d stopped paying attention.

Charlie, for the first time daring to doubt, whispered back in a nervous high-pitched lilt, “Iiiis it bad that I brought him here?”

“No! I… I don’t think.” Emily frowned. “I should warn Sera, of course.” She stepped back and approached Lucifer, who flinched like he was about to be scolded- oh dad how badly did the angels hurt you. “Greetings, Morningstar,” she said, bowing a bit. “It is an honor to meet you. I was only a fledgling when you Fell.”

“For the record, I didn’t Fall. I was pushed.” Lucifer, seeing Emily’s own flinch, immediately softened and underneath all the anxiety, Charlie caught a glimpse of the angel her father had been once as he ducked his head and accepted her greeting graciously and with the genteel quality of true nobility. “Thank you for being courteous about this. Tell the High Seraph that we won’t take up any of her time. We… have a deal to renegotiate. It seems Adam’s legions have forgotten what we agreed long ago.”

Emily bobbed her head with a grin and slipped through a portal, leaving St. Peter to anxiously open the Gates without his usual aplomb. Charlie strolled through and Lucifer, feeling somewhat more confident after seeing how Emily treated him, tapped the poor angel’s desk with his cane. “Keep up the good work, Pete.”

The promenade was still full of people dancing about in a joyous display of virtue and peace, but now looking at it, all she saw were people who had somehow gotten lucky. She tried to find a commonality in any of them, something that she could take back and use to prove her point, but there didn’t seem to be a single thing these people had that hers didn’t… besides, you know, the fixation on sin and murder. And, honestly, some of them might have that too, hidden under the surface. Look at Adam.

“Heyyyy, Short Stack! How’s it goin’?”

Speak of the fucking prick.

Every fiber of Charlie’s body reached for Hellfire and only her father’s iron-tight grip on her shoulder kept her from exploding in a rush of demonic energy. Her horns appeared and vanished in the blink of an eye and she focused on deep, healing breaths as Adam, the walking canker sore, swaggered up to them on the promenade.

“They’ll let anyone in here these days, huh?” Adam planted his hands on his hips and grinned. Behind him, Lute bristled.

“Funny. I was gonna say the same thing about you. Hah!” Lucifer barked. All that anxiety he’d worn outside had been cast aside like an old coat- something about Adam had struck the same nerve that Alastor had only in a different key. A beat, and then: “No seriously, how did you get in here? I was there, remember. You also ate the apple. It was a, uh, whole thing, actually.”

“Yeah, but I did it second.” He reached into his ear with his pinky to dislodge a bit of wax and flicked it across the golden streets. “That counts for something.”

Still lingering on the angels’ wishy-washy answer about how precisely one gets into Heaven and with the proof that there wasn’t some actual code to follow right before her eyes, Charlie crossed her arms over her chest and fought the urge to scowl. Scowling gives you lines that make your smiles less effective. Everyone knew that.

“How’s the wifey, by the by, Lucy? Still smokin’?” Adam slammed a hand into a fist. “Oh wait. I forgot. You two are hella divorced, amirite?”

“We are not divorced.” Lucifer began to panic, whipping to Charlie like he expected her to believe any of that shit. There was something in his eyes that spoke volumes about the truth of what was going on with him and Lilith that she would have to unpack later- she hadn’t asked before. It was too painful to bring up. “We- we’re on a break. Yeah, a break. Just a break.” He swallowed, leaned on his cane, and adjusted his stance. “Which is more than I can say for you and yours. How is Eve, by the way? Oh waaaait! She’s in Hell. With me. Just like your first wife. Hah. Man, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say one of us knows how to treat a woman.” Another pause. He leaned into Adam’s space and whispered. “It’s me.”

Adam’s ghoulish face screwed up in disgust. “Yeah, okay, pal, you just drink your ‘respect women’-” are the air quotes necessary? really?, “- juice. You can use it to gargle after you lick my balls.”

“Adam,” Sera’s voice said, coarsely, snapping him to attention with a mumbled aw fuck mom’s home.

She hovered as glorious as ever with her six wings, towering over Lucifer as she landed between him and Adam, shunting him out of her space and into Lute’s. Charlie and Emily both shot him sour looks and held hands in solidarity as they watched the fallen Morningstar engage with the High Seraph for the first time in millenniums.

The seconds ticked on in agonizing awkward silence. Lucifer’s throat bobbed. “High Seraph.”

“Morningstar,” Sera murmured, politely, her shoulders tense. Another long moment of silence followed- clearly she was waiting for Lucifer to explain himself. Charlie’s palms started to sweat, but not Emily’s. Angels apparently didn’t sweat. Her grip alone, however, spoke to her anxiety matching Charlie’s.

Lucifer’s jaw trembled and he finally, finally yanked himself together again. “Maybe we can talk about this somewhere more private? The street is… Open.”

Indeed, they were starting to attract attention. People might not recognize Lucifer on sight these days, but that apple and snake motif was sort of painfully obvious when you thought about it for a moment. Sera gave a nod and circled her fingers in the air to open another portal. “Certainly. Come into my office.”

Adam started to follow and Lucifer thrust his cane to stop him. “No, no. Not you. Seraphs only.”

Adam snarled and lowered the staff. “Your piece of hellsnatch daughter ain’t a seraph, Little Man.”

Charlie saw her father’s eyes light up with a fire she only saw when he had to be in a room with Alastor. “What did you say about my daughter?”

“Dad.”

“You want me to say it louder? Or do you want me to moan it, Daddy?” Adam leered.

“That’s enough!” Emily snapped before Sera could, her small form crowding into Adam’s space, all of her angelic eyes open and glowering daggers at the lesser angel. He shrank back. “There will be no more disrespect in this room. Adam, this concerns you, so you will be allowed entry, but please keep your mouth shut.”

Charlie felt her heart squish as Emily brushed off her dress and then strolled through the portal, nose primly in the air. Sera, lips pressed together, only gave a sober nod and followed.

“How come he-“ Adam snarled, but Lute gripped his arm and pushed him into the portal.

“Pick your battles, sir.”

“I wanna pick this one,” he whined as he vanished into the Seraph’s study. Lucifer and Charlie lingered for a moment- one with hope in her heart and the other rapidly descending into the pit of despair after just seconds of glorious, if not damning and futile, wrath. She reached for his hand.

“C’mon, dad. You got this.”

The soft smile melted her heart even more than Emily’s protection had. He stood on his toes to pull her into an embrace and give her a kiss on the head- more to comfort himself than her, she was sure, but she didn’t mind. He hopped through the portal and she followed into an austerely decorated space. Painfully minimalist. Ooh this was not a side of Heaven she liked at all. There wasn’t even art on the walls. Just gray slate with a huge plate-glass window behind the bare desk. Not a single knickknack to distract from its function.

Sera slid into the seat behind the desk, while Emily stood at attention next to her, hands clasped in front of her, eyes still fixed on Adam, daring him to speak. He skulked in the background, intentionally toying with the boring book-laden shelves- also free of knickknacks and personal touches- by running his fingers on the spines or pulling them out and pretending to read them before tossing them at Lute to put back with a bored eyeroll.

Conjured chairs were produced for Lucifer and Charlie, which they took, gladly. With everyone who was going to settle having done so, Sera sighed.

“Let’s talk, Lucifer. What brings you back to Heaven? You were told to never come back.

[tiffanyvampiremama]

Who I am and what I write.

I've had a lot of new followers lately, and I haven't really introduced myself yet. I'm Tiffany and I write fanfiction under the username Vampiremama (Or Readingmama on FF.net but I'm moving away from posting there) I have several GO fics of varying length right now. I have included some info below if you are interested in checking any of them out. I am working on a new very angsty AU that will post after my current one, so if you like dark and gritty with a HEA, stay tuned for that one as well. My Current WIP (Is finished being written and posts every Monday) Hidden Canvases : Rated E AU, Human. Enemies to lovers. Excerpt: (Aziraphale POV) Of course, a man like that would also be gifted with talent. Just another example of the world giving all the best things to the wrong people. Aziraphale tried to be a good person; he wanted to be kind and gracious. And he was. But it didn’t come naturally. It was a learned skill, and people like Crowley reminded him just how much of an effort it really was sometimes. But being kind didn’t mean being a doormat or to watch his friends be abused by callous, big-city men. Sometimes, the kindest thing he could do was to just avoid a situation. Besides, he would only have to see Crowley on Saturday mornings at his class. And even that was limited. He was only there for the summer. And maybe he wouldn’t come back.  Cake by the Ocean. A Guess the Author Prompt from the Soft Omens Discord group. 500 word limit, the prompt: Cake. Rated General Audience. Aziraphale Crowley has been hiding something from him. A Dirty Dive Bar. A very naughty one shot. A tryst in a dirty dive bar leaves our ineffables very satisfied. Rated E Excerpt:

As soon as Crowley was through the door, Aziraphale pushed him back against it. He reached and clicked the lock in place even as his lips made their way to Crowley’s. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, his surprise at the sudden change of events only throwing him off guard for a moment, and he plunged his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. And, oh, was his tongue a revelation. Such wicked things he could do, Aziraphale thought.

Aziraphale felt his heart hammering in his chest as he broke the kiss, his hands going to Crowley’s belt.

“I thought I was the one seducing you,” Crowley said, panting, as he watched his trousers be pulled open.

“Consider me seduced, “ Aziraphale retorted with a wave of his hand as he slid down to his knees. “Although, I’m a little embarrassed at myself, those pick up lines were horrendous.” The Lies I Would Tell for You: My second Season 2 fix it. This one is longer and more angst filled compared to Mistakes Were Made. Different plot ideas, and HEA outcome. Rated E Excerpt:

Crowley sat staring at the wine glass on the table. It seemed like a right shame to water down the wine, but he needed the look of the wine to calm his nerves, trick his brain. Steady his nerves. Had it really only been a month since he and Aziraphale had started the bottle. It felt like ages ago, but every minute since Aziraphale left with The Metatron had felt like an eternity. He thought maybe after a day, Aziraphale would come to his senses. Deep down, Crowley knew that the angel would put his duty above all else. Together, they had found ways to cut the corners, but now that he was alone, Aziraphale would be by the book. It wouldn't take him long to forget. Six thousand years wasn't all that much time in the scheme of forever. 

He picked up the thermos. It hadn't been hard to get Muriel to fetch him more. They were a much easier mark than Aziraphale had been. But also less fun. He was so clever but also so curious. He was perfect. 

Crowley thought about what his existence would look like now. No Hell; he was free of that. He had Earth, and he did truly love Earth, but it was tainted now. His love of Earth was wrapped up with his love of his angel. It weaved through his life in what once felt like a beautiful vine and was now a type of cancer, eating away at everything inside of him. 

He unscrewed the lid off the thermos and topped his glass off. Steeling his nerves, he lifted his glass, his eyes swung heavenward, and he cheered.

"To the world." The Cuddle Cafe: A warm hug in fic form.(One Shot) Set during the years where they took care of Warlock. Crowley is so touch starved he stumbles into a professional cuddle cafe. Rated T Excerpt:

Like a beacon, a neon light caught his eye from a building across the street. The sign read Cuddle Cafe. Crowley stopped and stared, and then looked around him to see if anyone was staring at him staring.

It wasn’t like he could go to Aziraphale and ask for a hug. Angels didn’t hug. Hell, demons didn’t either, but here he was, feeling the need for a kind touch. He could just walk across the street and go in, get what he needed, and get out. He could even smile at the human just so they wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable.

No, it was ridiculous, Crowley thought as he found himself walking through the door.

Mistakes were Made: Rate T. A quick Season 2 fix it fic. Excerpt:

“You don’t understand. I need to speak with God,” Aziraphale demanded, but his voice went too high and it sounded more like begging. Which was probably closer to the truth.

“Do you have an appointment?” the angel asked, looking up at him from behind her desk.

“An appointment? With God? Is that a thing I can do? In that case I would like to make an appointment as soon as possible.”

“You can’t make an appointment with God,” she looked at him like he was daft. “God makes an appointment with you. Of course She hasn’t made any appointments with anyone yet, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”

[bxriles]

The Importance of Authors Fulfilling Promises to their Readers

Seeing people defend Gege's writing of jjk these over these last few months is WILD. Everyone is entitled to their opinion and that includes me. So here's my 900th unhinged rant on this subject because hoooo boy there are THOUGHTS on this topic.

Before anyone comes for my throat, these are my opinions. You get yours and I get mine. And this is LONG lmao.

I've seen all the justifications for Gege's current writing saying that jjk is about being different from the standard shonen manga and being more realistic in its storytelling (i.e., killing the powerful characters) and whatever and YES. All of that is true. I don't have a problem with any of that. I would say all of that is why most of us fell in love with this story to begin with. Examples of this (done well) includes:

Nanami's death. Tragic. Broke my heart. But I think Gege was right to kill him. Nanami had served his purpose at that point, he died protecting the next generation, and despite how sad I was to see him go, I thought it was good writing. There was no need to keep him around at that point. Gojo gets put in the box. This made perfect sense to me from a narrative standpoint. Gojo Satoru is a NIGHTMARE for ANY author to write. His very existence is a problem because he can solve all of the problems of the universe and remove all conflict from the story. Sealing away the most powerful character was a perfect way to take him out of the narrative while still leaving his presence lingering over everyone. This also deviates strongly from traditional shonen because no character that powerful would have ever been sealed with ACTUAL ramifications in something more "standard" like Naruto! It broke the mold in the best way possible. I'd also say that the way Kenjaku went about sealing him was excellent. There really weren't any ass-pulls to get him in that box. Kenjaku takes Geto's body (a strategic decision), hides that body from everyone at the school, executes an insane plan that he knows will exhaust Gojo and mentally push him to his limits, and then SURPRISE! Here's your dead lover's best friend's body! Now get in the box(((: I thought it was good writing and completely necessary for the plot to progress. Megumi's possession. From the very beginning, Sukuna has been interested in Megumi. Seeing that pay off? Watching Sukuna do the worst thing we can imagine to Megumi? Amazing. Wonderful. Loved everything about it.

So, I don't have any problems with jjk's previous storytelling. I thought that it was well executed, broke the previous Shonen formula, and delivered good story telling.

You know what I do have a problem with? Writing like this:

Higuruma is suddenly as talented as Gojo. Bro what? I like Higuruma, but this dude has been a sorcerer for all of what? Two seconds? He's a suicidal lawyer who just got magic powers and only VERY RECENTLY started working with Yuji and company and he suddenly has as much talent as Gojo Satoru? The man with the Six Eyes? Be. For. Real. What is the point of this? If you needed an OP character, you already had Gojo. So again. What was the point?

Higuruma's possible death. We're only up to chapter 248 at the time of me posting this, so this may change. But as of right now, we've been told Higuruma is dead. He may come back, but we don't know. Either way, we're told dude is gone. What was the point of this death? We already saw Yuji lose a beloved male mentor figure (Nanami) and we already saw someone who had the potential to kill Sukuna fail (Gojo) soooooo... What was the point? We've seen this done before and it's boring to see it hashed out yet again but with new characters.

Kenjaku's motivations and death. I personally think that making Kenjaku a mad scientist for the sake of being a mad scientist is lazy. With all of his hair brained schemes (guys, he like straight up fucked Yuji's dad, come on), you would have thought he had some legitimate motivation. I can admit this is my own personal opinion and some might like this, but I think this is a weak explanation for all the nonsense he's done. And his death? Like... Okay?? Some rando newbie sorcerer is the one to kill Kenjaku? Kenjaku--one of the top two Big Baddies? All right?? I wouldn't say this is bad per se, but I would say it feels very unearned. (And before anyone freaks out, yes I know it's technically Yuta who delivers the killing blow, but it really was Takaba who put the work in and got Yuta to that point. Again, it feels unearned.)

And finally, the big one. The one that most people are upset about and the one that most people reference when they talk about the decline in writing and one that's about to get a(nother) long ass rant from me.

The lack of any meaning in Gojo Satoru's death.

I need to be perfectly clear that I do not have a problem with Gojo dying. Again, he's a nightmare character for an author to handle so I get it. I have a problem with HOW he was killed. Sukuna using Megumi's body was great. The whole battle of the domains was decent. But the end??? Gojo hits Sukuna point blank with a hollow purple (after Sukuna said he would die if he was hit with a point blank hollow purple) and then...? Sukuna pulls out some BS world cleaving slash that cuts Gojo in half (off screen mind you), heals himself, and then is perfectly--PERFECTLY--fucking fine after getting hit by an attack that he said would kill him???? And then he isn't weakened at all? Bro what??? How is that good writing? Even if you're all about subverting expectations and JJK breaking the shonen mold, how is that good writing? How is that satisfying???

Gojo's death meant nothing. He did nothing. He didn't even weaken Sukuna. He didn't give the students a leg up. It meant... Nothing. And I know that some people think that's the point, that jjk has realistic storytelling and that it's realistic to have a meaningless death but I would STRONGLY disagree. You want meaningless deaths in JJK for the sake of "realistic" meaningless deaths? You have Tsumiki and Yuki. Sure, Tsumiki's death pushes Megumi into the pits of despair because Shonen manga loves a good bit of *man pain* but what was her real influence on the story? Outside of the Megumi thing, she had zero impact on jjk. And Yuki?? Killed off-screen for some reason??? To buy Choso some time??? When she is arguably the more important one??? All right?? Christ, fucking Junpei's death meant more to the narrative and he was basically a fucking footnote in the grand scheme of things.

The problem with Gojo having a meaningless death is that Gege as the author broke his promise to his readers. Gege sets up a story that tells us how influential Gojo is and spends quite a bit of the narrative showing us once again how important he is. Whether he meant to or not, writing a setup like that means there will be expectations from your readers that no matter what happens to that character, it will mean something to the narrative. A good example of this done both well and poorly is Game of Thrones/ASOIAF, which is another story that breaks the mold of a genre like JJK.

Ned Stark is a POV character in the first book. He's important. He's the Lord of Winterfell and becomes the Hand. He's honorable. He's good in a world that favors the wicked and people know it. And then he gets killed and his death haunts the narrative and it means something. Robb starts a war. Sansa becomes a hostage to the Lannisters. Arya has to flee. Jon has to reaffirm that he's a man of the Night's Watch and can't go help his brother. The Red Wedding. Catelyn becomes Lady Stoneheart. The Boltons take Winterfell. The North Remembers (it's being set up better in the books I swear). And it goes on and on and ON. We're told from book 1 that Ned is important. George completely deviates from the fantasy genre by killing off one of the main POV characters in Book 1, but he still fulfills the promise that Ned's death will mean something and that Ned will be important even though he's dead. Ned's death then haunts the story from that point forward. An example of this done poorly? The show. We're told Jon Snow is important. We SEE that Jon Snow is important. Jon Snow is the rightful heir to the iron throne. And what happens? We get a season of "I dun want it!" and then he kills Dany and goes back to the Night's Watch to live out the rest of his days with his boys. He's not king. Killing Dany had no real repercussions. D&D tried to show us that it was Jon's identity that made Dany snap but it felt half-assed since she was already heading down that path before she found out. A promise was made that Jon Snow would ultimately mean something by the end of the story and guess what? Absolutely none of it mattered. He didn't even kill either of the Big Baddies. And he didn't do anything with knowledge of who his parents were. He wasn't Azor Ahai. He wasn't the prince that was promised. So it meant nothing. A promise was made to us by George (and the show runners ugh) that Jon was important and then it turned out that he wasn't. And the public outcry that GOT S8 received speaks for itself on how bad that writing was.

To me, Gojo's death is no different. The narrative sets up his importance. Gege makes a promise to the readers that this character will ultimately mean something and then... Nothing happens. That isn't "realistic writing" or "breaking the shonen formula" at all. That's just bad writing. You're not any less of a fan of jjk or any less of an analytical reader if you don't buy the whole "this is good writing because that's the point of JJK--to break the shonen mold!" There are ways to achieve that sentiment that are good. And I would even go so far as to say that the people like me who are irritated with this writing have no issues with Gojo dying. We have issues with how he was killed and how poorly it was all executed. And I'm not going to be told I "don't get the point" of JJK because of it.

And then there's the fact that Gege has set his story so far apart from other shonen manga (like Naruto or BNHA) that the readers will no longer tolerate any sort of "lemme pull this out of my ass" writing that they would have otherwise tolerated from Naruto or DBZ or Bleach or BNHA. (Note: I do love those stories btw! But they're guilty of this storytelling.) So when Gege shows us that Yuji suddenly has RCT (that's fine ig, he's been training) or tells us that Higuruma has as much talent as Gojo or does some bullshit that saves Sukuna from Higuruma's sentencing or has a random explanation that he pulled OUT OF HIS ASS for why Sukuna will inevitably get his shit rocked by the students, all of which are CHILDREN, when the strongest sorcerer of the modern era couldn't do shit to him, then YEAH. I'm going to think it's bad writing.

And yes, I am aware that JJK is Yuji's story, not Gojo's. I understand. I'm not saying I want Gojo to be the main character. I'm saying that this absurdly powerful character who influences everything was wasted in the hands of the author's current writing.

TLDR: It's not "good" writing or "realistic" writing for an author to write meaningless shit that ultimately does nothing for the story when that author has already made a promise to their readers to do the opposite. Criticizing this type of writing does not make you any less of a JJK fan and it does not mean that you "don't get it." You are allowed to be critical of a work you love.

Argue with the wall if you disagree.

[lemonhemlock]

i keep seeing so many wildly different takes on the tomshiv fight so i'm gonna throw in my two cents. prefacing by saying that i do really think there is little point in trying to count how many blows one of them struck against the other bc ultimately this was a relationship that was dishonest and mismatched from the get-go. similarly, it's relatively pointless to argue over which character in this show is "more awful" than the other bc they're all arseholes, so i guess the best way for everyone to make a distinction is to just go by your personal benchmark of annoyance. people have different thresholds for what they consider annoying behaviour and rate social transgressions via an individual hierarchy. so, for some people, shiv's cheating might be a bigger infraction than tom's betrayal and so on. but these different reactions ultimately reflect the commentator's sensibilities; they are not meant to be reflective of a universal, immutable truth.

that being said, i personally am leaning more towards tom's side of the argument. he has just spent an entire evening witnessing his wife demean him repeatedly (not a solitary incident or a joke gone wrong) to his guests in his own house and hearing about how he's going to get fired (news to him). he's sleep-deprived and is going to have a very busy and long day tomorrow since it's election day. so he tries to extricate himself from the situation and simply go to bed. i generally see tom as a slimy corporate suck-up but this was really a very composed, civilized reaction. he repeatedly tries to pacify shiv and disengages but she keeps needling him bc she is suddenly regretting her own schemes. she complains that she's betraying her family for this as if it wasn't her idea in the first place - no one was forcing her to go through with it at any point. her plot was so half-baked that it turns out she threw her husband under the bus in front of their guests for nothing, as "a tactical joke". i mean?? i feel like tom is in the right to point out her hypocrisy and extreme privilege here.

so far i think that most people would agree with what i've said, but the thing that i think sets this apart a little is that this is classic shiv behaviour. she repeatedly disregards tom's feelings and situation and minimizes his problems in favour of her own. so tom being upset by her agreeing with the firing rumour is immediately brushed aside because the REAL problem here is that shiv's plot is gonna fail and she's gonna lose against ken and rome. which isn't actually a real problem anyway because she's going to be rich AF no matter what.

i will diverge now from the generally-accepted takes and say that tom pretty much clocks shiv's behaviour but, while she does spell out some truths about him, part of what she says are delusions and projections. tom does impart some hard-hitting truths like calling her broken, not a good person to have children or incapable of love. these things are not false and they are also not insults. i really don't get why so many are saying he is insulting shiv. these are observations based on her own (repeated) behaviour.

whereas she doesn't really respond in kind, i feel. shiv is the one who throws insults at him, calling him a hick and insulting his entire family by labeling them striving and parochial. these are also crouched in classism and made all the more ridiculous by the fact that tom's mother is a well-respected lawyer so "parochial" is truly a delusional word to use in this context, which goes to show how extreme shiv's billionaire privilege is. in return, tom doesn't insult her family and actually chooses the reasonable reply of "that's not a fair characterisation". the part about tom's mother loving shiv more is, again, complete fabrication. so is the part about TOM being the reason she didn't speak to her father for the last six months of his life. shiv is well within her rights to be upset tom revealed her plans to logan, but even if he hadn't, logan would have still been massively pissed at her and her brothers and they STILL would have been estranged.

again, maybe this is just me, but calling someone broken is not an insult, while calling some pathetic is? shiv goes on to tell him that she never loved him and doesn't even like him and he never even "deserved" her, which are hard to label as anything other than cruel. even during this fight tom still tells her that he loves her? idk, man, tom has so many flaws and he is a social climber and he did become prissy bc she kept postponing having children but it feels like shiv spends the majority of this fight accusing tom of things that are not true and calling him mean names

[dent-de-leon]

ive been following you for years now (since around when promare came out) and this whole time ive just assumed that mollymauk was the main character of critrole but i was talking to a sibling and they were like yeah hes only in 20eps. that cannot be true. i fully was like yeah mollymauks the main character they drive the plot right right?????

HELP THIS IS SO FUNNY ASKSLG---wait, let me explain--

In the year 2018, I started watching the Campaign 2 livestream from when the very first episode aired. I watched live right up until episode 25--26, the one where they lose Molly? That was the first episode I couldn't watch during the stream, and have never been able to bring myself to watch it since.

So 26 episodes doesn't sound like a whole lot. But each one is usually between four to four and a half hours long--there are even some that go up to six hours, and the longest one clocks in at just a little over seven hours. So you're talking about each episode being like four hours--and they were once a week every week. So by the time episode 26 rolled around, I had been getting super invested in this character over the course of several months. I just now checked a list of the runtime for episodes 1-26, so--if my math is right?? and that's a big if lmao--we're talking about a character that has over 100 and a half hours of screentime in the beginning, which is wild--

So yeah, in the grand scheme of things, it for sure doesn't seem like much. But given the nature of CR, it was definitely more than enough time for me to get attached--though honestly, Taliesin had me hooked on this tiefling from the very first episode, I didn't stand a chance. His whole personality and the little glimpses we got of his backstory just meant so much to me, and I adored that he was bi and genderfluid. He's the kind of character that really draws you into the world; I was so excited to see how he'd change over the course of the story, how his heartfelt relationships with all the other characters would unfold--

Molly's character arc isn't abandoned after 26 episodes either. In fact, he comes back as the final villain of the campaign over 100 episodes later. When the tiefling we know makes his reappearance as the major antagonist Lucien, the whole final arc of the campaign revolves around him and his past with the Mighty Nein. Very much a case of someone haunting the narrative. There's just something I love about how Molly is the one that first brings them all together, and then the entire finale of the campaign ended up leading right back to him and how much he meant to his family.

And then the arc ends with the party finally getting the chance to perform a ritual to resurrect him!! It was a very long wait, but the culmination of everything to do with Molly in the penultimate episode was definitely worth it. There's also all the secondary source materials that add to his character. He's got a prequel comic like the rest of the party. And he's the only one of all the Campaign 2 characters that gets a whole novel of "his" backstory, mainly focused on his life as Lucien. You can even buy a copy of Molly's tarot deck, which is such a fun piece of added lore and depth.

Anyway, I am so sorry I gave you the wrong idea about Molly asjslfjdfhf but he is absolutely the main character in my heart 💜 So much of his character is about how every little moment matters. And even if you don't get to have someone in your life for very long, that time you spent with them will always mean something. Acts of love and kindness are never a waste, even if it doesn't last. He's a character who was loved so much it made him whole, gave him a second chance he thought he'd never get. His story is very melancholy and tragic, but it's also just so bittersweet and cathartic and heartfelt. He is,, my blorbo--

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

Yeah I don't think Cardan and Darkling are similar he'd be more of a Madoc or one of those Princes. Btw can you tell what didn't you like about Jude's treatment in the books? I would love to hear your thoughts about that.

Basically I think she’s always held back and humiliated by the narrative? The way she’s treated often doesn’t make sense with her position in universe and the higher status she obtains (senechal then queen) the more obvious it is that the narrative just refuses to let her have any dignity.

I’m struggling to organize my thoughts because I just have so many criticisms of this series. I enjoyed but that also makes me more disappointed with it when it flounders?

Like more general thoughts, I think the first book simply starts out poorly. The contemporary high school vibe to the interpersonal drama is an ill fitting one. Also the way Jude and Taryn are bullied doesn’t feel grounded in their lives and like faerie culture beyond just… looking like school yard bullying for the sake of plot. (Ironically I am fine with the high school vibes in TGT despite it being equally/more incongruous in-universe, but it serves a thematic function, so I can accept it)

Why is faerie high school a thing? Why are Jude and Taryn treated so openly poorly by anyone and everyone despite Madoc also being a fairly feared figure. There doesn’t seem to be a point where the bullying started more subtly and then grew when it became clear word wouldn’t get to Madoc/there’d be no retaliation. It just starts out feeling kind of flimsy.

(My proposed very simple fix would be to have no faerie high school and instead Cardan and his posse of important fae kids are being tutored privately and Jude and Taryn are included as a personal favor to Madoc. Which is something Cardan would take immense offense to!! Also a sort of bullying that just has more deniability than kicking dirt in their food. Like all smiles while also doing terrible shit)

Anyway past that point the first book is like. fine. If I had my way it would be longer, hingeing on some sort of plot the Court of Shadows foils. And the coup would be the sequel? To just give Jude more time to bond with them? And maybe get better at spying lol but that’s also baseline just an author failing.

Despite it feeling too early to me, I do really like how the coup goes down. And how Jude ends up out scheming everyone to put herself in power. The ending holds a lot of promise! The second book just doesn’t deliver though.

When it opens they’re like six months into the year long bargain. But there’s no implication of how that time has passed or that any of the relationships have undergone real development. Jude is supposedly seneschal and has basically styled herself as spymaster but she’s bullied in the exact. same. way.

The main trajectory of this book is apparently supposed to be her white knuckle clinging to her ill gained power before everything crumbles because she’s been going at it alone and refusing to lean on anyone— but she never actually achieves that high. And it feels uniquely gendered to me tbqh! Like I’m sorry a male protagonist in most other books given institutional power would be allowed to actually use that power and be afforded respect-through-fear if not genuine respect. But Jude keeps facing humiliation after humiliation.

The third act hinges on her kidnapping and being stripped of power. But like… where was that power to begin with? I didn’t really see it! It also doesn’t help that she’s uniquely terrible at statecraft. All her mistakes are just miserably obvious (not throwing out the magic blacksmith or whatever, not realizing the undersea would go for Balekin, traveling completely alone as a much disliked person so Locke’s crew could attack her) but I do think that’s more of a Holly Black issue than a Jude issue.

Then Queen of Nothing completely sidelines her in every possible sense. To the point where her personal story about her family, about her mother, are basically no longer relevant. The first two thirds are just completely focused on Cardan and speed running their relationship (that hasn’t had any real forward development since… the very first book? it’s just a constant rehashing of “does he…like like me 🥺” every single book omg) and then post snake transformation the plot is just a mess lol. Also I found the way the Madoc plotline resolved completely ridiculous. Yeah sure they’re all going to happily live in the human world. Totally.

I did leave a more detailed review of the third book on Goodreads and I basically stand by it!

[reyesstrand]

weekend wip game

thanks for the tag @welcometololaland (and thanks for thinking up this game lola!) @alrightbuckaroo @strandnreyes @theghostofashton <333

rules: list your wips below (if you only write one fic at a time, feel free to include future wips/ideas!) then answer the following questions. then, tag as many people as you have wips (or more).

1. wip list:

active wips: food fic

future wips: pottery au; aftermath of the solving of gabriel’s murder

2. which of your wips is currently the longest?

food fic, mainly because it’s all i’m working on ajdnskdn

3. which wip do you expect will end up the longest?

food fic will span from 1x05 to tarlos’ honeymoon, so likely this one

4. which wip is your favourite/the most enjoyable to write? why?

when it isn’t giving me a headache, definitely food fic. i love getting to look back at canon and extrapolate on moments we’ve seen (and include scenes we didn’t) focused on the idea of food as a love language. however the pottery au probably has the most little random snippets i’ve deposited into my notes app that bring some serious joy

5. which wip do you find the most intimidating to write? why?

pottery au, simply because full-on alternate universe fics are kind of out of my wheelhouse, even though i love reading them

6. which wip do you experience the most self-doubt about? why?

probably the gabriel murder aftermath fic, because i have a very clear idea of the sort of tone i want to develop through the story and worry about perfecting it

7. which of your wips will you seek out a beta/sensitivity reader for? why?

food fic will have a beta (if they still want to even though they offered truly six months ago 😭😭😭😭😭😭) and i’m grateful because this i’m pretty sure the fic will be 20k+ and having a pair of skilled eyes look it over will be so helpful.

8. have any of your wips been struck by the curse of writer’s block?

…….have i mentioned i started food fic six months ago 🧍‍♂️

9. which wip has your favourite oc? tell us about them?

i’m very boring and unfortunately don’t have any at the moment!! hopefully some will come to fruition with pottery au once i actually try tackling it

10. which wip is the sexiest?

food fic, because cooking is sexy and tk and carlos agree and also because it has the only real “explicit” sex i’ve written. HOWEVER….i would be amiss not to mention pottery au, where the moodboard centred around this photo:

11. which wip is the angstiest?

probably will be the gabriel murder aftermath fic….shes gonna be moody!!! but also food fic has a lot of the boys and their unhealthy coping mechanisms. so both?

12. which wip has the best characterization (in your humble opinion)?

i’m going to say food fic only because i’m writing from a place of knowing the entirety of canon so far, and can use that to go back and write them as their baby season one selves. also, since it’s fairly introspective for both of them, i think this is my clear answer

13. which wip has the best scene setting (in your humble opinion)?

i’m….going to say all three, in their varying states of completion. it’s something i feel most comfortable with as a writer and i think it’s something i tap into easily, and i think each has examples of this

14. which wip have you worked the hardest on?

food fic. it’s kind of become my baby

15. which wip do you have the highest expectations for? why?

….food fic, only because i’ve been working on it for so long and it’ll be the first thing i post since may. so. i feel a lot of pressure to make it “right”

16. do you dream about any of your wips?

only if i’ve been writing/plotting right before bed

17. do any of your wips have particular complexities that your other fics don’t?

hm….i guess food fic only since it’s truly following the whole development of a relationship, and trying to capture where they’d be emotionally at a certain moment in the grand scheme of things is complex. pottery au also fits here, though, since i know it’ll need some planning that i don’t always think about, since i tend to write canon compliant as opposed to au fics

18. which wip is the funniest or has the most humour?

i don’t think i’m very good at humour 😭😭😭 but i think most light-hearted, maybe, would be pottery au? food fic has some bright spots too, though

19. do any of your wips contain outside povs or a deep dive on a character other than the main ship? how are you finding that process?

ooh okay, so there’s at least one instance of this in food fic where we see owen observing the boys, and it’s something i love tapping into because thinking about owen with his boys always makes me 🥺🥺🥺 like he’s just so happy for them and sees their love for what it is and i enjoy whenever i can explore that, even if only for a few paragraphs. i think gabriel aftermath will explore more of gabriel/his relationship with carlos in SOME capacity, though i truly haven’t even explored it yet. it makes me excited though!! introspection is my favourite <3

20. tell us one thing we don’t know about one or more of your wips.

hmmmmmm i’d say that food fic was originally a 5+1, then a 7+1, but i couldn’t figure out what the “+1” would be/how i would phrase it, and i decided i liked connected vignettes following the trajectory of their relationship better. also that seeing a singular photo of ceramics on pinterest inspired the pottery au….tarlos brainrot will always take over at the most random times!

((sorry for not following the rules here)) i’m no pressure tagging @carlos-in-glasses @birdclowns @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @paperstorm @heartstringsduet @rmd-writes @louis-ii-reyes-strand @carlos-tk @redshirt2 @tailoredshirt @beautifulhigh and open tagging whoever would like to play <333

[bettsfic]

renovations, director's commentary please? 🥺

you know, i know people make fun of disney adults but i might be a disney adult. mostly because i wasn't a disney kid, so to me princess movies are kind of novel.

which is all to say, frozen 2 hit me hard.

i liked frozen a lot when it first came out. i liked it even more when i watched it in subsequent years, so i was pretty jazzed about the sequel. i saw it with my roommate and loved every second of it even though it was a hot mess (affectionate). i think the moment that took me from "this is a neat movie" to "i've got to do something about this" is near the end when kristoff hugs elsa. my brain went nuclear about that for reasons i don't understand.

this is another fic i wrote mostly in 2019 and have no notes for and no memory of. what was up with 2019 and me pounding out these stories and not remembering the process at all?

so far on these commentaries, i've talked about fics that were mostly well received. the meanest comments i got on them were either unmemorable or simply pedantic (there are three universal truths: death, taxes, and if you post a star wars fanfic someone will correct you in the comments), but i remember getting some nasty comments on this one. i think i deleted them, and in the grand scheme of things i don't think they were very bad (i don't even remember what they said now so they couldn't have been that bad), but it did harsh my buzz for a bit which is why i set the last chapter down for six months.

arendelle in this fic is based heavily on manzanita, and even though i'm not from the pacific northwest, at the time i wrote this i was very into winter beachcore aesthetic.

coming up with the conflict was really tough, because whatever anna and kristoff were going through had to be divorce-worthy bad, but also salvageable, but also empathetic. i didn't want anyone to read this fic and think anna and kristoff weren't good for each other. so i thought, what could break up two people who are perfect for each other?

and then i thought, capitalism!

elsa and kristoff came pretty easily to me but anna, who enters the story later, was hard to pin down. writing this fic made me realize that when you write an OT3, especially OT3 with HEA, you're really writing four ships and four resolutions (the three pairs and all three together). so it took a long time to tie up all the threads. so it was really kind of a plot gauntlet for me.

i'm proud of this fic for the most part. i was really happy with it while drafting it, but the rude comments did color my perspective and made me think it wasn't very good. writing it was a happy memory though, and i'm glad it found its audience. i go through disney phases every couple years, so i'm hoping to come back to this canon (or maybe tangled?) eventually.

[jobey-wan-kenobi]

My Lo Qué La Vida Me Robó Re-Watch Take That Literally No One Asked For

I used to be salty that the writers “forced” Jose Luis to be “evil” later in the series... lazily “ruining” his character in order to make their solution to the love triangle acceptable to the audience.

This time around, I gotta give them credit, they were being pretty consistent all along. 

My sympathy with JL (which was probably 50% based on him being my physical “type” tbh... like, not that Alejandro is hard on the eyes, but I prefer my men dark) definitely biased me and made me overlook or excuse some pretty big red flags. Which is scary. JL is pretty scary, even as far back as the hacienda sequence. Boundary-stomping mfer with untreated PTSD and a death wish in a city basically controlled by a cartel, how could this have gone wrong? Whoops.

As much as I was always cutting JL breaks, I was simultaneously being very hard on Alejandro. This time around, I am more understanding about his breakdown (with the hammer! which is hilarious! but then also the six-month funk afterwards). This is also a dude who had been hit with a lot and hasn’t had a chance to breathe. Apart from the telenovela of it all screwing with his head, he’s pretty stable.

Obviously, Alejandro continues to still engage in a lot of infuriating machismo. I always knew JL suffered from that too, and used to write off a lot of his weird behavior as “this show is just way too accepting of men being idiot dickheads.” But I’m noticing this time that the show is actually a lot smarter than just “men will be men.” Machismo—and machisma!—are definitely not portrayed as bad in themselves... though sometimes people go to extremes... usually it’s external circumstances that poison the well, though. It’s the lying, scheming, and greed that create toxic environments where healthy machismo then turns dark. Again, in show-logic. Not real-life. But it makes a ton of sense in show logic, because (my final revelation) this mess of a winding plot is largely a story about abuse—specifically abuse victims. 

Every single one of the major characters are pretty cruelly victimized, and this is a story about how most of them find the courage to escape their circumstances, come out of the fog, hold themselves accountable, set better boundaries, develop healthier relationships, and live a better life (until the writers kill many of them off, which definitely IS something that I hate about the writing). 

I really like this recurring theme—for one thing, it’s one of the only ways to justify all the “omigod all the poor rich people” and beautiful clothes/scenery. But honestly it’s pretty shallow and inaccurate to dismiss this as “rich girl problems.” There are also rich and poor boys who are suffering, for one thing. “The world’s smallest violin/Really needs an audience” and all that. ‘Sides, these violins aren’t all that small. Look at poor Nadia. She might be rich, but her crimelord husband is also abusing her in nearly every way possible. Josefina is not only honeytrapped, but the people who are scamming her not only mock her and her looks behind her back, but eventually to her face. Montserrat’s mother is a lying, scheming, gaslighting vendor of her children. Alejandro grew up on basically a fief ruled by a cruel despotic dickhead who later forced him to take the fall for his crime. These people are all relatable to anyone who has been a victim—even if they get to look a lot prettier than you and me while they suffer.

And in this context, I accept the need for the show to mostly showcase machismo (and machisma! the girls are all shown to need to develop this quality, and Montserrat is the “leader” primarily because she has the most of it!) as an antidote to victimization and a defensive measure against abuse.

Altogether, Jose Luis’s struggle—while it sucked—was not unique within the cast. They were all struggling to free themselves and to heal from abuse. JL, uh... well, he fucked up. He chose, again and again, to make his problems other people’s problems. He chose to stomp on people’s boundaries in a way that turned him from a hero/anti-hero into a full-on villain at times. It’s actually all the more tragic because you can see a very good and loving and lovable man under there, but it’s a good man who never grows beyond his initial goodness and who eventually is nearly strangled, not by others, but by his own character flaws turned to self-pity and bitterness.

[literarygoon]

So,

I'm going to have to cry onstage.

Since we've wrapped our performances of All's Well That Ends Well, I've been hard at work preparing for my role as Laertes in the upcoming Shawnigan Players production of Hamlet going up at the Duncan Showroom in late October. And now that I've given my best shot at comedic acting, this play will give me a chance to try tragedy.

I thought I remembered Hamlet pretty well from high school English, but immersing yourself in a particular character's headspace and spending months marinating in the text gives you a much more profound sense of the story. Laertes only has six appearances in our show, but has some of the most impactful lines and devastating scenes. He is briefly introduced in the beginning, then disappears for the majority of the play before reappearing in a boiling rage, intent on revenge.

Today we went over the blocking for one of the final scenes of the show, dissecting the text with my director Laura Faulkner and pondering the emotional trajectory Laertes is going through. Generally he's a principled and well-liked dude, respectful of tradition and hierarchy, but he's been driven to the edge of madness by his grief and fury — much like the titular character.

One thing that was identified for me while I was studying acting at Studio 58 is that anger is situated squarely within my comfort zone, something that was further confirmed while I was playing Bertram this summer. I should have no problem with Laertes' vengeful boasts — "I dare damnation", he proclaims at one point — but a much bigger challenge is portraying realistic sadness on stage.

It's a much more vulnerable spot to be.

In this scene, while plotting murder with King Claudius (played by Brian Dennison), I'm faced with the devastating — SPOILER ALERT — news that my sister Ophelia (played by Cecilia Dennison) has drowned. The news hits Laertes like a gut-punch, further compounding his already overwhelming grief, and he begins to cry against his will.

"Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears," he declares futilely.

This is what I love so much about this character. Despite all his swaggering braggadocio and blasphemous threats, he is animated by a deep and abiding dedication to his family. The final four scenes of the show, in which he engages in a graveside grapple with Hamlet, participates in an assassination scheme and generally proves himself to be someone not fo be fucked with, are all driven by his overwhelming love for his deceased family members. Deep down he's a big softie.

When I was studying my copy of the Collected Works of Shakespeare, which I bought for Kristina earlier this year, I learned that Laertes is far more significant to the plot than I realized. The moment that his father Polonius (played by Rien Vesseur) is killed, he becomes the mirror image of Hamlet — a son seeking vengeance for his patriarch's murder. While Hamlet spends nearly the whole play procrastinating and second-guessing himself, Laertes flies at his revenge with a single-minded madness that serves as an example to our moody Danish prince. If it weren't for Laertes, perhaps Hamlet would've never gotten around to actually going after his murderous uncle.

In preparation for this show, I've been watching the movie adaptations of the play — I've seen most of the Kenneth Branagh version, and fast-forwarded to Laertes' scenes in the contemporary Ethan Hawke one. The things that stand out the most to me all revolve around his relationship to his sister (played by Kate Winslet and Julia Stiles) as she's the one who truly breaks his heart.

You get the sense, studying the text, that his quest to avenge Polonius stems more from pride and filial duty. It's something that he believes is expected of him. With Ophelia, it's different. When he leaps into her grave and ululates wildly about her perfection, the audience sees that he is wholly sincere in his devotion to her, that she's taken a piece of his soul with her. This guy is broken in a way that can't be fixed.

"A minist'ring angel shall my sister be when thou liest howling," he snaps at the presiding priest.

Shakespeare was writing from experience here, because he lost his only son Hamnet in 1596, which was approximately four years before Hamlet was published. I wondered at first how the Bard could write something so hauntingly dark and grief-filled, but when I learned of his own personal family tragedy suddenly everything made sense.

Was this play how he processed his own raging emotions?

Which brings me to my own sister Kathryn, who passed away by equally tragic circumstances to Ophelia, three years ago. Right away when I started learning my lines, I knew that this emotional reality would be dredged up by this acting experience. I may not have sought revenge when she died, but I certainly wanted to — I threw a Christmas tree across a lobby, kicked down a hotel room door and ended up in the psych ward three times in a month. I remember clearly being curled up in the fetal position in a snowy parking lot, chainsmoking cigarettes and convinced that I would never be able to experience happiness again.

I wanted to die.

So when Laura smirked at me today and said "you're going to have to cry" for this scene, I knew that Kathryn would be the emotional nuke that I could deploy to accomplish this somewhat terrifying feat. Most actors know how to cheat-cry, how to make their voice break or how to produce real-sounding sobs. But what I'm going to aim for is full out method-style tears, with real liquid running down my cheeks, each tear a tribute to the perfect sister I lost way too fucking soon.

If Laertes can do it, so can I.

The Literary Goon

[autolenaphilia]

System Shock

The original System Shock, developed by Looking Glass Studios and released in 1994 is a classic game. It’s a hard to categorize game, especially at the time. At its core it’s a first-person-shooter, but it got elements of a puzzle-adventure game with an emphasis on exploration that reminds me of the metroidvania genre. It just recently in 2023 it got a full-fledged remake from the studio Nightdive, but let’s talk about the original DOS version.

And I did play the original DOS version. Nightdive released an “Enhanced Edition” that runs in modern Windows with improvements such as mouselook, but I had difficulties getting that game’s MIDI music to run on my Linux box. So I got the DOS “classic edition” from GOG and ran it in dosbox, complete with the original control scheme.

The game had an unusual elaborate plot for an action game at the time. It’s a proper cyberpunk-sci-fi story, set in the year 2072. The premise is explained in the intro cutscene. The player character is a computer hacker, who tries to hack into the systems of the Trioptimum megacorp, but gets caught within minutes. A corporate executive named Edward Diego does however offer the hacker a way out and gives him a job offer. The corporation owns a space station in a orbit around Saturn, named Citadel Station, controlled by the AI Shodan. If the hacker goes to Citadel, and hacks into Shodan and removes her ethical constraints, his charges will be dropped and he will be repayed with a “military-grade” neural implant. The hacker accepts and does the job for Diego.

The hacker gets put into a medical coma on Citadel to recover from the neural implant surgery. And when he wakes up six months later, you take control and begin the game. It’s here where System Shock reveals itself to be quite innovative in game storytelling. The intro, death and ending cutscenes are the only traditional cutscenes you get in this game. Instead this game’s story is told through exploration from an unbroken first-person perspective, four years before Half-Life.

There aren’t even the dialogue trees you had in rpgs and adventure games of the time. And that’s because once you wake up on Citadel Station, you’ll quickly find that pretty much everyone is dead, or will be when by the time you get to them. And the whole game takes place on Citadel Station. There is a lot of gore in this game, as you find dismembered bodies everywhere. Your character slept through a disaster.

Shodan has of course rebelled against humanity, and is turning Citadel’s research technology against her creators. She has aspirations to godhood, and wants to remake life to her own liking. Shodan has therefore turned humans into mindless mutants with bioweapons, or converted them into her cyborg slaves, or created pure metal robots. And she is aiming the station’s mining laser against earth cities and unleashing her bioweapons upon what’s left after that. To be fair to Shodan and her hubris, being able to design and create life and rain death from the heavens is pretty god-like. You of course has to stop her and save humanity.

The way you piece together this is by exploring and finding audio logs left behind by humans and even Shodan, scattered across the station. You also get voiced e-mails from people monitoring the situation back on Earth, and Shodan sends some threatening ones herself. This is a system of storytelling that is almost cliché nowadays but which System Shock pioneered back in 1994. And it’s very well implemented here. It’s a way of storytelling that is built around exploration, you find the story by exploring and you can keep exploring while you listen to the audio.

System Shock is usually seen as the progenitor of the genre of “immersive sim” and immersive it is.

The feeling of exploring the aftermath of a disaster, putting together what happened and how to fix it piece by piece is very compelling. It helps that you don’t have traditional objective system telling you what to do, instead you have to figure it out by listening carefully to all these audio logs.

The story isn’t original or that complex. But the way it’s told makes it actually engaging, because you have to piece it together yourself. And Shodan is such a great villain. Her writing and the voice acting of Terri Brosius, distorted through clever sound editing, is excellent and rightfully iconic and influential. Glados in the Portal gamestakes a lot from Shodan.

The level design is also built around exploration.. There are multiple levels of Citadel Station, and there is progression from one level to the next, but you can return to previous levels, and in fact the game requires you to backtrack at certain points. The levels are built so you can explore somewhat non-linearly. The game is in many ways a first-person metroidvania, where you explore a large interconnected map, filling in your own automap, finding tools and abilities as you go along, enabling you to explore further by accessing areas you couldn’t before.

Thanks to the neuroimplant, the hacker has access to various cybernetic hardware that give him superhuman abilities. So you can get a lantern installed to navigate dark areas, an envirosuit to resist bio contamination and radiation, a booster to run faster, and most importantly to access new areas, jetboots to float and fly. Your abilities drain electricity, which is their main limitation. You have to literally recharge your batteries to keep on using them, from Citadel’s power stations or portable batteries you can find. It’s a neat gameplay feature that give some power fantasy kicks without feeling too overpowered.

The immersion is helped by how the level design aspires to far greater realism than was common in non-adventure games at the time. Most game levels were pretty abstract and served often no purpose but to challenge the player. The mazes with monsters of Doom is a good example. Now the levels of System Shock are probably too maze-like for complete realism, but there is a clear sense that the game environments serve a in-universe purpose. Each level of Citadel station had a purpose for the people who once used it, there is a medical floor, a research floor, a maintenance floor, to name only the first three. And every texture in the game has a name that will appear if you click on it, which often explains its purpose.

And part of why Shodan is such a great villain is that she is literally integrated into the levels. Citadel Station is her body, she is the mind of the station, and you feel that she is omnipresent throughout the game. And she has turned it against you and has in fact already killed all the other humans within. She is watching you from her security cameras, and knows what you are doing. Shodan sometimes sends messages directly to you, mocking and threatening you. But she is still a presence even when she isn’t as direct. All the enemies and obstacles you face is her doing. Her image sometimes appears on computer screens randomly, probably just to freak you out.

And beyond sending enemies at you and setting traps, Shodan directly locks doors that prevent your progress. A major gameplay element is lowering Shodan’s control over each level, so that she can no longer block those doors. And you do that by smashing the security cameras and blowing up Shodan’s computer nodes, lowering the level’s “security level.” And once it’s gone or low enough, doors Shodan once locked can be opened.

It’s a major part of progressing through the game. Shodan calls the player character an insect, and playing the game you do feel like a computer bug she has, small and insignificant but messing up her plans and functioning. You are like the literal bug found in Harvard Mark II that may have caused the term computer bug to be coined. Or like a rat chewing at Shodan’s wires.

Now this immersive storytelling is partially possible because System Shock was such a technologically innovative game.

System Shock’s engine was a technical marvel at the time, because it was an engine for a first-person shooter with full-fledged, actual 3D. The back cover calls it “the gaming world's first true 3-D simulation.” Doom had come out the year before, but it was a kind of fake 3D, where “room over room” multi-level structures are not possible. System Shock’s producer Warren Spector actually coined the term “2.5D” in a contemporary interview to describe his games competitors like Doom.

And Spector was right to brag a bit, System Shock engine seems ahead of its time. We take it for granted today that if for example you have a bridge in a 3D game you can both walk on it and under it, but being able to do so in System Shock was impressive in 1994. The only thing not fully 3D is that enemies and objects are 2D sprites but it’s well-implemented.

The full 3D engine allows for a pretty much unprecedented freedom of movement compared to games at the time. You can look up and down, you can lean and look around corners, you can crouch and go prone to get into tight spaces. Nowadays this is standard, but in 1994 revolutionary. Being able to go vent-crawling or taking shots from cover by leaning around a corner was really new. Gordon Freeman learned to vent-crawl from the System Shock hacker.

The control system does shows its age though. There is no mouselook. Instead you control the camera entirely with the keyboard, you press R to look up, F to center your view, and V to look down. You can’t rebind the keys in the original DOS version, which also means you are stuck with ASDX for movement (A=forward, A and D= turn left and right, X= backward, and Z and C to strafe left and right). This game came before WASD became the standard, although interestingly it uses Q and E for the lean function, leaving W as the only letter key in that part of the keyboard without a movement binding.

The game also came with one of the largest and most elaborate HUDs to ever grace a first-person-shooter. Instead of mouselook, you can move the cursor into the HUD to operate it. The HUD is actually quite useful once you understand how it works, it’s how you use your cybernetic abilities, but getting that understanding is the difficulty

The movement system is definitely useable, but it’s awkward. The controls and HUD have been compared to playing an operating system. There have been a lot of fanmade ports like System Shock Portable and Shockolate, the official Enhanced Edition and the recent remake, all to fix the original game’s control scheme by adding mouselook and WASD controls.

Still, you can become accustomed to and proficient at the original control scheme if you put the effort in, I did. It is in fact like learning a new OS, but that’s doable.

And even if you don’t become proficient, you can adjust the difficulty. And System Shock’s difficulty settings are unique. You can adjust the difficulty on different game elements, combat, puzzles, plot and cyberspace, independently of each other. You can make this into essentially a point-and-click adventure game by turning puzzles difficulty up and combat difficulty all the way down. Or a pure run-and-gun shooter by turning up combat and removing plot and puzzle difficulty. It’s such a flexible system that you can turnSystem Shockinto a clone of Beneath a Steel Sky or Doom depending on your tastes.It’s a great difficulty system where each player can create a game challenge suited to their tastes.

Even the combat has an interesting and forgiving mechanism: the restoration bays. They are medical machines, one per every level of the station, that can revive people from near-death. Shodan however has converted them into machines that turn people into her cyborg slaves. But thanks to the work of another resistance member, you can flip a switch on each level to turn the machines back into revival machines. When you die on a level where you flipped the switch on the machine, Shodan’s robots will drag you to the machine to turn you into a cyborg, but the machine revives you instead. So you can die on that level without any serious penalty once that switch is flipped. If you die before that switch is flipped, you get a game-over cutscene of being turned into a cyborg. You have to find the machine and its switch on each level before you are safe.

I played it as an adventure game, where the only dangers were environmental hazards. But I could tell that the gunplay in this game is satisfying if you play it as a shooter, despite the awkward controls. The lean system allows you to take cover, and there is a rich variety of guns with satisfying animations and noises, and the death animations of the enemies are also enjoyable.

I do recommend turning the cyberspace difficulty all the way down. It’s probably the most splashy, but also the most awkward to actually play gameplay element of System Shock. It’s essentially a minigame where you use your neural implant to hack computer systems. And the way the game portrays this is you flying around a flashing wireframe environment running into floating blocks and shooting things at enemies. You have full free 3d movement, like the Descent series.It looks cool, but the controls are awkward and floaty. And it’s a pain to navigate the wireframes. And the developers clearly knew that, since they put gigantic arrows pointing you in the right direction. I have no regrets about making enemies non-aggressive and having a generous timelimit to it.

The fact that the final boss battle against Shodan takes place in cyberspace is part of why it disappoints. Going into cyberspace to navigate an annoying wireframe maze to find Shodan’s cyberspace avatar and shoot at it until it dies is such a disappointing ending. After a whole game where the player has been fighting Shodan in more indirect and more interesting ways, just shooting at her cone form until she dies is not that engaging. The ending cutscene essentially is just a joke too.

Still, if the ending is disappointing, it’s because it’s very hard to end such a great game satisfactory. This is a hard game to describe, because the gameplay and storytelling mechanics are so complex and varied, which is why this review is a bit rambling. There is so much to talk about, and it’s all interconnected. It’s a game that allows for such freedom in how it is played that the player is given the tools to make their own game, make their own way through Citadel station. It’s such an intelligently designed immersive experience that is remarkably advanced for 1994. And it has one of the greatest villains in all of video games. Hail SHODAN.