#as it is i like the Vision but the Execution feels a little. meandering? WHICH. pairs with the Vision quite well honestly.

[subsequentibis]

i thought i didn't really care for BOOK while i was listening to it but i went and looked at the tracklist while talking to my fiance about it and was like 'well shit hold on now i do actually like several of these songs a LOT'

[gretavanlace]

Let Me Call You Sweetheart (Part 2)

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, swearing, dirty talk, etc.

You wake the next morning curled up in a sea of crisp sheets and blankets to find Josh seated beside you on the edge of your bed, bearing two cups of steaming hot tea.

“Here, sweetheart.” he smiles, extending the light blue mug in his hand. “Chamomile with a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

“You remembered.” You feel silly about the grin you can’t suppress, it’s only a beverage, but no, it isn’t, it’s so much more. It’s a physical reminder that he cares enough to learn everything about you...no matter how seemingly insignificant.

He brushes a gentle kiss over your forehead and then straightens to sip carefully from his own mug. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhmm.” you blush at the endearing display of affection, and then tug on the neck of his t-shirt, which just happens to be draped over you. “Comfy.”

“It looks good on you.” he adjusts the shirt, smoothing his hand down your ribcage.

“Last night was...” you falter, searching for words to do it justice, but the English language boasts none that could ever come close to describing what last night was.

He seems to understand your unfinished thought. Even better, he agrees. “Yes, last night definitely was...”

“Thank you.” your eyes flicker down shyly. It’s a strange thing to be thanking him for, or at least it feels strange...but you’ve never been more thankful in your life, and he should know it.

He hums in soft delight. “No need to thank me, sweetheart. Trust me. I probably enjoyed myself even more than you did. I’ve been waiting a very long time for that.”

“Oh.” You nod, unable to form a more coherent thought, because now you’re reliving the events in question silently in your head.

He mercifully lets it go and changes the subject. “Are you hungry, baby?”

‘Baby’ makes your heart flutter. It causes an entire colony of butterflies to take flight in your stomach, as a shiver trickles down from the top of your head. It makes you feel small, and loved, protected, treasured.

Maybe you should say those things to him. You know Josh better than you know yourself, and he would love that such a simple thing has garnered such a lovely reaction; but, you take the cowards way out. “A little. Are you? I could make us something. Or we could—”

He cuts you off with a teasing grin “Are you trying to rob me of the pleasure of making breakfast for my best girl? After I was so sweet to her last night? That’s just mean.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” you grin right back, feeling the warmth of a blush spreading across your cheeks as you watch him meander out of the room in nothing but his pants. His bare feet padding out of the room charm you, and how is his back so alluring? He reminds you of art. Living, breathing, art.

After your shower, you step out and eye your robe. It waits just like always, hanging on the back of your door looking plush and inviting but you find you want nothing to do with it simply because it isn’t his. So instead, after you brush your teeth and run a comb through your hair, you opt to throw Josh’s t-shirt back over your head, along with a fresh pair of panties.

You find him singing softly to himself as he plates two beautifully executed omelets alongside buttered toast. “Hi.” he tilts his head, a dish in each hand. “Don’t you look cute?”

He wiggles his hips a little, miming for you to do a little spin for him. You oblige and then giggle when he groans dramatically. “You’re a vision, sweetheart. A goddess in which I, a mere mortal, am unworthy.”

“Come on, theater kid.” you roll your eyes playfully and move towards the table.

“Actually, I thought we’d eat in the living room.” he sounds mischievous. “On the couch. You know, the scene of the crime?”

A flicker of heat kicks up in your chest as, once more, everything that happened, everything he gave you, returns to the forefront of your thoughts.

You enjoy your breakfast together, feeling just as at ease and comfortable as always. If not, more so, incredibly. The laughter comes easily and you’d like to drop to your knees and thank the heavens that nothing has been lost or ruined between you and Josh.

A quiet settles between the two of you as you lounge on the couch. Of course, Josh being Josh can’t stand the silence for long, and he is the first to break it. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” he confesses, lolling his head lazily on the back of the couch to look at you. “Last night, fuck, you were so pretty and sweet. Do you even realize how gorgeous and sexy you are?”

“What about you?” your voice sounds different, even to yourself. Smokey and raspy with a deep carnal craving. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you made me feel, and I’m not only talking about the orgasms. You made me feel adored...like I meant enough to be doted on.”

“You do mean enough to be doted on, baby.” he whispers, reaching out to cup his warm hand around your cheek. ‘And I do adore you, I always have.”

A long stretch of intense, but calm eye contact is indulged in and then he nods his head so subtly you almost don’t catch it. “Come over here, sweetheart.”

He guides you into his lap and rests his cheek against your chest, listening to the rapidly increasing drum of your heart, while you run your hands through his curls and over the nape of his neck with every down stroke.

When his head tilts up to press his lips into yours, your nails scrape lightly over his scalp, pulling him in closer with a breathy gasp.

That small sound seems to be the shotgun blast that signals your bodies— and suddenly you’re both just a little more frantic. Hands everywhere, squeezing and pulling, hungry to feel and possess each other as your mouths work together, urgently tasting the desire pouring out of you both and swallowing the moans and sighs that are now floating out on a near continuous loop.

His mouth is sucking a blissful trail up your neck as his hand begins to tease over your panties. “You’re soaked, sweetheart. I think someone’s a little spoiled already.”

“That’s your fault.” you retort half-heartedly through a shivering chill of want. “Are you gonna fuck me now?”

He slips into your underwear and wets his fingers inside you before bringing them up to your clit to circle over the swollen bundle of nerves. “Is that what you want?”

Your forehead drops against his as you grind into his hand. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want.”

Nodding as if he’s never heard anything he’s ever agreed with more, he taps your ass lightly. “Lift up, baby.”

You freeze, because you understand exactly where this is heading and you feel like a prudish deer caught in his beautiful headlights.

Right away, his tone switches from lustful to concerned. “What’s wrong, love? Where’d you go?”

“I just,” you feel so on display and aware of yourself. “I’ve never been on top before.”

“Oh.” the purest smile tugs at his beautiful lips. “That’s alright, sweetheart. Lay down for me.”

You strengthen your grip on his shoulders and shake your head. “No, I want this. But...will you, I don’t know...” god, you can’t find the words, nor the ability to speak them. Now you’re an inexperienced idiot who’s brain has also unremorsefully betrayed her. Perfect.

Josh brushes your hair away from your face and allows his eyes to linger, drinking you in. “You want me to talk you through it? Is that what you’re asking, baby?”

A nod seems like the safest bet, but you throw in a timid, “Will you?” when your gaze finds his soft, honeyed eyes.

“Of course I will, sweetheart.” he assures, settling your nerves just that easily. “But you don’t have to, this is a lot of firsts all at once.”

Your lips find his in lieu of arguing and simultaneously your hips resume their gentle rocking down against him. “I know, but I want to, Josh. I want to ride you.” you pant when his hidden cock catches your clit just right. “Teach me how. Show me how you like it.”

He draws in a breath to collect himself, and you’re pleased to see how much he obviously wants you too. “Not just me, love. Us. We’re gonna learn how we like it...” he corrects gently. “...together.”

Dipping down, you nuzzle the tip of your nose against his and then catch his lips in a demure kiss that doesn’t match the fact that your laps are writhing around together wildly.

“I want to watch you cum first.” he whispers, licking into your mouth.

For a moment, you are one hundred percent certain he could unravel you by simply saying things like that to you in that beautifully low register of his. “I love your voice.” you confess, circling your hands loosely around his throat to hold him in place, you want to see his eyes. “When you speak to me, it's like the entire world has disappeared and we’re the only ones left. It's always felt that way to me.”

His hands have moved up to frame your face, thumbs caressing your cheekbones so tenderly “That’s because when I look at you, when I talk to you, you’re all I can see, sweetheart. You’re the whole world and everything in it.”

Without missing a beat, and with his eyes still burning into yours, he lifts you up off his lap just far enough to unbutton his pants and shove them down around his ankles. You listen to him kick them off and excitedly bite down on your lip. The thrill of having him inside of you is quickly overpowering your taxed nerves. However, he seems to have other plans for you, because his boxer briefs remain on as he settles you back down, this time straddling his thigh rather than in his lap.

The warmth of his thigh between your legs is sublime and your body takes over instinctively, grinding down against him, creating the most delicious friction as the dampened fabric covering your clit slides against it.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” His praise is so softly intoxicating, and you can’t decide whether it’s that, or the sensation between your legs that has you so worked up so quickly “You look so pretty. Does that feel good?”

A tiny nod accompanied by a whimper is all you manage to muster before your head tosses back in pleasure. He drifts his hands beneath his shirt and pulls it up and off of you, tossing it aside to land somewhere next to his pants on the floor.

“So beautiful, baby.” he murmurs, leaning forward to place scattered kisses upon your breasts, purposely ignoring your nipples just to stir you up a little more, but only until you issue a needy, “Please, Josh.”

His warm mouth closes around your pebbled flesh, sucking delicately as he pinches the other with barely there pressure. His free hand drops to your hip as he sucks at your tit, urging you to ride his thigh a little faster. When a desperate moan escapes you, he pulls away with a little pop. “Come on, sweetheart. Cum for me. You’re making such a mess, baby. Feels so good, so warm.”

He’s absolutely right, you are making a mess of his leg, absolutely dripping, to the point that you have to grind down much more aggressively to achieve the friction you need through the slick.

You can’t seem to catch your breath, and it feels like passing out is a very real possibility but you maintain your urgent pace because you’re so close you can almost taste it on your tongue like the sweetest sugar– and because you know he would cradle you in his arms and keep you safe until your were coherent once again.

“Fuck,” he groans, digging his fingers into your waist. “Look at you, you’re so close. Let it go, beautiful, I wanna see it.”

His name tumbles from your lips as your own hands find your breasts. “I’m gonna cum...please.”

“You don’t need to beg me, sweetheart...this is all you. Just keep going, just like that. Take what you need.” his words sound choked and forced, almost like he’s the one peering over the edge of an orgasm instead of you. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.”

It flutters down over you like a clean sheet snapped in the air over a mattress. It covers your world in warm, white light, bathing you in soft pleasure that you want to drown in, but only if you could pull him under and take him with you. When your eyes drift open after what seems like a very long time, you find him watching you intensely, with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths.

“I could watch you cum for the rest of my life and never, ever, get tired of it. You’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. You make my heart ache.” He sounds hushed, as if he is in awe of something greater than himself, but he has never been more wrong in his life, for nothing could ever be greater than him, he is everything.

He strokes your hair and peppers pecks of innocent kisses over your cheeks, calming you as you catch your breath until he lifts you up. Maybe you should be ashamed by the way your soaked panties peel away from his thigh when he raises you up, but judging by the way he bites at his bottom lip when he feels it, you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” he wraps his arms around you and pulls you to his chest once you’re seated fully in his lap again. “Because I’d be happy to lay you down right here and do all the work. You wanna be my little pillow princess?” he throws in, just to tease you and lighten the mood.

“No, I’m sure.” your nails ghost down his chest and then venture lower to cup him over his boxer briefs. His cock is straining against the fabric, hard and warm to the touch, and he sucks in the sexiest hiss of a breath the moment your hand presses against it. When you sink your hand beneath his waistband and wrap your fingers and palm around his length, the most breathtaking sound you have ever heard slips past his lips. “Oh my god,” you shiver as your body physically responds to it “I could listen to you forever.”

His tongue sweeps out over his lips, reminding you of what he can do to you with it. “Your hand is so soft, baby. I can’t imagine how soft and sweet you’re gonna feel around me when I’m inside you.”

In response, you push his boxers down as far as you can and drop your stare from his eyes to his lap. “Oh fuck...” you breathe when you catch sight of it. Is it possible for a dick to be that pretty? And bigger than you imagined, bigger than it had felt in your hand even, but not obnoxiously so. It’s just right, perfectly shaped and flawless, of course it is. It’s his.

He can’t help the smirk playing over his lips with pride, but it quickly fades into a look of unbridled desire when you boldly begin dragging the tip through your folds. You feel cautiously confident until you nudge him down closer to your entrance. Is there a certain angle or positioning? What if you hurt him?

Sensing your apprehension, he takes over with a loving kiss blessing your cheek. “Here, sweetheart, let me.”

Slipping just the tip in, he holds you up in his lap as you both gasp in unison. “Now just lower yourself down nice and easy, baby.” he coaxes patiently. “Go slow, we’re not in any rush, are we?”

You nod your understanding and take your time descending down around his length. He stretches and fills you inch by inch, sinking you deeper into a satin pit of pleasure the deeper he sinks into you. The struggle of restraint is painted across his beautiful features, and it melts your heart to see him work so hard to be so careful with you.

When you are fully seated in his lap with his cock buried inside you, he reaches up and takes your face in his hands. “You feel like absolute heaven, sweetheart. I never want to leave.”

Your heart flutters around in the cage of your chest like a little bird. The way your body physically reacts when he speaks to you is astounding. You part your lips to tell him, but he places his palm over your heart and whispers, “I know, baby.”

The moment lingers on and then you draw your stare away from his hand and look at him through your lashes shyly. “So do I just...”

You trail off because, of course you do, god forbid you form a complete sentence in his presence.

“Like this, love.” his warm hands slip under your thighs and you let out a quiet moan as his fingers dig lightly into your skin. He lifts you up just a little and then slides you back down around him with a groan, and just that miniscule movement is enough to drag the head of his cock against that sensitive spot deep inside you. Your back arches and he smiles, dragging his hand down the curve of your spine. “You like that, sweet girl?”

“Yeah... “ you nod, furrowing your brow in concentration, you want to feel it over and over and over again, but he holds you down against him.

“We’re gonna go slow, remember, baby?” he tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear and then trails his fingers down your jaw. “Can you be gentle for me, sweetheart? So I don’t finish too fast? I want to feel you cum around my cock, and you’ve got me so turned on I can hardly stand it. Can you feel how hard I am inside you?”

His voice, and the things he’s whispering to you as his fingers brush continuously over your tingling skin, coupled with the way you’re so absolutely filled to the brim with him, has you beside yourself with need. You’ve never wanted anything so desperately than you want this moment to never end.

“Good girl.” he soothes, when you give him another nod of understanding. “I want you to just move for me, alright? Whatever feels good...you’ve got this, baby.”

You begin rolling your hips gently, rocking yourself just right so that your clit grinds against the base of his length each time you push forward. “Oh my god...” you gasp, eyes widening in surprise, you never imagined sex could feel this way.

“So good, sweetheart.” his eyes scrunch closed in lust but then immediately pop back open to watch you, unwilling to miss a moment. “You’re doing so well. Feels so good. You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? Are you my sweet girl?”

“Josh, please...” your hips pick up the pace, but you’re careful to keep your movement controlled. “Keep talking.”

“Do you know how good you feel, sweetheart?” he croons, thrusting up to meet you gently. “How pretty you sound? How beautiful you are? I don’t deserve you...no one deserves you. You’re too perfect, you belong in a painting in a gallery, only to be admired.”

“My little poet.” you tease through a gasp.

“You’re perfect, love...” he drops his head back against the couch when you lean back, effectively changing up his angle inside of you. “That’s my girl. Keep fucking me, just like that.”

Hearing him word it that way, the way he draws attention to the fact that you are fucking him, makes you feel beautiful and empowered, and despite his instructions, you begin to move faster. You ignore his gentle protests and the burning in your thighs from exertion, and keep going, burying your hands in his curls with your foreheads pressed together.

“Fuck, sweetheart...you have to stop, I’m gonna cum.” he warns in a choked whisper. “You feel so good...too fucking good.”

“Just a little longer.” you beg, working yourself over his cock even harder. You’re so close.

He nods urgently, wrapping his arms around your back as his lips crash into yours. “I want you to cum for me, sweet girl.” he pants into your mouth. “Can you do that for me, baby? I want you to cum pretty for me while I’m inside you, yeah?”

“Yeah...” Now it’s your turn to nod urgently, simply because you couldn’t handle anything more complicated than that right now if you tried.

His mouth drops down and finds your throat, sucking and biting gently...urging you closer to the edge. “Don’t stop, Josh. Please...” you beg, cradling his head in your arms as they wrap around him.

“I’m not gonna stop, sweet girl.” he swears. “I’m gonna give you what you need, I promise, baby.”

The push and pull of him inside you has you writhing atop him like you’re suffering through physical pain, which obviously couldn’t be further from the truth. Right now, you’re not sure you even remember the definition of the word pain, it’s so far removed from the throes of pleasure rocking your body this way and that. “I’m gonna cum.” you cry, dropping your head back while you pull his mouth closer to your neck. You feel him hesitate, and you can tell he wants to hold you still so he can collect himself “Please, Josh...fuck, please. Don’t make me stop.”

“Not gonna make you stop, sweetheart.” his hands are dragging up and down your back, desperately trying to hold on for you.

You’ve never been loud in bed. Then again, before Josh, you’ve never been given much of a reason to be loud. But the sounds that explode out of you when the impact of your orgasm levels you, could rival that of the most dramatic adult film actress, but you won’t know that until later, when you revisit the moment in your memory, because right now you are totally and completely lost in it, and in Josh, and the way your bodies seem to work together like they were always destined to connect and meld into one this way.

Your release signals the go ahead for him as well and if you could choose one moment in time to live inside for all of eternity, it would be this one, listening to him let it all go, buried so deeply inside you it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. He sounds like a song...like a heartbreakingly haunting hymn...right now, he is your god, and his body your church, the altar you kneel before to offer silent prayers. You love him. You know this, you have always known this.

You collapse into his arms as he folds himself around you protectively, neither of you uttering a word as you try to chase after your breath and clear your blurry heads.

“I love you, too.” he finally whispers after a long stretch of silence. “I have for such a long time.”

Did you say the words aloud when you thought them? You’d feel mortified if it were anyone but him. He sets your soul at ease just by existing.

“Say it again.” you sigh, nuzzling into his chest.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Taglist:

@moonlightbrekker @goattsintrees @greta-van-chaos

[colderthancoldest]

An Easy Alliance

Prompt: "You're here." "I'm here, just like I promised." & "I came back for you. I promised I would, and I did." (This Request)

Ao3 Link

Pairing: Dhawan!Master × Reader

Word Count: about 5k

Summary:  It's not easy to be a human with a Tardis. You have a doorway to any where and time in the universe- however, the catch is that the worlds on the other side are often treacherous and it feels like they're against you at every turn. You begin to wonder if it's worth it, if you even deserve this opportunity, when a stranger saves you from it- in more ways than one. Maybe you're worth more than you know.

Various Tags: First meeting, falling in love, fluff and angst, happy ending, my goal is that you will cry but laugh by the end, im ambitious like that, relationship is open to interpretation

Warning: Feelings of Depression, passive suicidal thoughts (It's not that dark, it's actually quite optimistic by the end, but I always add a warning for anyone sensitive to these topics. Please stay safe, thank you.)

Note: Please let me know what you think! I don't often write in this style so I really appreciate feedback! Enjoy :D

---

~

It's not easy to be a human with a Tardis.

It's a bit of a long story as to how you've obtained a Tardis of your own in the first place.

Essentially you found it, purely by accident. The ship had fled from the Time War and was left to rot when it's pilot was killed. Tardises are known to be temperamental, and humans are notoriously weak telepaths- but neither of you would get anywhere without each other.

In short, you struck up a deal. You take care of the Tardis, learn how to maintain her, and in return- she becomes your door to anywhere and any time in the universe.

It's difficult, seeing as the two of you can't communicate the way telepaths are able to talk to Tardises, but she- the Tardis insisted 'she'- was making do.

She translated the manual for you, provided you with food and clothes and shelter, and was patient as you slowly learned how to fix and fly her.

As if teaching yourself every inch of advanced and sentient technology wasn't difficult enough- you also found yourself deeply out of place in the far away lands the Tardis took you to.

You're human. You're mortal. You look, dress, and act in a way that's out of place in most non-human societies. Even humans from the distant future- as little as a mere few centuries ahead- barely recognize you.

You're clever and fast, but it's not always enough.

It's all too easy to offend people from cultures you've never met. Even if you do nothing wrong, it's your word against theirs.

If you had a nickel for every time you've nearly been killed by a misunderstanding... Suffice it to say, you could easily afford the tungsten wiring your Tardis is always quick-tempered about.

~

It's in one of these situations that you meet... him.

You're alone, as you always are, with cuffs scratching at your wrists.

The locals of a planet from the future have opted to skip the 'fair trial' bit and head directly to execution.

Of all the ways to go, you can't help but feel a bit... disappointed. A human with a Tardis, a person with a door to anywhere in the known universe, to any time that's ever existed- and this is how it ends.

You suppose you've already gotten more out of life than you could have hoped.

Maybe it's best to quit while you're ahead.

"Really? That's all?" a voice echoes about the large room you're being detained in.

You whip your head about in a feeble and failing attempt to pinpoint the source of the noise. Whoever it is sounds almost amused.

"Someone so quick, someone who's been so careful with the hand they've been dealt, and you're willing to give it all up- here and now?" the strange voice questions.

You spin your head around but there's nothing except shadows. You're set to die at noon and it's barely dawn.

"Who said anything about giving up?" you reply sharply.

You're scared, but that's no reason to show it. You grit your teeth and glare into the darkness around you. You can't pinpoint the figure meandering about in the dark.

"Why? You did, my dear," the voice replies, sounding pleasantly amused.

You squint in a failing attempt to make out the shape stepping into the pale moonlight.

"Me? You don't know a thing about me! I've never met you in my life!" you retort.

And you know this, because you've barely met anyone. You travel to see the sights, not to interfere. You visit worlds to satisfy your curiosity and nothing more. Whoever this is, you've certainly never told them who you are.

The stranger only chuckles faintly.

"I know all about you. A human with a Gallifreyan Tardis? I've been observing you ever since I first detected your ship on Earth.

Then again, it's not your ship- is it?"

Your eyes widen momentarily, but you're quick to force your racing heart back down your throat.

"What I do is none of your business," you defend yourself.

"And what I do is none of yours," the stranger replies in a passive song.

"However," they continue.

They step out from the dark and into the white streaks of moonlight sneaking in from the skylight in the ceiling.

They... look like a human man. A... quite well-kept and well-dressed human man.

A deep purple jacket over an eccentric checkered suit, perfect dark hair that curls at the ends like waves over his face, and dark but shining eyes to match.

You can tell in an instant that you've never met anyone like this before.

"Things have grown dull and you're the first exception to the rule I've seen in a very long time," he says in a tone that suggests this confession is somehow a compliment. "You're never after anything. You only observe."

He tilts his head.

"As much as I dislike humans, somehow- you're different."

He paces about you until you can't see him anymore because of the way the cuffs keep you pinned to the chair in the middle of the room.

You lose sight of him for a brief second.

You fear the worst but then...

The cuffs fall with a clink and your hands are suddenly free.

"For you and only you," he says as he paces back into your field of vision, "I propose an alliance."

"An alliance?" you echo flatly. It's a question, to get him to elaborate, but also a surprise.

All your time traveling, and no one's ever offered you such a thing before.

"Yes, dear," he says in a way that you would assume was patronizing if not for the polite tone of his voice, "an alliance. Your human mind is so loud, I've heard you wondering to yourself how to communicate with your ship, how to repair her, how to fly her. I can be beneficial in that field."

He sounds proud of himself.

You don't cave quickly. You aren't that naive.

You haven't made it through countless adventures- your feet pounding over the surfaces of countless planets, escaping all sorts of dangers- without being careful.

"And in return?" you ask cautiously. There has to be a catch somewhere.

"In return, you help me," he says warmly.

He looks you over with an amused smirk at his lips.

"You see, I have big plans for a certain enemy of mine. However, I don't have time to deal with the day-to-day nonsense of Earth. You help me with the little things and in return, whenever you need saving, I promise to be there."

He taps his chest with a prideful grin.

"I swear on my hearts."

You brush past him as you make your way for the door. You'd better get going before the guards return for your scheduled execution.

The sun is coming up, dying the sky a beautiful purple haze.

"You think that's something you can promise? All of time and space, and you expect me to believe that?" you scoff at his words, "You'll abandon me the moment it's convenient. No deal," you tell him.

He slips past you and reaches an arm across the doorframe to block your path. You cross your arms and glare at him.

To your surprise, he looks angry.

"I'll have you know I take great offence to that! I make good on my promises- unlike some people," he grumbles that last part to himself.

"If I say I won't abandon you, I won't abandon you. If I say I'll be back, I'll come back," he says sharply as he stares you down.

There's something in the way he locks his jaw, something in the way he takes offense to your distrust, something about the way he scrunches his nose and his brows- that make you realize he's telling the truth.

"I keep my word," he insists gravely. "Which is something- you'll find in this universe- not many people do. This arrangement is mutually beneficial. You won't be offered a better deal than this."

You exchange a glare with him for a long moment.

His gentle features are twisted up in anger, his eyes betray and old pain that you've dug up by offending him, his hand remains locked on the doorframe to block your path- and, for some reason, it makes you smile.

You huff a small breath.

"You haven't done this whole 'alliance proposition' thing before, have you?" you ask him.

He falters.

"I haven't had any need for it before," he reasons. "However, I'm currently on a bit of a schedule. I have a lot of dominos to set up before my best enemy arrives to topple them," he admits. His expression softens at the mention of this 'best enemy'.

You pat his shoulder and then pry his hand from the doorframe to pass him by.

He caves easily and follows you outside.

The dawn is breaking and you still need to get back to your ship.

"Alright," you decide with a small sigh.

You do need help with your Tardis and- more than anything- you certainly need someone to watch your back.

It's not every day some well dressed stranger saves you from your own curiosity. You feel obligated to return the favor- seeing as he did just save your life- so you decide you might as well make the most of it.

"What do you need me to do?" you ask, hopefully and yet still bracing for the worst.

Your newest ally grins.

~

He mostly wants information about Earth. He doesn't tell you why- and you don't ask.

It doesn't matter all that much to you anyway. With your Tardis, you've watched whole apocalypses pass you by. You've grown numb to it. In the end, it's always just a different verse of the same old worn-out song.

You're tired and nothing holds your interest for long anymore. Whatever he's planning, you doubt it'll have any effect on you. You might as well keep up your end of the deal.

Once you gather everything on the requested topic, he asks for information on a new one. He wants to know about Cybermen next. He wants to know about The Great Cyberwars- but only odd specifics from near the end that were left undocumented.

You begin to get the feeling that he needs to research their timeline for some reason, but he has an odd fear of them simultaneously. He doesn't want to get too close to the subject.

Again, you don't ask what it's for- and in return: you get more than you gave.

Your latest ally- he has yet to give you his name- plays translator for your Tardis. He explains bits of the manual you were stuck on and how the Tardis functions as a unit.

He's polite and- once you get past his gallows humor- he can be quite funny.

He explains how certain pieces of the Tardis controls have to be flipped in unison because Tardises are meant to have multiple pilots.

He's odd, he's blunt, and strangest of all: he's a very good cook.

He's the kind of person who always has a secret up their sleeve and he surprises you in all the best ways.

You... begin not to mind his company.

He always seems to know what you're about to say before you say it. You blame that part on his psychic abilities.

However, it's almost nice to be understood in that way. In an abstract, personal, understanding way you've never known before.

In response, he gauges that your words and actions are genuine. His ability to sense your unfiltered thoughts let him know that it's safe to open up to you in return, little by little.

Without even realizing the gradual change- he's suddenly a friend.

~

Now when you go out on adventures, when you're a lone mortal facing down the strange and terrifying perils of the universe, you're drastically less afraid.

Instead of passing through with your head down, you're able to stare up at the stars and admire then. You can safely look forwards rather than watching over your shoulder.

You're living instead of surviving.

It happened so gradually, you'd barely even noticed.

~

One day your Tardis lands in a heavily guarded patch of sacred land. It looks like the hillside near a heavily fortified church.

You're not fast enough to explain why you're there, and even if you were- the local authority won't let you. They're very strict people with very black and white thinking.

You're tied to a chair and tossed in the back corner of the guard outpost. So few people get this far past their defenses that the locals don't even have a proper prison to toss you in.

It's a long day indeed, awaiting whatever fate they have planned for you.

You're stuck in the box, alone, tied up in the dull silence. It's... annoying. Instead of wondering if perhaps you deserve it, you decide to escape.

At some point, the guard leaves you alone. You kick the chair around and reach for the scissors on the guard's desk with your hand pinned tight to the metal frame of the chair with rope.

You don't have a chance of escaping, the physics simply aren't there. And even if you get untied, you'll never make it far alive. Still, that doesn't mean you're not going to try. You're not going to let the universe- nor your own apathy and fear- get the best of you this time.

A different guard returns all too quickly. They're draped in the huge robes that the people who occupy this 'holy' land always wear. Of all the possible places to visit, you not only landed in the most heavily fortified part but also the most boring. It was basically just a monastery with a military guarding it.

You're not sure how you're going to reason yourself out of the fact that it very clearly looks like you're trying to escape.

You sharply kick at the guard's knee. It's all you can do. You're not sure if you can take them down, but it's worth a shot-

"Bloody- F- Gah- Do you mind?!"

You recoil visibly at the familiar voice.

"You?" You ask sharply.

The faux-guard pulls their hood down to reveal a familiar face. He looks quite annoyed.

"Actually, my acquaintances call me, O- but yes. It's me.

We made an agreement after all!" he hisses as if this all should be obvious to you.

"You're here," you observe, still quite shocked by the reveal.

He only rolls his eyes.

"Yes. I'm here, just like I promised. Do you really think so little of me?

I told you. When you need saving, I'll be there.

I keep my promises."

Without bothering to ask, he takes a seat on your lap. He sits sideways so the pressure doesn't pinch your thighs- which, all things considered- is quite polite of him.

He reaches down to his injured leg and rubs it with his hand for a moment. He appears to have a previous injury in that leg, and you very clearly haven't helped matters. Either way, once he's chalked up your assault to some bruising, he brushes the injury off.

"No, I'm just surprised," you tell him.

"You didn't think I would save you?" he asks, a little disappointed.

You press your lips together in a neutral expression. Whatever you think of saying, he already knows every word of it.

"I couldn't bet my life on it," you say simply.

He pulls a knife from his pocket and reaches around you to to saw through the tough rope.

"You tried to escape this time," he observes aloud.

You bite your tongue.

Yes, you did- didn't you?

It's interesting, the things you've begun to do ever since you gained someone to share your travels with. Someone who knows what it's like to do all of this. Someone who... knows what it's like to spend it alone, spending every day wondering if you're worth it.

He must hear your thoughts, as per usual, because he can't look you in the eye. He soon stands up again and leads you out.

He doesn't say another word as you return to your separate Tardises and leave.

~

Things get better from there and soon it's a pattern.

You have fun, on your own. You see the sights, you walk the streets, you eat the food. It's quiet, but it's nice not to have anyone else with you to color the world in any other way than it already is.

It's you and the world.

You and your flirts with danger.

You and narrowly escaping the authorities.

You and wondering directly into the jaws of the latest beast- only to be met with the familiar eyes of someone who is no longer a stranger.

"Again?" he asks.

Sometimes he plays dress up, sometimes he simply hypnoses the guards to let him through, but no matter the situation he's always dramatic about it.

Seeing him always brings a smile to your face. It's rare, but it's always familiar. Being 'saved' becomes more of an excuse than a necessity.

There's a learning curve to traveling the universe and before long, you've reached it's peak. You learn what to do, what to say, how to keep yourself safe.

You don't need him anymore, but you're more than willing to let him drop in to 'save' you anytime. It becomes a comfort, to know that even when you mess up, you're worth saving.

Sometimes you're in the middle of taunting a guard who hasn't even arrested you yet and when he shows up to hypnotize the problem away.

And sometimes, he suggests that he'd better stick around for a bit to make sure you stay safe.

And sometimes you recommend the pair of you get food together, and sometimes that meal turns into a walk through the park, and sometimes that walk turns into laying in fields of grass, staring up at the stars, exchanging ideas about the possibilities of this big old universe you find yourselves in.

And sometimes you wonder why this person, who's so kindhearted and protective, so warm and good-humored, keeps you at arms length.

There's something more about him, you suspect. There has to be.

You're willing to bet anything that it's something dark- but he never shows it.

He's different when it comes to you. You're not certain why.

Is it because you can't lie to him? Is it because you're honest with him? Is it because you don't ask, you don't press, you just let him be at your side whenever he chooses?

~

It hits you all at once one day that perhaps this arrangement has become more.

It stays true to its core, to be mutually beneficial and serve in favor both parties personal interests, but that's not all it is anymore.

Without realizing, it's suddenly two parties who mean a great deal to each other. Suddenly, you're choosing to help each other rather than acting in order to receive something in return.

You're not scared of danger anymore. You know how to get out of it now- and even if you can't, you know he'll be there.

You trust that he'll be there.

He's no longer contingency, he's normalcy.

You're never traveling alone because he's always there, in the back of your mind, as you wonder if he might join you should the opportunity arise.

Maybe you should voice this next time you see him.

~

When you run into him, you're offering information- per another strangely specific request- that you obtained from a library in the distant future that your ally may or may not be banned from.

You consider asking why he can't fetch it himself, but you don't. He either offers information or not. One of the rules is that neither of you ask about the others' personal business.

When you arrive at your typical meeting place, his own Tardis is a mess.

It looks... like a cluttered house inside.

The way it's decorated feels very unlike someone like him.

He immediately hugs you as you enter. That's how you know something's wrong.

You catch him rather than hug him. You suddenly feel too sick to remember any of the things you had wanted to tell him.

"What's wrong?" is all you ask softly.

He crumbles.

He remains as elegant and unyielding as always, but it's easy to feel that he's trembling. His breathing shakes and his fingers lock into the fabric of your coat.

It feels like a long time, ages, until he gets out a small sentence.

"I... have to go away for a while."

You're scared to know what that means.

"How long?" You ask tearfully.

"It depends," he breathes quietly.

"On what?"

"If my plan works."

There's a long silence as his words hang heavy in the air.

You don't know what to say.

The rule is that neither of you ask about the others' personal business.

You want to honor that rule but... the way he's acting... it scares you.

He clings to you, his fingers clawing desperately at your sleeves as he hangs his head down low, but he doesn't know what to say either.

Eventually... he decides on a sentence.

"Do you remember... when we first met?" he asks quietly.

You nod.

"How could I forget?" you chuckle warmly in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

He smiles for a split second. It comes and goes in the blink of an eye. He shakes his head and his expression grows darker as if he's scolding himself for something.

He lets go of your clothes and turns away.

"You didn't bother trying to escape on your own. The whole universe at your fingertips and... you didn't know what to do with it.

I could hear your mind- I always can- and that day you... were about to give up fighting."

You look off to the side and let your eyes fall to the floor.

It's true. The whole universe ahead of you and you were nearly too tired to keep living in it.

You don't believe you deserved to find the Tardis anyways.

Who were you to have a doorway to the universe? Who were you to intrude where you didn't belong? You never belong anywhere anyways. That was why you left Earth in the first place.

There was never anywhere you fit. The only way you can justify your existence is by being useful, to the Tardis, and then to your new friend.

On your own... you're no one. Sometimes you wonder why you bother at all.

"What about it?" you ask coldly as you cross your arms.

You don't want to think about that anymore.

The two of you.... Helping each other gives you purpose. It gives you something to keep busy with.

You still felt the way you felt before you knew him sometimes, but you're improving. That has to be worth something.

He looks sad and broken.

You suddenly remember that he can hear every abstract hint of emotion racing through your mind.

"I feel that way too," he confesses.

His words hurt to hear.

He slowly wonders off through the room. There he goes. Keeping you at arms length again.

"It's been fun... but it isn't sustainable. My lifespan is far longer than yours. It's not worth... us hurting each other over something that can't last."

He shakes his head.

"All this time," he begins, "I've been working towards an end. I'm going to make a stand with my best enemy. I'm going to tell her everything I've learned.

I'm going to make it so that she doesn't have another choice.

I'm going to end something that should have never existed. For good."

He sounds determined all of a sudden. His last mission.

He turns to you abruptly.

"I'm telling you this because I won't be able to help you anymore," he says steadily.

You blink at the tears in your eyes.

Oh.

So...

That's what he means.

"I... understand," is all you can say.

There's a long moment of silence and then-

You rush over to hug him. He lifts you up until your toes can barely reach the ground. He holds you tight against him and spins you about as your tears splash onto the shoulder of his coat.

You want to beg him not to go, but you know he's been preparing for this. He's clearly made up his mind. There's nothing you can do to stop him.

And anyways.

He already knows what you're thinking.

"It'll be okay," he promises.

You want to believe him.

You can't.

~

It's quiet now.

Something about it all makes everything else feel quieter.

Everything feels... perhaps distant is the word you're actually looking for.

And you feel tired again. No, apathetic is what you're looking for. As if you can't bring yourself to care about the real world anymore.

You feel like you're back where you started.

You don't know what to do.

You have more than you deserve. You're smarter than you know what to do with. You're more than ever before and yet as powerless as always.

Or...

Maybe not.

You know more now. You can do more now.

You know what you're capable of when you aren't afraid and- as terrified as you are right now- you know what the right thing to do is.

It's time to put everything you've learned to good use. He’s saved your life after all- in far more ways than one. It’s time you return the favor.

~

"Doctor!" the Master shouts as the Doctor abandons him for the latest of countless times.

Why is he surprised anymore?

He should know by now that she always finds a loophole in his foolproof plans. That she always runs from danger. That she always leaves him in the end.

Now some idiot no-one cyberman-resistance soldier has pressed a button to detonate a planet-destroying bomb.

He'll be dead in seconds. Shattered into atoms and quirks and nothingness.

For as much as the Doctor leaves him, the Master simply can't bring himself to leave her. He can't stop chasing her.

Quite soon, he won't have a choice.

This is it. This is what finally pushes him over the edge.

If the Doctor can leave him for dead like this then... she isn't the person he thought she was anymore. He'll finally learn better. He'll finally give up on her.

It was a shame it was too late.

The particle is active.

He runs but... he isn't going to reach his Tardis in time.

He's alone.

~

And then suddenly he's not.

Suddenly he isn't in the crumbling Matrix room anymore. He isn't on Gallifrey at all.

He's standing, safe and sound, being held tight in someone's arms.

He comes to his senses slowly. The seconds don't feel real as they pass. He looks up to see that he's in your Tardis, in your arms, looking up at your face.

"You..." he breathes. He can barely feel reality around him.

"It just took a bit of fancy flying to swoop in, just a second in time, and save you," you smile at him.

He stares in disbelief.

"You came back for me," he says breathlessly.

"Of course I came back for you!" you chuckle. "It's like you're always saying. I promised I would, and I did."

"Saving you is my job!" he replies, still in shock.

"I had to return the favor sometime," you smile.

His face is still locked in an expression of disbelief. He's still processing this.

You decide to make it easier on him.

"How about this:" you suggest with a heavy heart, "we go back to saving each other. To adventures and pastimes and pretending this is nothing more than a profession partnership.

Most importantly, we both take it one day at a time.

And down the road, when we're done, once we've had all our fun, then we'll find out a way to go out in style.

Together."

He contemplates this for a moment.

"You won't be offered a better deal than this," you smirk. "You'd be smart to take it."

He shakes his head.

"No," he says firmly.

Your eyes widen.

"No?" You ask nervously.

The Master takes your hands in his own and laces your fingers together. He moves closer, his face inches from yours.

"No," he repeats. "I don't want to go back to how things were. I want a proper partnership.

You and me and the universe.

I don't know how I didn't see it before."

You laugh warmly as he presses his forehead to yours.

"I'll do it right this time," he promises. "I took care of what I needed to. No one will ever bother us now.

We can..."

His eyes darted about as he searched for the right words.

He held your hands tighter in his own.

"We can go back to saving each other- the universe be damned.

Every day.

For as long as you want," he promises wholeheartedly.

"Whenever you need saving, I'll be there."

Your heart is racing.

It's all you could ever want and more.

He is all you could ever want and more.

You don't need to agree out loud. He already knows. You voice it anyway.

"Okay," you grin.

~

In a strange way, you understand now.

You understand why he saved you.

You learned how to fly this Tardis. You learned how to save your friend from the clutches of death.

You are worth the life you've made for yourself and more.

You deserve to be happy- and you plan to be.

You don't know why you ever believed you didn't.

You have a doorway to anywhere. You have a hand to hold. You have a partner who would burn down every planet in the sky for you.

It's time to go out there and get in trouble and make mistakes. To fight the same old fight against every new day and always emerge triumphant.

And your partner is working on a new project. Something to do with regenerative healing using research he stole from the shambles of his old home.

With any luck, maybe the two of you can travel the universe forever.

~

[sapphicsylvari]

The Rise of the Dread Fleet Chapter 2: A Bold Move

Thank you all for your coontinued support on this series! I means the world to me and there’s a good chance your tags on a reblog have literally made my day before. Love you!!

@tyrias-library

ON AO3

Asha can still feel Raya's cold gaze upon her as she meanders along the Lion's Arch harbors. The Siren is hiding the waters, keeping pace with her.

It had taken them three whole days to reach the mainland again, Asha on a makeshift float, Raya pushing her forward, keeping her safe from the dangers of the Sea.

As she'd explained on their journey, Raya had defended her from other Sirens, who had flocked to her bound form like moths to a flame, and injured several in the process. That had caused the swarm to cast her out. Raya's only choice was to stay with Asha, as loneliness is lethal for her kin.

Now that Asha's terror had burned away, her new focus is on her anger. Years of mistreatment at the hands of her father, and fighting back gets her executed? It's not fair, she thinks, as she continues on her path.

Revenge is on her mind, but she's just a little girl with an overly attached fish lady in tow. She needs funds. She needs a ship, she needs a crew. Now, where does a young pirate acquire funds to entice people to join her?

Asha's eyes narrow as she spots a lone Asura wandering into a alleyway. He barely comes up to her elbow. Bingo. After a quick glance over her shoulder and a nod toward Raya in the water, Asha jogs in after him, draws the crude knife she had Raya scavenge off the ocean floor. The Asura hasn't noticed her yet, so she seizes the opportunity to grab him by the shoulder and push him to the wall.

“Your money or your life.” she hisses at him and the Asura sighs deeply. “Miss, you really don't wanna do this.” he tells her, sounding more apologetic than frightened. “I'm pretty sure I do, Mate. Pay up.” Asha's been through too much to be shy here. “No, honestly, this is a bad idea.” he presses, pausing briefly when Asha lifts her knife to his throat. “Oh dear.”

Before Asha can react, she's got his fist in her stomach, a kick to the shin, and a heavy uppercut to her chin. Pain flares, and the world fades.

When Asha comes to, she is lying on a matress, covered up to her chest in a thin blanket. The scent of medicinal herbs stings in her nose and she groans, sitting up slowly. The blanket is pushed up at the foot end of her bed, and there he is, the Asura, currently in the process of bandaging up her shin.

“What the...” she mutters, still dizzy with a skull-splitting headache. “I told you, you don't wanna do this.” he says, without even looking up from his work. “But you just had to pull a knife on me. I had no choice.”

“You beat me unconscious?” she asks, still trying to piece together what had happened. “Yes. In self-defense, mind you. I bear no ill will.” the Asura clarifies. “No, I mean-... you? You're like....” “Small and weak?” he cuts her off. “Probably. Compared to a Charr. But not compared to you. When's the last time you had a warm meal?”

Asha is caught off guard by this question. “Uh.” “I don't know what led you down this dark, lawless path, kid, but I assure you, not everyone that looks like an easy target is actually an easy target.” he continues on. “Besides, you're too thin and you smell like you just came out of the ocean. Really, the odds were against you.”

“I did come out of the ocean, in a way.” Asha admits, as the Asura ties up the bandage.

“You did?” he asks, finally looking up to her. He looks... very unlike his punches may suggest. His big, beady eyes carry a permanently concerned look, and his long, white hair is tied up in a comically large antenna-like hairdo, straight up in a ninety-degree angle.

“Yeah. Say, you lookin' for employment? I'm trying to start a crew.” Asha cuts straight to the chase, leaving the Asura frozen in disbelief for a second. “I-... what? You tried to rob me, and now you want to recruit me?” “I mean, yes? You clearly know how to fight and I could use you.” Asha confirms. “Look, I was raised on a ship. If I can gather enough people to steal one, I can sail it.” “Why do you want a ship? You look like a common street rat.” the Asura inquires and Asha snorts.

“Look who's talkin'.” she jabs. “I want a ship because I was cast overboard unjustly, clawed my way back to land, and now I want revenge. But I clearly can't do much on my own, as I just proved to you. So, you had the heart to patch me up after beating the shit out of me, why not help me?”

The Asura's hands hover idly over her leg and he looks at her with a blank expression, processing what she's suggesting to him.

“Kid.” he finally speaks. “How old are you?”

“I'm fifteen.” “Oh dear.” He stops to rub his temples. “Well, I'll give you one thing, you have ambition. But you're also right about another issue – you won't last long without help. I'm already too invested in you to let you die on that ludicrous quest. I'll help.”

“Awesome. When I get a ship, I'll make you my First Mate.”

“...You don't even know my name yet, do you?”

“Right. What's your name?”

Another beat of hesitation in disbelief of the sheer nerve Asha has “It's Snezz.”

–

After Taidha's death, most of her men have dispersed and fled from the Lionguard forces swarming the fortress. Vaixx himself has taken the chance to slip away, before Sebba could change her mind about keeping her word, making his way back to Raxxi's hideout.

She's there, alright, blood streaming down her face, currently in the process of frying the last of her attackers alive. When Vaixx enters her field of vision, she looks up, almost looking feral, teeth bares and eyes wide with battle-fueled adrenaline.

“Took ya long enough!” she gasps at him. There are three deep gashes on her face, and the blood spilling from her mouth implies that she lost a few teeth.

“Apologies, overthrowing a tyrant isn't a ten-minute-errand.” Vaixx counters. “You okay?” “Been better.” Raxxi actually spits out a tooth. “Where's your Lionguard buddy?” “Probably arresting people. She kept her word.” “Surprising. Let's get the fuck out of here before she goes back on that.”

Vaixx grimaces. “Exactly my idea. C'mon.” The two quickly make their way through the same secret entrance they came from, ad have themselves helped back on board of the Rascal.

After a bath, stitches to the face, and a hot drink to the gullet, Raxxi and Vaixx are back in Rowan's old quarters, now sans his corpse.

“Right. Now what?” Raxxi opens the discussion, while Vaixx pours them both mugs of rum.

“Now we sail to LA and get support from your brother.” he responds. “With Taidha gone, there is a vaccuum in the tyrian pirate scene. He would probably see the benefit in having that filled by us, as opposed to someone else.”

“He would. Because that means he can control us.” Raxxi says, accepting the mug Vaixx is handing her. “So? He's not exactly malicious toward us and his goals align with ours.”

“Look, Mate.” Raxxi sighs. “I hate to shit on your parade, but isn't that basically what Taidha was to us? Someone we were dependant on? The only difference is that this dependancy isn't manpower, but money.”

“Yeah, but I like your brother, unlike Taidha.” “You called him a small-eared bureaucrat.” “That was in college, and I was drunk.”

“He does have small ears, though.”

Vaixx grins. “Point is, I like him. And I think he can help us.” “Might as well join is damn guild at this point.” Raxxi grumbles. “Honestly, why not? Or at least affiliate with the Grudge?  Why not get him on board with the entire project, beyond just investing?” “Because-... Okay, look, fine. But let me do the talking.”

The next morning, still slightly hungover, the two pirates stand in the lobby of a very fancy building in Lion's Arch, both holding glasses of expensive elonian wine in their hands, piping up when the large, winged door at the front side of the lobby opens. A young, human woman beckons them closer. “Mister Vermillion will see you now.” she says, and Raxxi follows her, Vaixx in tow, while sarcastically imitating her.

The room behind the door is a lavishly furnished office, and behind the mahogany desk resides an Asura, lounging in a red velvet seat. He's well dressed, a monocle framing one of his bright blue eyes as he waves offhandedly to his apparent receptionist to leave them alone. He has short hair, similar to Raxxi, but deep crimson as opposed to her blue. Quincy Vermillion, as Raxxi's twin brother Raxx calls himself in Lion's Arch sits up properly to face his visitors.

“Raxxi.” he greets her. “And your friend Vaixx. What brings me the honor?” His voice is neutral, and he gives Raxxi's injuries, as well as Vaixx's bandaged shoulder a scrutinizing glance.

“Money. We want money.” Raxxi blurts out. “We all do, sister dearest.” Quincy answers. “I assume, it is an emergency, judging by your state?”

“Sorta. We offed Taidha and Vaixx wants to start a fleet of his own.” Raxxi wastes no time with formalities. “And for that, we need your help.”

“Ah.” Quincy hums, a hint of glee in his eyes. “I heard of Rowan's death. I could have assumed that an ambitious man such as you, Vaixx, would rise to the occasion.” “Rowan's death was a tragedy.” Vaixx presses forth. “As is the death of his young daughter. I do wonder which hurts you most, the demise of your Captain, or your duty to kill a child?”

“That's not the point here.” Raxxi interjects, before that topic can be explored any further. “This is the one opportunity we have to become the new, dominant fleet in the Sea of Sorrows. You have to see that.”

“Oh, I do see that. And I know of your capabilities as a pirate.” he admits. “But the Rascal is an old ship. She will not get you very far. If you do this on my budget, you will do it properly. Gather a crew and I will give you the ships you need.” Raxxi draws breath to speak, but Quincy continues before she can do so. “In exchange,” he adds. “I want a monthy percentage of your winnings, let us say fifteen percent for now. That is only fair, considering my stake in this.” “Ten.” says Raxxi. “Thirteen.” Quincy fires back. “Twelve.” “Fine.” Quincy reaches over the table and offers them his hand to shake.

Vaixx takes it, feeling an unusual coldness from Quincy's touch.

“Very well then. I believe we all have work to do.” Quincy says upo withdrawing from the handshake.

–

“Now,” Snezz says, after swallowing his ale. “If you want to assemble a crew, you need to offer people something they need. And right now, you have little more to offer tha your company. If I hadn't been without direction and purpose in my current life stage, I wouldn't have agreed, no matter how endearing your recklessness is.”

“Desperate and lonely people, got it.” Asha says. They're in one of the cheaper taverns in the city, having dinner on Snezz' bill. He had insisted Asha get at least a full meal before agreeing to anything else. “That's not what I-...” “I know that's not what you said, but we both know it's what you meant.” Asha points at him with her fork for emphasis.

“Fair. Remember, you're a teenager covered in bruises. You have to make up for that with charisma. Try aiming low for now. Street rats, common bandits and the like. You won't have much luck with-...” “That Charr!” “What?”

Asha points at a few tables over, at a large, dissheveled looking Charr, currently brooding over a long-empty mug of ale. “That one looks miserable enough.” “Asha, you can't just go over there and-...” Snezz interrupts himself as the girl gets up and limps over to  the Charr's table, plopping herself down opposite of them. “Oh dear.”

“Hi.” Asha greets the Charr, who looks up from the empty mug. “You lost?” she asks, not really interested in a conversation. “No, I meant to approach you. You look like you could use some company.” Asha responds and snatches the empty mug from the Charr's hands. “Hey barkeep, a refill for this one!”

“I don't-...” “Yes, you do. Anyone as mopey as you needs more alcohol.” Asha insists. “What do you know about alcohol? You're, like, twelve!” “Fifteen, thank you very much. And I know enough. I was raised on a pirate ship.” She offers her hand to the Charr. “Asha Gaets. Who're you?”

“Aurelia Sharp-... Just Aurelia.” The Charr takes her hand in her much larger one, the pads of her retracted claws smooth against Asha's skin.

“Sharp? Sharp what?” Asha prods and Aurelia pulls a grimace. “Sharpwit. Used to be my warband name. But I'm... not really supposed to use it anymore.” she admits. “Kicked out?” Asha inquires. “Something like that. It's complicated.”

“So that's why you're moping around all by yourself.” Asha deduces, while a waitress hands Aurelia a fresh beer. “I'm not 'moping around':” she insists. “Whatever you wanna call it, I think you need some new friends, that won't kick you out for some reason.” Asha offers. “I'm looking for new friends too, you know. See that dweeby Asura over there? I tried to mug him, he beat me up and then treated my injuries. We're friends now.” “Your definition of friendship seems, uh...” “No, really. He's paying for my food. Oh, and your beer.” Asha says. “Point is, we're looking for people to sail out into the Sea of Sorrows with, and you don't seem to have anythig better to do, so why not come along? Got anything to lose?”

“My life?” Aurelia suggests and Asha snorts.

“Oh yeah, you've got a great one here, rotting away in smelly taverns getting wasted. C'mon, don't be grumpy and start over. I had to do that too!”

Aurelia takes a long swig of her mug, then sets it down on the table hard.

“Point taken. What's the mission?”

[daisywords]

Characters But No Plot?

I’ve been struggling with the exact same issue for a long time, and now I feel like my wip is finally emerging (albeit slowly) from its chrysalis with maybe some semblance of a plot !? so here’s what I’ve learned:

So you have characters? lovely.

You have a setting? amazing.

You don’t have anything remotely resembling a plot? relatable, my dude.

So here’s what we’re going to do:

Step 1: feel out the general aesthetic/baseline that you want the plot to involve—epic battles? ocean’s-eleven-esqe heist? long meandering quest? political intrigue? lots of romance? tons of secrets? self discovery? solving mysteries? petty drama?

how big of a scale will this plot be on? what are the stakes?

is the fate of the world at risk? or just the fate of a relationship? are multiple countries in play, or do the characters never leave their small town?

This will depend on the characters you have, if their backstories are already fleshed out. And obviously the setting and worldbuilding you’ve already done.

Don’t be afraid to have a tight story with relatively small stakes. Not everything has to be about saving the whole world. On the other hand, if you’re really feeling juggling all the politics and diplomacy across an entire continent, you do you.

Step 2: Mash your setting and characters. It’s time to get more specific with all your enlightenment from step one.

Think about your setting, your world—what kinds of problems could exist that match the kind of plot you wanted in step one?

Which problems would specifically apply/relate to your characters?

Specific is the key. Don’t just give me “a war” or “a monster” or “an oppressive government.” Give me “Tina can’t get the supplies she needs for her healing spells because the collapse of a neighboring country’s government really did a number on the safety/success rate of trade routes” or “Prince Gary’s four older brothers have all mysteriously died, and now he’s the heir to the throne, even though he’s been raised in a monastery since he was three and has no idea what’s going on.”

Step 2.5: Why is your main character the Main Character? Or: Make the Stakes Personal

Part of specific is specific to your character. Your protagonist doens’t need to be some over-candied mary sue chosen one. But they need to be relevant. So make the plot/problem relevant to them, in a way that it isn’t relevant to others.

Sure, Tina could just shut her witch-doctor business down, except now her sister has the plague and she really needs that healing spell, so Tina’s just going to have to journey into anarchy-land to get that frickin flower, now isn’t she

Gary could just do what he’s told and shrug his shoulders’ except looks like his brothers were assassinated and he’s the next target. Hard to relax when you’re personally fearing for your life and can’t trust anyone around you.

Except maybe things aren’t working out. Maybe you don’t want to write about Tina or Gary as your precious MC.

Maybe you want to write about a young apprentice named Jane, or a cowardly monk named Sebastian.

So maybe little Jane is the one with the sick sister, the one who begs Tina for the cure, and sets off to find that missing ingredient when Tina explains the problem.

Or maybe Sebastian, Gary’s friend from the monastery is brought along as court scholar, and it’s he who has to prevent Gary’s assassination, because Gary won’t believe that he’s in danger.

Basically: What motivates your MC to get involved in all this nasty business in the first place?

Step 3: Who/What is your antagonist?

You know that problem? The one that’s going to suck for your poor little protagonist? Put a face on it. You might already have a fleshed out antagonist. Great.

(You might not want one specific person, and that’s fine. Man vs. society, man vs. nature, etc. stories can be great and you do you. But I’m going to discuss this like a single person for now.)

Ok so the problem. It’s now caused by a person. Was this intentional, or just a side effect of some bigger plan? What is that plan? What is concrete thing is motivating the antagonist? What inner desire is motivating the antagonist?

Warlord Ren, who overthrew Westland’s government, doesn’t care about Jay’s sister. He probably isn’t even aware that people in Eastland can’t get their medicine. He definitely isn’t doing any of this to hurt Jane. In fact Warlord Ren is the leader of a once-marginalized group in Westland, who were sick of being treated as second-class citizens. Warlord Ren is out for revenge. Violent Revenge.

Lizzy, Gary’s first cousin once-removed, has a two-year-old son who just happens to be next in line for the throne after Gary. If her son were to become the heir, she could be guaranteed lifelong financial security and independence—and the ability to leave her terrible marriage. Too bad so many people have to die.

Step 4: What logical step would your protagonist take to solve their problem?

This is where things start being a plot. Like you get real events.

It goes like this: action > consequence > (re)action > consequence etc etcetec

Once the consequences extend wide enough that they affect the antagonist, that’s when we get the actual protagonist vs. antagonist dynamic we know and love.

So the consequences can start being actions of the antagonist as well.

There’s safety in numbers, so Jane teams up with a caravan also trying to cross Westland. But they turn out to be thieves, who rob her blind the first night on the road.

Sebastian, worried about Gary being poisoned, insists on being present for the entire preparation and serving process of anything Gary eats. However, Gary finds this unnecessary and frustrating, causing friction in their friendship. Better/worse yet, Lizzy hears about this arrangement, and thus knows that Sebastian is on her trail. Maybe she’ll try to discredit him, or get him thrown out of court. Maybe she’ll even frame him for an assassination attempt.

Step 4.5: Put your characters where the action is.

I feel like this is one of the main problems people run into when they kinda have the basis of a plot (the problem) but no real events: The most interesting things are happening elsewhere and are heard about in passing, instead of actually becoming those real plot events.

Bonus: Not sure where the action is? Try this: put your characters where the antagonist is.

This seems obvious, but sometimes it’s hard, because you have to reframe the concept you’ve had in your head for so long. You have to be flexible. You have to be willing to deviate from your original vision. You also have to maneuver things around sometimes in unexpected ways. But guess what? You’re in charge.

Maybe Warlord Ren is up to some wicked schemes. You wanted your story to be all about Jane’s quest through Westland. But if Jane just keeps traveling through different towns and getting stuck in different shenanigans, she’s never going to even hear about those wicked schemes, let alone be put into direct conflict with Warlord Ren. So we sacrifice our journey narrative a little to really spice things up: Jane joins Ren’s army. After all, she was just robbed; if she joins just until the next paycheck, she’ll be able to have the means to continue her journey.

Sebastian, a court scholar, wouldn’t be along on a hunting trip, right? so I guess he’s just have to hear about Gary’s near-death “accident” after the fact, right? Wrong. Turns out Gary feels bad after their fight about “poison paranoia” and invites Sebastian along on the trip. It’s very unconventional, but Gary wasn’t raised as a prince, remember? And the crown prince gets what he wants. Good thing Sebastion is going to be right next to Gary to keep that accident just “nearly fatal” instead of full-on fatal.

Step 5: Reexamine the problem(s)

So things should have escalated by now. Maybe the initial problem is what drew our MC into this whole mess, but things should be a lot messier by now.

So we’re supposed to have a climax, right? But how?

Do not fear, friend. Here’s what we need:

- The most exciting/action based problem

- The problem that tests your character/engages internal conflict the most

- the original problem (from the beginning)

And now put them in the blender. Turn it on. That’s good. A good smoothie. It’s climax flavored. It’s exciting. It’s action-packed. It’s emotionally compelling. It’s structurally sound and resonant.

Jane has turned out to be quite a capable soldier. She’s managed to get quite high in the ranks, and has managed to impress Warlord Ren himself. The trouble is, she’s had to do more and more things she feels wrong about, and is slowly losing the ability to justify her actions based on her desire to save her sister. She’s also witnessed the harsh punishments given to attempted deserters, which makes her plan to join only for a little while seem less feasible. Now, Jane’s been given an assignment to lead a squadron on a killing spree, of people who she suspects are just innocent civilians. If she follows orders, she will be awarded a high-ranking position, granting her the ability to ensure a safe trade route so her sister an finally get her medicine. But this still doesn’t feel right…

Lizzy has successfully framed Sebastion for attempting to assassinate Gary. Sebastian is now facing execution. His friendship with Gary is severely damaged, maybe even beyond repair. Gary believes that he really is guilty. But that’s not all: Sebastian knows that Lizzy has plans to kill Gary herself that very night, while he is locked in the dungeon. Even if he manages to break out, Sebastian has always been a nonviolent pacifist. Will he choose to use violence in order to save his friend, even thought Gary doesn’t trust him?

Step 6: Resolve Everything

And that’s all, folks

[forvalor-blog]

       Perhaps he should have twigged sooner, but at a single listen, the report to his office had seemed opportune.

       ‘’Sheriff, someone who matched your description came waltzing in earlier.  I couldn’t convince him to stay.  He bought a coffee and not much else, but I know which way he went.  It’d be in your best interest to come as soon as you’re able.’’

                                                                                                  In his best interest, indeed.

       The cafe door is pushed open, the familiar jingle of the bell signalling his arrival.  It’s past midnight, but everybody has come to expect that.  If there’s one thing Sheriff Braav seems incapable of, it’s taking breaks.   ❛❛ Mel? ❜❜   His head turns to the left, then to the right, brow pinching with confusion when he doesn’t see her immediately.  The lights are still on and the quiet radio is still playing, so where is she?   ❛❛ Hello-ooh?  I got yer call.  Sorry ‘m so late.  Work. ❜❜

       As far as he can see, the diner is empty.  He takes a moment to take in the somewhat familiar surroundings, scanning them slowly.  Huron doesn’t use animals for products so the supposed ‘’leather’’ that her booths are clad in is most definitely artificial.  It’s cute though, homely, and that’s the main appeal.  The tables are snug and rectangular, like rows of perfectly adjacent dominoes, the chequered linoleum floor alight with a glossy clean finish.  He remembers crossing this same floor centuries ago to meet her halfway behind the counter, his body moving like a pawn on a chessboard.  Really, that’s all life is, isn’t it?  One big game of chess.

       He comes to lean against the counter, briefly standing on his tiptoes to see over the cash register properly.  Not there, you dumbass.  She’s always been small, but never that small.

       ❛❛ Oh!!  There you are!! ❜❜

       Kuro can do nothing to keep himself from jumping at the sudden arrival, a trained hand balanced against his hip, where his trusty firearm lays.  A long sigh leaves him, expression flashing even more deadpan than usual.   ❛❛ Dear Gods. ❜❜

       She can’t stop herself from giggling, a hand curled in front of her lips.   ❛❛ Did I scare you? ❜❜

       ❛❛ Just a little... ❜❜   he admits, clearly disgruntled as he shifts his weight to rest against the counter.  He’s definitely more mellow now.  Centuries ago, he would have been effing and blinding until the sun rose for being caught off guard like that;  he’d have ghosted her for a solid twenty-four hours before coming back for coffee;  he’d have been angry.  As much as she hates to admit it, she doesn’t miss that side of him much at all.   ❛❛ ... where even were y’...? ❜❜

       ❛❛ Takin’ the trash out, ❜❜   the woman replies, filing behind the counter with an air of grace, washing her hands beneath the tap before she turns back to face him.  He’s so beautiful...  he’s only gotten better with age.  I have to do this now, or I’ll never bring myself to do it.  It’s for his own good.   ❛❛ Anyway.  I’m glad you’re here.  This guy’s a real creeper. ❜❜   Without asking, she begins to prepare him coffee.  It’s the central piece of this plan, after all.   ❛❛ Figured it’d probably be best t’report it.  Even if he turns out to not be your guy, he could do with bein’ put on a register regardless. ❜❜

                                                                                 ❛❛ Yeah?  Wha’d’y’got fer me? ❜❜

       ❛❛ Weeell... ❜❜   She’s recited these lies over and over in her head for the past few weeks now, to the point where lying to his face isn’t difficult this time around.  So rehearsed is she that she goes through those run-of-the-mill descriptions with ease, as if reading script lines, and he seems all too happy to go along with it.  He even pulls out his notepad, capitalised scrawl noting down her false leads dutifully.  He’s hooked on her word, just as she was hooked on his all those years ago, and though she feels guilty for misleading him, she can’t help but feel happy to be the reason behind such captivation.  He keeps looking up at her when she pauses, like a puppy eyeing its owner for more treats, and she’s all too happy to feed him more.  Sometimes she stops deliberately just to watch the faithful incline of his head, that focus in his eyes shaking her to her core as they make the briefest of eye contact.  She isn’t obsessed, but had she been this attentive of his face for the decades they’ve spent apart, she may have snapped much sooner.  At some point, she hands him his coffee--  laced with sleep-powder and all--  and watches as he takes intermittent sips in between his feverish jottings.  The poor man is so addicted to the stuff that he doesn’t even think to question it--  even though he hadn’t asked for a cup.  At one point, he does pause, glancing at the rim of the mug, though whatever had caused him to think twice clearly isn’t enough to stop him from taking another sip.  It’s a habit she’ll try to help him kick once she’s been able to get through to him.

        They continue this way for a while, the minutes seamlessly threading together as he asks more questions and notes more things down.  She gives him a fake outfit, a false order  (  accompanied by a random person’s receipt* that aligned with her story  )  and fabricated fear, seeking desperately for his assurance.  He’s big and strong...  anybody would feel sheltered with him by their side.  Is it really so bad of her to want him to tell her that he’ll keep her safe?

       By the time he runs out of things to ask, a solid forty-five minutes have been and gone.  With the end of his pen pressed against his lower lip in a contemplative fashion, he speaks up once more, though his voice has a quieter quality to it.   ❛❛ Okaaay, so... ❜❜   She listens to him flip through the pages of notes he’d made, back-to-front, before he puts the pad down.  Every now and then, he blinks a little harder, as if trying to rearrange his line of sight.   ❛❛  Y’said he went upwards towards the No-Man’s-Land? ❜❜

       ❛❛ Yup. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Mmkay.  Doesn’t surprise me too much.  This guy’s originally from Vide, so it’d make sense if he’s tryna circle round so he’s back in familiar territory.  Out here in Huron, he’s kinda defenceless in terms’a hidin’ spots. ❜❜

       You’re so intelligent.  Were you always this clever?  I want that smart mouth in places I’m not brave enough to say out loud.  Sheriff, I’m listening, but I can’t stop daydreaming about you.  You understand, don’t you?  I just want--

                                 ❛❛ Uh... Mel? ❜❜

       The woman blinks quickly, coming back to reality.  He’s there, still, his brow creased slightly with concern.  Oh damn...  I really zoned out.  She crosses her legs discreetly, trying not to focus on the aching heat spreading between them,.  If she had even a little less control over herself, she may have blushed upon realising what she was thinking about.   ❛❛ Uh, y-yeah... ❜❜   A meek laugh leaves her.   ❛❛ S-Sorry, it’s just-- long work day.  Y’know how it is. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Don’t work yerself t’death, girl, ❜❜   he replies, some of the concern fading from his eyes.  It’s funny, the longer he stays here, the more tired he feels, and in a way he barely recalls feeling before;  a kind of tired he’s only felt with the aid of medication after being grievously stabbed...  the fleeting sensation of floating, as if the lead that seems permanently embedded into his blood has dissolved and allowed his awareness to wander.  He should get back home...  it’s approaching 1:30am and he didn’t even noticed.  Nana will be livid--

       ❛❛ Oh, shit... ❜❜   he mutters as he stands up, body teetering wildly to one side.  Vertigo hits him like a freight train.  Even Suka is thrown off, its shadowy form lumbering like a moving mountain behind him as he braces himself against the counter.  It’s at this point that he’s slowly realising that something is amiss;  that despite his keen wit and his sharp senses, something slipped past his radar and is about to render him useless.  How long has it been since I last slept?  Is it really hitting me that hard?   (  Kuro, what’s going on?*  )

       ❛❛ Gosh, Sheriff--  y’should sit.  You’re rockin’ like a little Raku Doll*. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Uh...  n-no, it’s fine.  I need t’get back home... ❜❜   Despite the hands she tries to meet him with, Kuro turns tail and begins his dizzy stumble towards the diner door.  He barely makes it before his vision begins to blur, an exhaustion somewhat akin to Suka sitting on top of him dragging him towards the floor.  He resists for as long as possible, trying to force shaking knees to cooperate, and his whole body flinches when Mel’s hands wrap around his torso, guiding him back towards the counter.  This is wrong--  everything’s wrong, and I missed it.

       ❛❛ Sheriff-- ❜❜

       ❛❛ ... wha’d y’do? ❜❜   Despite the way he quivers and sways, his words bite.  The accusation in them is almost as heavy as his body feels, a layer of ice garnishing the question like an appetiser;  as if it’s only the first of a series of cold-hearted digs he’s about to serve her.   ❛❛ ... y’did somethin’.  Wha’d y’do? ❜❜   His words are beginning to slur together, and in an instant do his legs give out.  Despite the way his brain screams in protest, he finds himself unable to get up again.  His vision swims as if he’s been permanently submerged, surroundings hazy and uneven before his eyes are weighted shut.  He should have known that this was too good to be true;  how convenient that she wasn’t willing to give him any details over the phone;  that it had to be in person.  But why?  Why is she doing this?  And if it is personal, why did she wait this fucking long?  With the single ounce of strength he has remaining:   ❛❛ ... knew yer coffee was off... ❜❜

       Something about the statement warms her up, despite the harsh chill accompanying it.  Of course he’d notice that her perfect coffee wasn’t quite perfect this time around.  She’s the only person he trusts--  besides his wife, she assumes--  to make it for him.  Despite how foolishly simple he may seem for meandering into such a quintessentially executed trap, the case is not so.  In fact, perhaps the only reason that she was able to succeed was because of her unassuming track record, and she knows that.  She hasn’t been involved in his life since their final night together really, and she hasn’t made a habit of acting crazy.  They spoke like old friends every few years or so, drinking coffee and sharing smokes before he went back to work.  Not once did she give him any reason to suspect her of anything.  As far as he was concerned, she was just the tasteful lay he’d had some centuries ago.

                                                                      It’s this thought exactly that she hopes to dispel.

       Kuro  (  will you let me call you that finally?  ), you know why I’ve done this.  You must’ve known that I’d come for you at some point.  There’s only so long I can watch you destroy yourself like this.  You’re selling your life away.  This woman...  she doesn’t love you, and you don’t love her.  How could we have had such explosive chemistry if you did?  I’ve been here this whole time...  didn’t you see me?  I’ve always seen you.

       Thank the Gods that it’s dark out, otherwise the huge open windows might have been a problem.  Dragging him by his feet behind the counter is the easy part, as heavy as he is--  it’s getting him down the cellar stairs that’s going to take time.

[bestfriendforhire]

Entry 397

 Knowing that our son wasn’t likely to be tracking days in a week just yet, Alma and I didn’t bother mentioning to him that we’d be arriving on the day we left in England.  Dani was sure to notice if she thought about it upon our return to Somerset Estate, but she was quite accustomed to oddities in time by now and knew better than to mention anything.

 Expecting us this trip, the staff had gathered to greet us before our arrival and were now listening to my wife’s speech, introducing the next heir of Caerllion to everyone.  There would be a press conference later today to introduce our son to the rest of the United Kingdom, but the staff—being as close as friends to Alma—were more important to her.  Following the press conference, we were to dine with the royalty.  Other royalty?  I still felt the notion that I was a king seemed a little weird, given that I really did claim the title simply by pulling my sword from a stone.

 Nonetheless, the royal family was dancing a thin line, given that Godric was against us, but he’d hopefully understand the importance of tradition here.  If not, my wife and I would be paying him another visit to discuss the matter, which I was quite certain he’d want to avoid.

 When my wife’s speech was finished, Alma and I descended from the balcony to let everyone greet James, who surprised many with his good manners.  Even for someone of Slayer blood, being able to speak quite so well at one week old was unique, but most didn’t have my wife’s advantages.

 “Poppy, move along.” stated Sebastian after the poor girl tripped upon her approach, staring with wide eyes as my son greeted her.  She couldn’t seem to decide whether she was more shocked by my son or by my daughter, who was in her natural colors.

 “Y-Yes, sir.” she stated to Sebastian.  Curtsying quickly to us, she said, “Your majesties.’  Then she hurried on her way.

 I didn’t see any need to send her off quite that quickly, but Alma had spoken well enough about Sebastian over the years that I wasn’t about to say anything.

 “Have the preparations been made to visit my father?” questioned Alma.

 Nodding, Sebastian said, “Yes, ma’am.  I will tell the staff that you are indisposed.”

 “Thank you.” she told him.

 “Yes, thank you.” muttered James from her arms, earning a smile from Sebastian.  As we walked away, James asked “Why were we thanking him?”

 “For his service to our family, for his prompt execution of my will, and for his discretion regarding your grandfather.  I have mentioned that your grandfather will be more like the fey in behavior, but please try to treat him with respect.” explained Alma.

 My son nodded, staring around at all of the new sights around him.  In the past week, his strength had noticeably increased.  On the day he was born, he was able to hold himself up and exert considerably more force than the average small child.  Now he was closer in strength to an average tween.

 James could already sense magic, always watching the casting of spells near him.  Now he watched as his mother disabled the traps protecting the area below.  The long descent was equally exciting for him, but the fire startled him.

"Father, we'll burn like that creature grandmother roasted!" exclaimed James.

 "No, we won't.  No fire will harm me, and I imagine that you're rather resistant to heat." stated Alma reassuringly.

 "You imagine!?  Doesn't that mean you don't know!?" he complained.  "Father!"

 "Yes, son?" I asked, adjusting my spell to turn toward him.

 "We'll burn!"

 “Only me!” teased Dani with a grin.

 Smiling, I assured him "If we were to burn, I'd enjoy the shock on your mother's face, and not a hair on your sister’s head will be singed."

 "Aren't you worried!?"

 "Not particularly.  I've been here before." I replied, patting his little head.

 “Burning seems like a terrible way to go, doesn’t it!?” asked Dani, her smile taking on a wistful look.

 "Your grandfather has sensed us.  The mist around him is just for propriety's sake, so please ignore it." stated Alma as we reached the ground.

 “What is…” started James, his head whipping to the side as Gruffydd came running toward us.

 The feeling of excitement entered my mind along with a vision of Gruffydd gently holding his grandson.

 “Hello, Grandfather.” stated little James as he was passed over from Alma to his grandfather.

 “Hi, Grandfather!” exclaimed Dani, grinning at him.

 “Father, this is James Michael Somerset IV.” mentioned Alma, though her father didn’t seem to hear her as he danced around with his grandson held out in front of him.  “And you, of course, remember Dani.”

 He casually took Dani’s hand with his free one.  Aaliyah had thankfully helped him know Dani as family when they were introduced on one of Alma’s business trips to England.

 “He responds before I even talk!” exclaimed James in surprise, leaving me curious what had been asked and said.

 “Like the fey… and me,.. your grandfather can follow your thoughts to an extent, so he knows what you’re thinking.” explained Alma.

 “But you told me I needed to talk after birth.” complained James.

 “Generally, you do.” she assured him.

 Gruffydd was hugging James and meandering away, so we followed him.  After reaching a larger cavern, a fire appeared, taking the shape of a beautiful woman who danced across the floor.  Dani, unwilling to miss a dance,  joined the fiery beauty and started to sing.

 “Mother so rarely danced.” commented Alma.

 “But Grandmother doesn’t look like that.” argued James.

 “She looked similar to that once.” replied Alma.

 “Will I look like her eventually?” he questioned.

 “No, you won’t.” insisted Alma.  “Only Slayers transform into dragons.”

 “Flying is scary.” complained James.

 “You mean wonderful!” exclaimed Dani, returning to singing immediately afterward.

 “Scary.” muttered James, trying to watch us as his grandfather spun around in dance.

 Dani stopped her singing again and skipped over to him.  Grinning, she said, “There are many, many things in the universe that are far more scary, but our parents will always arrive to protect us if we’re in danger.  You don’t have to be afraid of anything.”

 “Except your father.” teased Alma.  “He has the worst temper when pushed too far.”

 I crossed my arms and frowned at her, but she only grinned.

 “She’s right.  Never make Daddy angry.  When he’s angry at you, you’ve really messed up.” agreed Dani, much to my chagrin.

 Alma hugged me and said, “Don’t worry.  Your father isn’t easily upset.”

 “I really don’t think I’m that bad.” I told them all.

 “No, my love.  You typically have good reason to be angry when you are.  We’re just wanting James to know that he has to be well-behaved, not scared.” claimed my wife.

 “Or Daddy will be there, frowning sooo hard at you!” exclaimed Dani, still smiling.

 Gruffydd seemed oblivious to the conversation, completely focused between his grandchildren and his fires, now depicting even more dancers.  My wife and I joined in on the song and dance, knowing that everyone would enjoy themselves more if we participated too.  Visiting Gruffydd was always a strange experience, but helping our children to know their other grandfather was important too.

[sly-punk1712]

Night Moves

AN: For this most part this is harmless just a cute little fluff. It does mention panic attacks and touches indirectly on body issues (Steve’s) so if that’s not something your interested in skip Steve’s dreams

If anyone had asked Tony, which for the official Pepper report, no one did, He’d say this was all Darcy’s fault. If the intern had just submitted to his inquisition then he wouldn’t have had to invade everyone’s privacy and he wouldn’t be trying to stem the blood flow from his broken nose. As soon as this blew over he was going to write it down somewhere official they were no longer hiring pesky tag along interns, certified geniues only. But Lewis was already here so he probably couldn’t kick her out. 

She had been sleeping in his lab almost a month now. She was just as restless as the other scientists and would meander from lab to lab until she tired. So Tony let her sleep on his cot. Just polite. It was on such a night that he tinkered over improved repulser links when he heard the murmur of gentle laughter. Tony looked up from his work and glanced around. Darcy was sprawled on her back one arm covering her eyes from the harsh light of the lab. Her mouth was curved into a small smile and she was chuckling softly. Tony smiled she looked peaceful, young. A swell of affection rushed over him. She was alright. 

It was nice to see someone who slept without worry in his tower. This thought was interrupted by a fuller laugh as the intern started to wakefulness the ghost of her dream still pulling her lips up at the corners. She blinked slowly still chuckling. 

“Dreaming of me again, Double D?” Tony smiled as innocently as he could manage trying not to let on how curious he actually was. Darcy rubbed her face and stretched ignoring the man who so generously let her nap in his lab. 

“Don’t ask. If I say it out loud I lose” Darcy said this as if it made perfect sense. and to a person pre-coffee it probably did. To Tony it was just the tip of the iceberg. He raised a brow but the young brunette simply waved him off still chuckling. 

Little did she realize the absolute shit show she had begun in his life.

******************************

“This is a terrible idea. I would literally rather build Ultron again.” Bruce said rubbing his temples to combat the headache Tony was giving him. Tony scoffs.

“First of all, That wasn’t a bad idea just a poor execution. Second off, how could this go wrong?” Tony pushed the glasses up onto his head and peered at his tablet once more. Bruce just made a noise and headed for an exit.

“You are 100% on your own.”

“You’re gonna miss it!”

“I’m leaving!!” and he did. It was almost like he thought his disapproval would stop him. No he was committed. It had been three weeks of her giggling laughter and refusal to tell the joke. He had even recalibrated his memory projection glasses just to sneak a peek. Tonight he thinks, tonight it will go flawlessly. 

No sooner had he thought it than the giggle sounded softly from the feed Jarvis had playing on his tablet. 

“No time to waste!” He beamed and slid the glasses down to rest on the bridge of his nose. one last breath and he slide the gear to on. 

This was one of the most nauseating experiences of his life. and he wasn’t sure if it was the glasses or the scene before his eyes. Steve was dressed in some sort of toga? Tony tilted his head and wondered closer looking for Darcy. Surely if this was her dream she’d be in it right? There was no one in the garden that he could see so instead he scooted closer to Toga Steve.

Toga Steve sighed heavily and pouted dropping his chin to his hand. 

“If there’s a prize for rotten judgement, I guess I’ve already won that” Tony’s head snapped to look at the soldier in abject horror. Toga Steve was singing. 

“No man is worth the aggravation.” 

What sort of hell was this? Tony looked around for Darcy as Toga Steve continued. Suddenly as T.S. lamented his love life Darcy appeared legs crossed, also wearing a Toga on a bench near Toga Steve. but she wasn’t alone.

Beside her, also in togas, were SHIELDs deadliest assassins. Barton with his usual reflective sunglasses and purple hearing aids, Natasha with the widow bites and pom-poms?

“Who you think you kidding? He’s the earth and heaven to ya!” All three new arrivals to the dream began to sing in time to T.Steve’s tune.

“Try to keep it hidden, honey, we can see right through you.”  This line brought movement from the trio as they followed Steve and began some sort of synchronized dance. It was one tenth terrifying and nine tenths hilarious. It’s no wonder she woke up laughing. Tony felt himself swell with laughter despite the fear he initially felt. That laughter wasn’t his. A side effect from being in Darcy’s psych? Honestly he wasn’t sure these glasses would even work much less work so well.

“Steve you can’t Conceal it, we know how your feeling and who your thinking of!”

“No chance no way! I won’t say no NO!” Toga Steve flounced away dramatically spinning the hem of his toga up a little.

“You swoon you sigh why deny it uh oh!” The assassins swayed in perfect time faces stone but seemingly earnest. 

“It’s too cliche I wont’ say I’m in loovv” 

Before Toga Steve could finish his line Tony was ripped away. Thankfully, Lewis had a twisted sense of humor.

*****************

And the other room Darcy awoke with a sharp laugh and a smile still splitting her face. 

****************

Instead of waking up Tony found himself standing in a familiar room. Jane’s lab? His suspicion was confirmed by Thor walking in?

“THOR?!?!” He hadn’t mean to shout but this was an odd time for the asgardian to come waltzing in. His heart raced behind his reactor and he felt a surge of relief and tinges of longing. Not really his feelings but still strong. The beefy blond paused in surprise. “What are you doing here buddy?”

“I’m here to collect my Lady Jane for our date. Why are you here Anthony?” He tilted his head curiously like a oversized labrador. Date? The awnser appeared before he could even verbalize his confusion. The lab doors opened again and Jane came crashing through looking nothing like the Jane he had seen half an hour ago. For one thing, this Jane was showered and looked well rested. and in a sparkly dress. Tony made to push the glasses up and rub his eyes. 

When he reached his face he found no cool glass and metal. No glasses. So this was a dream. Jane’s dream if he had to guess. He had thought Thor looked extra ripped. 

“Hey Sorry I’m... Tony?” Jane asked in confusion. He waved sheepishly in greeting. 

“Sorry I think I’m lost.” He gestured over his shoulder feeling odd for intruding. If this was Jane’s dream he didn’t want to intrude on her time with Thor, imagined or not. He felt the longing she did and knew he needed to evacuate quickly before the tears or the sex. This dream was likely to go either way at the moment.

 He opened the door that normally would have lead to his lab and hastened threw.

******************* 

In Jane’s actual lab she awoke face drool glued to a paper. She peeled her cheek free and groaned. No Thor. but why would Tony be there?

*********************

When he closed the steel door behind him his gaze lighted on a room that was most certainly not his lab. It was a dimly lit, rather drafty bedroom. In the bed before him was a woman. Pale, skinny, blond and unmoving. His heart sank slightly. His own feeling.  Beside her to the left stood a young Bucky Barnes hat in hand eyes rimmed red with tears. To her right holding her hand... well Tony wished he could leave this right now. Bruce was right. This was the worst idea he’d ever had.

Steve knelt, not small and sickly, like a 1930s him should have been. Instead he was in his uniform, strong and handsome, huge hands swallowing her slender one, face soaked in tears and snot. 

“No Ma, please, Look at me, I’m here, It’s me Stevie” He babbled not letting her hand go. “Ma look! I did it! I’m so much better now Ma, healthy and tall. I can take care of us both now Ma. Please just look at me.” Tony had never heard Steve talk like this. Like he was from fresh off the boat. An Irish accent cut threw the Brooklyn accent he sometimes spoke with. not a trace of the midwestern show horse the USO tour made him.

“Ma!” He cried and for being the biggest one in the room he sounded like a little boy to Tony’s ears. Bucky moved forward and Tony left out a soft sigh, Barnes would handle this, make Steve stop hurting.

Barnes rested his hand on Steve shoulder calling, Steve’s gaze to meet his. The young man gave a crooked smile, Tony had seen a thousand times. 

“Let her go Stevie. Being big isn’t gonna fix this.” Tony’s gut clenched, this dream stank of something sinister. “Didn’t help me did it?” His face was still in the kind smile even as his words made Steve recoil. Tony’s heartbroke, a Steve feeling. 

“No Steve!” Tony couldn’t be silent anymore. The dream morphed around him and he was looking up at the sky. The light blinded him and he could barely make out Steve’s face against the bright sky. 

“Tony please!” Steve sank to his knees. “Damnit Jarvis let him go. Tony hang on.” Tony realized he couldn’t move. He was trapped. In his suit. Steve’s fingers clawed helplessly at the armor. “Tony!!” Steve’s voice was getting distant. Tony’s chest felt tight. was this a panic attack in a dream? Could he die here if he died in Steve’s dream? His heart began to race and fear pounded thicker than his blood. 

“I’m sorry” Steve sat back, bloody hands on clutching in his hair rocking slightly. He was giving up. Oh God Steve wake up!! He thought desperately.but  his vision began to shrink and go dark. As the darkness overtook the sky his panic faded to calm, fear settling into rest and Tony saw his mother and Steve’s holding out their hands.

***************************

Steve bites his tongue when he wakes up, startling violently upright sweat covering his body. After a few deep breaths he sighs. Just a dream. He can hear the sound of Bucky’s documentary playing in the living room and takes a fortifying breath. Everything is okay. He’s home.

***************************

His eyes opened once more to blinding light. He sat up in a slight panic hands flying to his chest. His hands moved so that was something. He sent up a silent prayer that Bruce would find him soon. or at least that there would be no more nightmares. He shuddered. Poor Steve. 

Panic settling he examined the terrain to find himself in a soft green field. An open empty place that looked a bit like late spring. A single tree broke up the landscape the only thing visible in this vast dreamscape. He trotted toward it. In dream time distances pass oddly and he found himself running up on the tree faster than he’d intended he screeched to a halt when he saw who was seated beneath the tree weapons drawn, eyes narrowed. 

Natasha, Clint and Agent were all in some weird killer puppy pile, sprawled across each other looking practically peaceful save the angry looks and sharp knives there were holding. He held his hands up in surrender not moving. They assessed him shrewley.

“I don’t want trouble.” He said honestly. Dying once in a dream was bad enough he’d rather not give them reasons to kill him again. 

“What do you want?” Asked Agent. 

“Just to rest” Tony answered after a moment. “Just to sit and be with you.” He shuddered at the acceptance that filled him. It was finality as he’d never felt it. Natasha nodded and even tho they went back to lounging no one put away their weapons. Tony didn’t dare move any closer instead keeping his hands visible he sank to the ground. Into what was probably the softest grass he could even imagine. Actually he couldn’t imagine it and that’s why it was someone else’s dream. but whos? No thought or feeling projected in a way that was helping him decipher. Clint or Natasha? Natasha or Clint?

The four of them sat contented for what felt like a long time. The spysassins gently combing fingers over Agent Agent. Tony enjoying the peace and also studying the pair. This wasn’t how he ever got to see them. So fucking happy. It tugged somewhere deeper than his heart. He closed his eyes to enjoy it.

Maybe it didn’t matter who’s dream this was. Maybe that was the point it was less a dream than a rest. maybe it was both of their dreams. Tony opened his eyes to look at him teammates and their handler. He said a prayer to whoever answered his prayers that this could be every dream for them. Tony was glad they decided to stay in his tower. That joy just made this dream invasion all the more terrible. Something else swelled in his heart. Something sour. Regret. He didn’t want to be here.

“I’m going to go now.” He said finally. His voice was soft but not hoarse like an unused voice should be. Three steely eyes rested upon him. Natasha nodded first. Clint closed his eyes with a small smile and Agent hummed in chest. 

Tony stood and made to walk away.

“Tony.” He couldn’t tell who spoke. He turned regardless. “We’re glad you’re here” None of the three’s mouths moved but he still heard it. If anyone could figure out telepathy just for the sake of being closer to someone it’d be these two. Tony smiled and began his trek into the openness of the field. 

******************

Natasha and Clint woke without moving. Her eyes opened and alert swept the room. He gave a soft groan at being woken from a good dream. Their eyes met briefly before  they settled deeper into their bed and each other’s arms. Unwilling to wake just yet. Contented.

*******************

Tony awoke to being sucker punched in the face. The greenness of the Agents’ dreams popped from view as the bridge of his glasses was violently propelled into his nose. 

“HOT FUCK!” He cried hands shooting to his face. Threw watery eyes he saw the small crowd standing in front of the chair he’d started this whole fasco in. Steve in a fresh tee shirt and sleep pants arms crossed frowning at him, Jane in her lab coat looking Pissed with a capital P. Bruce shaking his head slightly and lastly Darcy shaking her hand out indicating she’d been the one to break his nose.

“W’at was dat for?” He pouted pushing the glasses off his face and into his hair.

“Like you don’t know!” Jane snapped and left the room in a huff. 

“Otay I’m sobta sobby.” He shrugged. “But Da’cy woulbn’t tell me ‘er dream” He pouted tilting his head back. “T’at was a good d’eem do, Ah like ‘oga Steebe.” He grinned. Bruce and Steve gave Darcy a look.

She flushed. 

“That is nothing what it sounded like. Toga Steve is hot for Toga Bucky who  never makes it to my dream because I wake up laughing at the singing.” She babbles. Bruce once again pinches his nose and throws a towel in Tony’s direction. Steve blushes. 

“So Smooth Da’cy.” He smiles. She glares and stomps out too. Steve looks at Tony uncertainty. 

“Are you okay Tony?” Steve asks finally.

“Mah Nose Is bwoken but dat’s otay” He shrugs. “Are you?” Tony tilts his head so the bleeding stays minimal but he can eye Steve. Steve shrugs and runs a hand threw his hair. 

“Wasn’t a good night.” He rubs his neck. “Sorry my dream wasn’t funny.” Tony marvels at the man who’s apologizing to Tony when Tony was the one dream peaking. 

“Its otay Stebe, Ah’m sobby Ah made you sad” Steve’s eyes search his face closely and Tony turns to look at him properly most of the blood drying. Steve deserves to look at him properly.  There’s a long pause, it’s the stillest this room has ever been with him in it. Bruce watches puzzled.

Steve gives a crooked smile and nods once. 

“Goodnight Tony” Steve says softly making for the door.

“Night Stebe. Sweet Dreams��� Tony grinned at Steve’s parting scoff. Bruce waits till the door is closed before clearing his throat expectantly. 

“W’at?” 

“Well?”

“Welp W’at?” 

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what her dream was?” Bruce for all his nay saying was just as curious as he was! Tony beamed and held a hand dramatically to his chest. 

“B’uce dat’s a hooge viola’ion of privacy!!”

“You literally violated everyone’s privacy tonight!!!” Bruce protested.

“Yea well this is mah learning from may mishakes” 

Bruce’s eye twitched dangerously but he merely snatches Tony’s dream hopping glasses and stomps back to his lab. 

“And you said it was a bad idea!” He shouts. Theirs the sound of glass smashing probably the 600 thousand dollar dream glasses.  It was not a bad idea. 

His nose throbs.

Okay maybe it was a dumb idea, but only maybe and he’s gonna right that in the Pepper report later. 12 percent of a dumb idea.

On his way toward his apartment he passes Darcy on his cot, soft smile starting on her face. He pauses thinking about the all dreams he visited. 

And maybe tag along interns weren’t so bad.

[artdjgblog]

Innerview: Tom Biederbeck (Editor ) / STEP Inside Design 

October 2008 

Image: NA

Note: Email Q&A

Question:

Rumors of your absence from STEP magazine’s Design 100 competition MUST be exaggerated! I’ve been impressed with your work in past Design 100s, but it doesn’t look like you’ve entered the 2009 competition…at least so far. ​

Answer:​

STEP. I think you’re living up to your name…well, maybe with an adopted “E” in the middle to get it right, as I’m watching every year for rising prices on your competition fees. How many rungs will I climb? I’m not even sure if I entered last year as the years are running together now for me, but I’m leaning towards “nope.” I’m for certain it was due to billfold blues, but another reason is because I lost interest in what I was doing so why blow money on it and share it? I’m a little more upbeat this year as I’m turning the corner on 30 and another round of “more-more-more-more”. Still, I almost didn’t enter this year until the last check of my online bank account. Next year, who knows? I’m just curiously concerned as to what is going on in dollar signs? My aim of intent is not for this choppy letter to sound wrong or biting or ouchy or itchy or immature or nasty…worshiping of St. Upid*, a big yes…frustrated and humiliated on my end, perhaps a tad bit? Whatever, I’m a happy camper and thanks for making it this far. High competition prices are weeding out the little guys who scrape by. Personally, I know that I’ve barely cleared 80 dollars all year from clients, which is the price for me to only submit 2 entries. So, I think I qualify for “little guy”. The 2 entries I’m forking over are pretty much bending over my billfold and breaking it in two. In previous years I’ve been fortunate to dump 80 mades-a-milking, unlimited on your doorSTEP for a reasonable sum of money, a sum I’m now seeing with double vision. I’m a bit perplexed at this current flex. In a time where I feel the idea of the “Mom & Pop” design house is a mockery of every high-price Tom, Dick and Church Secretary who bang desktop decorations out because they have access to a computer (which, sometimes I find their work more charming and immediately served)…it’s the design magazines of all people who should be rewarding (in lower entrance pocket book exams) those who work on top of work, get up early and stay up late making basement donuts (notice here we don’t spell it with “dough”). Even though I still have a goal to do what it is I do for full-time income some day, it’s never really been about the money and I knew that at the starting line of my design odyssey. Though, I think rising competition prices finally just made it be a money case. I think that in the past seven years I’ve spent more on competition fees than what I’ve actually saved. I know I don’t spend much on tape, cutting blades, spray paint, glue sticks and construction paper. It might not be a wise business venture, I get that, but it’s the glossy recognition that helps get the work out and sometimes gets work that pays more than one cheeseburger. Recognition helps a young struggling kid tickled on both ends of the scroll and I’m thrilled to think that some of the magazines and whatnots might even eventually become shredded to either evolve into other books or poster papers or the lining of a puppy carrier somewhere this side of Deer Creek Falls, Cornwall. Making things for me isn’t about winning prized ponies, beer helmets and cotton candy, even though those things are nice added bonuses to parade with. Awards certainly don’t get me to point C, but they might get me to B or B-thirty, which in-turn might mate with C to get me out of my day job, in some sort of mutated moody Monday morning, if I’m caught in the right spirit. Which, in-turn might finally get me the urge to shout, “Look Ma and Pa I’m no longer a college drop-out failure.” I’d like to say I stay in my basement full-time, but that’s not the case as I’ve previously put it. I realize that everything is rising in cost, the economy stool is flowing over and we’re all doomed. I realize that it takes a large amount of good money to make, distribute and payroll a major magazine, especially orchestrating special awesome issues like the STEP 100. But, I can’t help but feel it’s just getting ridiculous. Not to mention, I think you’d get a more well-rounded selection of work, from people you wouldn’t expect if entry prices were lower. I’m 0 for 4 with Algebra classes, but I tend to think more money could be made in the long run if competition entry fees were cheaper. Ya know? This is similar (for me at least?) to raising the price of vending machine items. I’m not saying your design magazine is as cheap, non-nutritional and throw-away as junk food, though it’s fueled many great and passionate design adventures in my world and I’m a big fan. I’m saying that it’s like hiking up all the items in a vending machine to where you can only get one over-priced thing for a dollar, when everything could easily be made 50 cents or cheaper. In such a world I know that everybody would spend their whole dollar, maybe even a Lincoln to feed the family. Money would be made and one more child could be fed. I’ve never understood this. On another end…I was the small town grade-schooler who couldn’t wait to “git” and get tucked into that slip of 40 minute-onct-a-week art class to finally execute the creative rights that were squandered to the back lot of my brain while managing to make it through the school day blues (and I’m still there now in the day job tune). Though it was definitely in my own private Missouri, of bedwoom and backwoods, where the real goods were got at…it was in this makeshift “art” room where I learned to work together with my fellow makers. It was here I hunched happy and content, saliva dripping, with a meager box of 24 colors, as the uninspired jerk wads with the biggy-size box of a hundred (plus a pathetic built-in sharpener) spent the entire period breaking in-half a wide assortment of made-up B-Side rainbow colors to toss at me in order to beat my day. But, it was brighten, what they did. You know why? Because at the end of each class with each week, I raked up all the extra orphaned bits and pieces, saw their potential and fed them to my newsprint paper, which in-turn has lead to some ideas that eventually wound up on your well-printed pages. Now, what exactly am I trying to say? Not sure, and that ‘n’ this is something I have to put up with every second of back ‘n’ forth with the upstairs. I’m not trying to win hearts or exercise my patriotic spew. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be opposed to some sort of bonus points program, rewards system, price cutting card or a salary cap thing with competition fees. What I am saying is what all I just said and to add that through it all as we quickly unravel this ball, I’m not giving up on you and your fantastic design coverage. I love STEP. I can’t afford a subscription and barely look at it, but I love it. I barely look at any design magazines, but I love them, mostly just love “it”, design. Even when I think I don’t, I still do and it still comes back to poke and prod me in the night. Back to you, I love every piece of person at your offices and beyond who have helped me and my little makes in some way. I even salute those who may curse my name in the after-hours as they sift through and catalog my design dumps and read/see my silly testimonials, interviews and now…this electronic sampling. Please tell me you have lent all the poster piles of competitions’ past to those who truly need warmth to burn or sleep beneath? Add this letter to the pile under the overpass or please tack it with the other junk above your own bunk? I originally had intentions to drop this into my entry package that I AM sending, but then I had second-thoughts about writing a letter as my writing is quite foolish and the whole idea is quite selfish and sloppy. Then again, I thought I could just typewriter it, bang it out in the morning dew, and mail it out with the postal blue. But, then I thought that idea was still ignorant and arrogant. So, finally I just put my gut in the cage with my heart and let them duke this out. I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me in the past whether it’s your kindness on the phone or email or with appreciating my piles of work and saving several pages of glossy wow-wow space for me. That’s great stocking stuffer for this kid and I am sure tickled to know it’s trickled into other people/peep holes, places and things. That means so much to me that you helped play second stork. I appreciate the present day email check-ups and multiple mailings to my door, wondering what the heck I’m doing. This means a ton to me that you care enough to give me a free check-up. I hope we can further extend this appreciation on both ends as the paper trail extends and meanders. I realize my little silly stink might cause me to gamble with “the system” a bit and if I’ve wronged you, then I’m sorry. But, please laugh as it is way better to do so. Heck, this letter might even cause me to lose my ’08-80-Bucks and have my work be swept into a janitor’s broom closet (which is a location I’ve made many a poster and a working location I prefer than my present stab at data entry / STEP letter writing). Maybe just put your trust in your fellow makers, and they will come, clinching Lincoln’s nonetheless. Logs, letters, rainbow stumps or dollar markers, you make that STEP. -djg * Please Note: The phrase St. Upid is the intellectual property of writer and pop-culture analyst, Chad T. Johnston. It was borrowed for this essay.

[brainr0t]

That moment you realize Herc is blind and will never see All the beautiful things in life ever again

Herc was already born with partial vision loss which is what is known as  Hand Motion Vision ( meaning that while the patient can recognize a hand being waved, he or she cannot count the fingers on the hand.) ( this was copied from a definition on a google search)Anyways I wrote some Herc vision stuff a bit ago It’s mostly on his vision but there’s some ship mention.(some ship stuff: Laur/Herc/Alex + good friend Laf ) This was written for @lafa–yeet so it’s their Laf! (all the others are my depictions though this isn’t my usual pairing :O)Here it is under the cut-

He felt his confidence thin with age. In the mirror there was darkness. In the light there was darkness. There was nothing any longer, blindfolded or not his eyes would strain and strain further as if only to see something there. He used to close his eyes when changing it out, an easy denial that he had not taken his eyesight faster than the executed on a guillotine. Yet now, he felt like he had done so long enough.

But it was jostling, the reveal, an abysmal feeling of hopelessness as nothing changed from the blindfold being off and his eyes now open. He would close them and open them several times, a million thoughts rushing through his head only to be cut off with the regret that maybe if he hadn’t diminished his eyesight to nothing he would have thoroughly enjoyed it. Red lights and blue and yellow, flashing to the beat of the music as silhouettes of people flowed in and out of lines and transparencies. Memories of bright white blurs of headlights, cell phones in a dark room, and flashlights whilst camping. Fire yellow and orange rising high into the air to only disappear and forfeit from his narrow field of vision. It felt like he had robbed himself of more than what life would have taken from him, not his sight but his time.Yet he had been young and frustrated at the ominous blurs that were objects and people. The waving motions that could be a friends hand in front of his face or his own. He felt the anger leak out of him, he spent a week in his room. All alone he had screamed into his hands.He had not taken them into any embraces of kindness. He had not learned to treasure the little part of the people he could have had visually. His brain had seen no beauty, only lost.

So he felt helpless restlessly drowning in the existential fear of being so much more alone than anyone else. That he would not even have a vision of a person to comfort him if someone abandoned him. His actions became hesitant and his realization began to become the death of all talent within him. It started to seep and poison all that he had done fine before, he tripped over corners and broke sewing needles on over sewn knotted thread. He fumbled and dropped glasses. He lost hold on conversations. It felt like a damned existence.

With this catch in his life, this tremendous pause and rewind on progress, he was detached from his own being. His friendships included. His partners included. It became a worry to both the latter and former. When asked one night he spilled his anguish. It wasn’t like him to feel upset. It was a claustrophobic and uncomfortable feeling, but once it was out in the open he didn’t dare speak again. Silence bothered him. He waited.

Alexander breathed light into the room speaking first as Herc consistently trusted him to do. He couldn’t shut up long enough to let the world darken to him, nor would he. “I believe that it’s only reasonable you feel this way Herc, but look at least, in my opinion, this shouldn’t dampen your abilities. For as long as I have known you-you have been one of the most resourceful people that I have ever met. You cannot possibly be of less use than just an example; Thomas Jefferson.” It mustered a weak laugh from the bottom of Herc’s throat. He smiled. “Past that I feel like we could all put our heads together and find a solution.”

And so they did. Weeks had passed and things had slowly gotten better. The group had found numerous ways to brighten the situation, it helped to learn new things, feeling textures, and trying new foods.Lafayette had introduced skating to him. The movements felt freeing and swift and he had no reason to fear falling, he couldn’t see the ground and he trusted Lafayette enough to believe that he was going to be safe. He had quickly adjusted to the skates and was smiling brightly as he was guided every bit or so in by small tugs or tiny nudges to avoid slamming into walls. Lafayette’s guiding helped him regain a bit of his environment as he built up towards being comfortable again. It was refreshing to feel like he had control over his movements as well as having a free plane of space, open breezy quick turns and rushed spins and pitfalls crashing to his knees, hard but awakening. He felt like a person, surprisingly the scraping that had been physically making a mess of him had revived some of his spirits to put him back together as the independent person that he had once thought of himself as.

Alexander and Laurens decided upon something a bit more dangerous. Dart throwing. Ah yes, teach the blind man to dart throw, Lee bitterly commented only to be nudged in the side by Aaron, who whereas didn’t think it was a great idea didn’t have much to contribute himself and wanted to see the situation come to a close with a nice solution. He had nodded to the fact that Herc and the rest of the gang had done more dangerous things.

Surprisingly it was intimate. Eyes open or closed Hercules was enveloped in darkness. But beside him, he could feel John’s curly hair bouncing and nicking on bits of his own clothing, huffed sighs as he could practically picture the obscure amount of circles and particles and colours that it would take to make John roll his eyes and leave his mouth loose in a less than a frown.And on the opposite he could feel Alexander’s temperature seeping through his clothes and his breathing was audible to anyone close enough, not out of panic or reaction to anything, just the natural comfortable pace of Alexander breathing that he was used to hearing when they were lying next to each other awake or asleep counting his breaths their heartbeats and tracing designs he couldn’t decipher into whatever skin his hand was bordering. A comfortable feeling as they both quipped under their breaths at each other about which way this should be gone about, loud enough for each other to hear, loud enough for Herc to pick up, yet quiet enough to be kept as an obviously Alexander and Laurens conversation only. Their inability to whisper spread a small flutter in Herc’s chest, endearment? For the first time in a while, it wasn’t something new that was comforting him it was the familiarities.

When they began to truly throw the darts the quiet didn’t feel like nonexistence. He could see it for more than that, a pause accompanied by a brush of a finger into his palm, the intense suspense of outcome paired with the need to stay present in Alexander’s motions was apparent. A nonverbal, “You can do this.” A silence in the atmosphere accompanied by sighs of mixed relief. Him hitting the dartboard. A silence before Laurens pressed his lips to his own and he dropped the dart altogether. Silence became something more than before, it became a tool of the story around him. Soon he began to be thankful, he could have the gift of being able to experience the world in such a unique way that beauty was conjured through voice and touch and smell and taste and memories that ran and collected into meanderings and descriptions that fell from both his partner’s tongues and soon his own. He would explain what he could feel, what the very sense of feeling felt like so much clearer than most.

And in the most silent of moments. Alone. Quiet. He could remember, a clear feeling lifting the heavy feeling in his chest and brightening his smile. The beautiful feeling of loving so unbarred by any visual judgment and having those by his side to help him along. The warm feeling of kisses sparked false shapes and fake colours with wrong names into his head, but they didn’t care How he saw it all. As long as it made him feel honest with himself. His friends, his partners, everyone who ever saw him as more than useless, he was so grateful that they had helped him regain that for himself. Because yeah, he was pretty fucking amazing and now he would know how to keep that thought stuck in his head. He would wish no one anything different.

[archetype-online-blog]

Blog: Less Isn’t Always More: When Long Sentences Aren’t the Enemy

Sometimes, with no small degree of thoughtfulness and care, writing in a meandering style, that is to say with numerous elaborations, twists and turns, and infamous semi-colons, can be an elegant and, indeed, effective strategy.

But when? And how do you do it well?

If you’ve ever taken a creative writing class you were probably taught to internalize certain rules. Less is more, clarity is key, and if you must use an adverb (God help you) do it quietly, and with an appropriate level of shame.

Maybe you managed to take those rules to heart. Maybe you didn’t need to be taught them in the first place, they were so innately obvious. Or perhaps you felt exactly the opposite: that the rules you were told to follow were completely wrong, irrelevant, or at the very least, inapplicable to your specific creative vision. You, dear reader, are a free spirit, a unique individual. Teachers aren’t dumb, and it would be silly to assume they can’t help you improve your writing in some way. But how can they tell you exactly what to do? How can there be strict guidelines for a fundamentally creative process?

In truth, you’re right to be suspicious. Many of the standards we’ve come to associate with “good” fiction, especially those that are taught in high school and college level English courses, aren’t standards at all: they’re strong historical preferences. Take, for example, the golden rule of writing courses the world over: “less is more.” You’ve probably been told that long sentences with too many adjectives are, in a word, wrong. Prose should be simple, clear, and concise. If your reader needs a map to find the purpose of your paragraph, you’ve made a grave and irreversible mistake.

But this preference for clarity isn’t an age-old law of the written word. Take some of the opening lines from Moby Dick:

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

This sentence (or depending on your point of view, sentences) is ostensibly an editor’s worst nightmare. Have you ever seen that many semicolons in one place? Let alone a single sentence that could rightfully be a full paragraph? What was Herman Melville thinking? Or how about this sentence from Carmilla:

“I have said ‘the nearest inhabited village,’ because there is, only three miles westward, that is to say in the direction of General Spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint little church, now roofless, in the aisle of which are the moldering tombs of the proud family of Karnstein, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate chateau which, in the thick of the forest, overlooks the silent ruins of the town.”

Would these excerpts be substantially improved if they followed the rules; if they divided their meandering clauses into neat little chunks with periods at the end? They’d certainly look a lot more like what we consider quality writing today, the “tight” prose that writers like Raymond Carver and Ernest Hemingway are famous for. But wouldn’t something about the distinct voice of Ishmael (Moby Dick’s protagonist) be lost if he didn’t think and speak in winding, introspective monologue? Wouldn’t the isolation and desolation of Carmilla’s ruined village lack something if it was communicated to the reader without clause after clause of ornate gothic prose?

Tastes change, and if Moby Dick or Carmilla were published in 2018, they might read completely differently. But different is not necessarily better. In 100 years the standards for “good writing” might be completely unrecognizable to us, but this would no more invalidate the quality of the books we publish today than the existence of Raymond Carver invalidates the existence of Herman Melville.

That’s not to say that sentences can never be too long. Consider the following excerpt from my (as yet unpublished) novella, Bartleby Goes West:

“Bartleby knew that he had unfinished business, business being his preferred term for acts of incomprehensible brutality, business that stuck to the back of his brain like bits of omelette at the edge of a frying pan, but he knew also that Laura had drugged his drink, Laura who never believed in his dream to join the circus, the dream he had tended to in the garden of his mind since the age of seven, Laura who had stabbed him that night in Reno, stabbed him with the back-end of a rusty box-cutter, Laura who left him to die there, bleeding, with seven box-cutters stuck between his ribs…”

And it goes on. There are many problems with this sentence, but the main one is that the length, combined with its lack of focus, turns the whole thing into the prose equivalent of an 18 car pile up. Without a point, the sentence goes nowhere, and instead of paying attention to any element of the story the reader loses interest entirely.

It’s possible to write something like this well. Take the first sentence of The Crying of Lot 49:

“One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary.”

This sentence contains its fair share of digressions and details that seemingly don’t relate to the main idea. Whether it’s executor or executrix, that there was too much kirsch in the fondue, or that Pierce Inverarity had once lost two million dollars in his spare time, while details that are appropriate to the story itself, all seem unrelated to the immediate purpose of the sentence: informing the reader that the protagonist, Oedipa, has been charged with the execution of a millionaire’s will. But because of the way Pynchon weaves the point of the sentence throughout its text, the meaning is fairly obvious. If we remove the digressions, the sentence becomes:

“One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party ... to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor... of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who … still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary.”

You can see how the parts of these parts of the sentence that elaborate on the main idea frame the parts that meander off or seem to get sidetracked.

Ultimately, writing in a meandering style isn’t impossible, it just takes a lot of thoughtfulness and care. You can also see now why the Bartleby sentence just doesn’t work: without a framing device, the writing becomes a list of digressions and non sequiturs.

And with that in mind, dear reader, remember not to be too hard on your teacher. Newer writers often struggle to communicate exactly what they mean, and from a teacher’s perspective, strict rules can help guide students into producing work that more closely adheres to what they meant to say in the first place. But at the same time, over-reliance on rules and over-emphasis on the value of “tight” prose can leave a lot of students feeling adrift and unmoored. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean you shouldn’t attempt it. And if you love long meandering sentences, if you love books that experiment, that break the boundaries of traditionally “good” fiction, then why not try your hand at writing one yourself?

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[ununniliad]

Book Review: The Further Adventures of Superman

The Further Adventures of Superman is an anthology of Superman stories that came out in 1993 - just after he'd died in the comics, and right on the heels of the premiere of Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. It's especially interesting here, because it acts as a sampler of examples of what the wider culture was thinking about Superman when there was no movie around - hadn't been for a while, wouldn't be for even longer.

There are two different trends in this volume that are especially interesting to note. The first is that many of the stories are themed around religion and spirituality, gods and devils. It doesn't feel like an editorial edict - the stories come at the subject from many different directions, and a couple leave it out entirely; it's fascinating that this seems to just have been what was on everyone's mind.

The other trend is even more curious: the majority of these stories seem to have been written about Superman as he was in the 1970s! Some of them use explicit elements of '70s Superman comics, like Clark Kent working for WGBS instead of the Daily Planet, or the use of 'Kal-El' as a 'true' identity. Others use explicit elements from Superman: The Movie - at least one talks about the twenty-eight galaxies that baby Kal-El's starship wandered through. Yet others are simply about combining the planet-juggling levels of power the character had back then with the heated melodrama of the era.

It feels like most of the writers here hadn't read a Superman comic for ten to twenty years, and were working off of memory; many of these writers are reliable licensed fiction writers, not particularly known for superhero fiction, so that may even be true. Either way, it's weirdly consistent, and I've got to wonder if it's a reflection of how, in the '80s, comics turned towards specialty shops and away from general audiences.

In any case. Why don't we try out some capsule summaries, see how that goes?

The Riddle of Superman's Mask: This story was written by Will Murray, the writer who created Squirrel Girl, and like SG herself, it's trying to combine the fun weirdness of the Silver Age (in the form of a 'what fantastic thing happened to Superman to make him act so weird?' mystery) with the emotional depth of later eras. It doesn't quite work, but it's an interesting try.

Apparitions: By the redoubtable Diane Duane, this story brings Superman face-to-face with several of her recurring tropes - the heat death of the universe, the immanent presence of divinity, the truly alien mixed with the truly kind. And the investigation of that divinity, that alien-ness, and how they may intersect is the meat of the story. The ending feels slightly unsatisfying, in a way that it kind of has to be in this space, but the journey is interesting.

Lucifer Over Lancaster: This one actually explores a pretty similar space to the last story, but not as well, in my opinion - it has a more judgmental Superman and a more judgmental tone that clashes with the message of tolerance and love of the alien, as well as a fair bit of gore and death that doesn't quite feel earned. But it has some neat psychic visions, if you're up for that.

Dateline: Metropolis: Possibly the least fantastic of the stories in this volume, this is a straightforward "what Lois is up to while Clark's having an adventure" story. In this case, she's pursuing the idea that up-and-coming businessman Roger Gunn is, in fact... Superman! And it's... ehhh. There's some good Lois, but the moments in which she's dense, and especially her reaction to the idea of knowing Superman's secret ("I'll have to stop writing important news articles in order to not out him! Oh well, maybe being his girlfriend would make up for that")... ehhhhh.

Mine Enemy Grows Older: Easily the most fantastic of the stories in this volume, going into the outright cosmic - Superman and Lex Luthor in the year 900,000 AD, and the stakes are nothing less than apotheosis - transformation into a literal god. I originally read this anthology as a kid, and this story blew my mind - and unlike many similar stories that, on adult readings, turned out to have wonderful concepts but mediocre execution, it really does hold up. Worth it.

Forget Me Not: It's funny, but this one feels kind of like a riposte to the "lesson" of Superman II - Superman tries to break up with Lois For Her Own Good, but discovers via supernatural shenanigans how important she is to both his sides. The writing is adequate, but with some nice flourishes. Not bad.

Deja Vu All Over Again: A weird-ass story, with a bunch of interesting bits that simply do not come together. In theory, it's about Superman's compassion fatigue and his alienation from humanity, as seen through cosmic events on the day of Krypton's destruction; really, it's a meandering story with cosmic bits that sets Big Things up but doesn't really follow through. Odd.

Excerpt From the Diary of Dr. Morris Finkelstein: It's not funny, but at least it's short.

I Now Pronounce You Superman and Wife: You might expect a regressive, heteronormative viewpoint from a story with that title... and you'd be absolutely right. Packed with toxic jealousy culture, showing marriage as a disturbing, mechanical affair of control, it manages to be a throwback of remarkable fidelity to the worst and most sexist stories of the '50s and '60s. Yeesh.

Warrior of the Final Dawn: The writing here is just okay, but the theme is strong - the death of Krypton reaching forward to try to take Superman it its grasp from beyond the grave. Notably, this story is the only one in the volume to use the comics-contemporary setup of Lex Luthor as the powerful head of LexCorp, but it also calls out things like the Bottle City of Kandor and the city of Kryptonopolis in ways which belong to the older, pre-Crisis comics.

Prologue/Epilogue: An odd little framing device that doesn't really add anything, but doesn't hurt anything either. Inoffensive.

Overall, the stories in this volume average out to "okay". But it's an interesting sampler, and the best of these - "Mine Enemy Grows Older" and "Apparitions" - are, I would say, worth the price of admission alone. As well, examining the trends in this story - the throwbacks to older ways of viewing Superman, the focus on a plane higher than humanity - make some of the odd choices we saw in Superman Returns feel less odd.

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Episode 95: Gem Hunt

“I don’t want you fighting this thing alone.”

I mentioned in my Monster Reunion post that it’s been ages since we’ve had an episode about fighting a Corrupted Gem. The latest examples are Rising Tides, Crashing Skies as a cameo and Reformed as an episode focus, but neither involves an actual mission: the former takes place on the beach, and the latter in the Temple. If we want to look back at a true Season 1-style Gem Hunt, we have to actually go to Season 1: the last episode that featured the Crystal Gems going out into the world with the express purpose of fighting a Corrupted Gem is Island Adventure, sixty-five episodes ago, and that was only the first act of the story.

There are plenty of reasons for this. After Monster Buddies and Ocean Gem the idea of beating up Gem variants that can be friendly and used to be just like the Crystal Gems seemed a lot less fun. After Mirror Gem, the show became more serialized and the need for monster-of-the-week episodes dwindled. After Peridot’s arrival, we got new sentient opponents to worry about until Keeping It Together, where Cluster Gems began standing in for Corrupted Gems. But regardless, the result of this gap is that Gem Hunt gets to feel like a wonderful mixture of old and new: it almost tricks you into thinking this is a throwback to early self-contained missions, until serialized drama barrels in and rips the monster of the week apart.

Gem Hunt wasn’t written with the knowledge that Season 3 would air almost in its entirety within the span of a month, or that this event would be called the Summer of Steven, but relocating to the Great North plays excellently off of these circumstances. With so many episodes coming one after the other, it’s good to have an obvious break from the less arc-driven stories of late, and the snowy environment immediately contrasted with the season of the show and the season of the year. Even before Jasper comes in out of nowhere to reveal the start of an arc, this story feels like a new beginning.

I had to rewatch a few times for this review to get back into the headspace of not knowing the twist, because I forgot how unexpected Jasper was. Maybe some people guessed it, but Steven and Connie only discuss corruption (which Jasper is not yet associated with) and her name isn’t even mentioned before she arrives; contrast with The Message, which gives us a whole song about Lapis Lazuli to set the stage for our “twist,” and Message Received, featuring Peridot gushing about Yellow Diamond in the first act. There isn’t even any fanfare to Jasper’s arrival: she lunges into frame, back turned to the camera, in the middle of our last fight scene. Watching Gem Hunt with the knowledge that she’s coming makes her appearance a little underwhelming, because she just sorta shows up. I frankly don’t remember how shocked I was that she was the humanoid Steven and Connie were tracking, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this scene’s execution was responsible for my lack of concrete “oh wow!” memories.  

That said, Jasper’s arrival does fit with the episode’s unusual structure: even back when missions were the norm, we never had an episode that exclusively consisted of a single outing. There have always been introductions framing our quest (like Cheeseburger Backpack or An Indirect Kiss), or episodes beginning in media res that cut back to Beach City (like Steven’s Lion and Arcade Mania). The closest we’ve had to a full episode mission is Serious Steven, but that includes flashbacks to Funland. Gem Hunt is all set from the start, and the result is an adventure that gets a lot of detail but an episode that speeds right on by. It’s crazy to think that Gem Hunt and, say, Steven and the Stevens are the same length, going by how much stuff happens in each episode: one has a time travel plot and a clone plot and a band plot and several songs, and the other is one long trek through the snow.

While this structure leaves plenty of time for the ending to not feel abrupt, it’s still clearly the start of something big, and in retrospect this feels like an especially complete place-setting episode. But in the moment, it’s a mystery episode! The promo art featuring our leads wearing their Hanna-Barbera Best isn’t the only reference to Scooby-Doo we get: Connie suggests that the gang split up early on, and both kids reference monster suits and property disputes while sipping pine needle tea. We begin by tracking a monster, learn something weird is going on, and investigate. We even get a red herring! It’s basic, but it does wonders for the pacing to always have a concrete goal in mind.

This is what separates Gem Hunt from, say, Open Book. We’re not meandering despite the longer-than-usual scenes and a plot that’s largely about two buds hanging out. We know throughout that we’re going somewhere, which makes me enjoy the former more than the latter even though the latter has a better twist in Connterfeit and a more emotionally compelling climax when Connterfeit forces Steven to come clean about embarrassing emotions. It doesn’t matter how good your destination is if I get sorta bored along the way, and for all of Gem Hunt’s simplicity, I never find it boring.

Granted, a major advantage Gem Hunt has over Open Book is that this Connie is real throughout, which allows her to be an utter delight. Applying the Maheswaran Code of Safety to tracking down and fighting a monster with a giant sword, she takes a character trait that might turn her into an annoying worrywart and instead spends the episode dorking out about survival. Of course she’s basing her actions on a book, this is a girl who went from reading fantasy literature to living a literal fantasy. She’s more role-playing an adventurer than being one, as evidenced by her zealous overpreparation. This nerd’s over here thinking about scurvy an hour into a hike.

And thank goodness Steven is all aboard, because if this episode would suck if it was about Connie being a know-it-all and competing with Steven. Steven invites her enthusiasm without any ridiculous character beats like being worried about his place in the team (more on that coming soon from a more realistic place courtesy of Amethyst) or arrogantly shutting down her ideas. These are two friends on a fun journey, so Connie’s bravado and Steven’s go-with-the-flow attitude are just what we need.

The climax neatly cuts both ways on Connie’s attitude. She loses her composure for a bit and is hard on herself afterwards, but she still gets to show off her training without going overboard. Pearl might not have to do much, but Connie does the right thing in calling for help as soon as she’s able to do so. 

I’m hesitant to theorize that this connection is intentional, but I think Connie’s first mission ending in her calling for help (and getting rewarded for it) is a cool lens to examine her anger with Steven in the Breakup Arc after he leaves her behind on Earth for the second time in one season. Gem Hunt might breeze on by for us, but as Connie’s first mission it’s bound far more impactful for her than it is for Steven and Pearl, and the lesson she learned from it is to let people help you. Steven taking the fall for everyone is the exact opposite of what she does here.

Comedy flows freely among all three of our leads—my favorite gag is Pearl reminding the kids that humans need food, she really is the world’s most maternal alien—but the third act entrance cleverly mines that humor for drama. Pearl’s nervous chatting over the walkie talkie comes back to bite the kids when she won’t stop yelling out of their speaker and alerting the Corrupted Gem to their presence, and we can hear that her jokey smugness from “Who’s your favorite Gem?” has crumbled from anxiety with time. Steven’s photography begins as a joke, and breaks the tension when he snaps a shot of Jasper mid-intimidation, but that picture returns us to a state of dread to end the episode. Efficiency might not seem as crucial in an episode with so much time to breathe, but you’ll never see me complaining about a story skillfully repurposing its material. 

Still, I wouldn’t quite call this a comedy-centric episode, and not just because it’s primarily a mystery. Connie gets more focus than Steven, but he has plenty of time to remind us that he’s still thinking about Nephrite and all the other Corrupted Gems he could be helping by talking to Connie about it. What could have served as a rote reminder of Corrupted Gems turns into a plot point, as his desperation for signs of hope causes them to assume the humanoid tracks are from a Corrupted Gem trying to heal. But its larger importance, as usual, is its development of our characters. 

Steven isn’t as gung-ho about fighting monsters as he was at the beginning of the show, and sees this mission as a way of helping someone who’s hurt rather than ridding the world of a threat. And Connie isn’t as emotionally distant as she was at the beginning of the show, sensing how bothered Steven is by corruption and asking if he’s okay. After the enjoyable but blunt Greg the Babysitter, it’s wonderful to see how much these kids have grown and bonded without the episode shouting “HEY CHECK IT OUT THESE KIDS HAVE GROWN AND BONDED” at us.

Gem Hunt works well as a transitional episode, borrowing elements from Monster Reunion and Alone at Sea and allowing Steven and Connie’s growing competency to form the basis of Amethyst’s angst in Crack the Whip. But it does what I believe Super Watermelon Island and Gem Drill failed to do: it tells its own story first, and allows its role as a pivot point to come second. It means that things aren’t as overtly different afterwards as they were when Malachite defused and the Cluster was dealt with, but if that makes for a better episode, I’ll take it.

Future Vision!

It’s nifty that I wrote this episode the same week that Escapism aired, because it allowed me to immediately identify the Protes bar Connie brought to space. She’s still prepared, folks!

If every pork chop were perfect, we wouldn’t have inconsistencies…

Both this episode and I are aware that references to “Connie’s first mission” are talking about her role as a swordswoman, but it’s still a little strange that nobody brings up her tagging along with the Crystal Gems (and Greg) and Ocean Gem. 

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

This is a borderline episode for sure, because I enjoy it, but in the end it still feels a little too light to rank higher than a like. Which may sound odd considering my top two episodes, but I mean light in terms of that structure rather than the episode’s weight in regards to the greater plot: this may be a terrific episode about Steven and Connie hanging out and adventuring, but it lacks that oomph factor to make me truly love it. Fortunately it’s not a consolation prize to “only” be an episode I like. 

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

No Thanks!

     5. Horror Club      4. Fusion Cuisine      3. House Guest      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[rawinternets]

Star Wars Episode 4: A Rediscovery

STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE

Where it all started: a runaway ship and a jettisoned escape pod to Tatooine. This movie was and is truly great: iconic, consistent throughout, unique, creative, funny, exciting, with only a handful of dud scenes, particularly toward the end (surprising). The opening scroll of Episode 4 is one of the best scenes in all of the series, particularly good when you compare it to some of the later scrolls that sound like a 7th grader wrote it for a homework assignment entitled: “Use seven different adjectives in a three-paragraph mini-story.” And this movie also has the Cantina scene, which might be the best scene of all. 

A few other surprises: 

The movie drags in the end of the beginning, after the droids land in the desert. It takes some time to pick the meandering storyline back up. 

The scenes with Vader and Tarkin are always consistently incredibly well acted, scripted, and executed. They zip along and you feel like you’re in the room. 

The Obi-Wan / Vader fight was much better than I remember.

The Trench Run has not aged well. The tactics are asinine and sort of brought me out of the movie.

There is a terrible and wholly forgettable scene right after successful DS destruction and right before the iconic and awesome throne room / medal-giving scene at the end, and this forgettable scene suuuuuuucks. Maybe I was a little harsh, but singlehandedly kept Ep4 from being the best of all the movies. 

Average score: 8.00 Standard deviation: 1.39

Opening scroll. 10. Perfection. Punchy synopsis of Rogue One, brings you right into the action, no superfluous words (again, a sin that is committed many times later on in the series). 

Chase and escape. 9. SUCH an iconic shot, with the Corellian Corvette desperately trying to outrun a Star Destroyer (we don’t know what they are yet, but they are mesmerizing images). Beautiful and unique music. After seeing Darth Vader crush in Rogue One, I wonder a bit why he didn’t just slaughter them all here, but I suppose he needs to make sure the plans are secure. The first look at Iconic storm troopers. Droids manage to advance plot without being annoying (spoiler: won’t last for long, because C3PO sucks). This set piece ends with an iconic shot of the jettisoning escape pod, beautiful sweeping planet shots, and Vader being a sharp badass. 

Tatooine droid landing. 6. The pacing is a bit slow. C3PO and R2D2 are iconic, but annoying here. Why do they shout at each other instead of transmitting signals, I find myself wondering? 

Jawas. 7. Super tense, eerie, spooky, and weird. Love this. No music helps. Manages to be funny without trying too hard, and lets the weird lead. Cool steampunk tech and funky droids. I still give it a 7 because the pacing is a bit slow. 

Searching in desert. 8. Why are the stormtroopers riding animals? No matter. The tension is rising right on cue. The Jawa... trailer? moving city? is really cool.

Meet the Skywalkers. 8. Love the uncle here. “Alright, shut up” to C3PO - crowd pleaser! Luke is whiny but not overly annoying. Seems very natural. Surprised R2 units aren’t worth more, but for reasons I’m not supposed to know yet. 

With Luke and Uncle. 8. Who is Obi-Wan Kenobi! Love the mystery here. The iconic double-sunset overcomes Uncle Owen being a dick. Great hinted line about “too much of his father in him.” ... “that’s what I’m worried about.” 

Speeder and sandpeople. 8. More mystery and weirdness. Great tension. Into it. 

Obi-wan. 8. More mystery, more intrigue. Great dialogue here as we learn more about the galaxy we’re in. We learn about the force (deeper than we learned in Rogue One). The backstory of Luke’s father doesn’t really make sense the way he tells it, but I suppose with hindsight that lack of clarity is forgivable. Why is he so willing to train Luke in the force - desperation? 

Death Star conference. 9. Tarkin is a badass. Vader is a badass. 

Tragedy at Skywalker farm. 9. Serious emotional heft here. Smoldering bodies. Wow. 

Leia tortured by Vader. 9. Short scene but so very well paced and tense.

Mos Eisley. 10. This sequence is just amazing. The Jedi mind trick, the Cantina. Music restarting after the lightsaber fight. All this interspersed with the tension of the droid search. Han crushes his intro, Obi-wan Dads Luke so hard. Greedo is great. Both shoot at the same time, so that controversy is solved. This scene will be considered for “best overall.” 

“Set your course for Alderaan.” 9. Near-perfect scene again with Tarkin. Short and well-paced to keep the story moving. 

Droid search and getting off Tatooine. 8. Great tension in the searching, I’m fine with the added Jabba scene to show how “deep” Han is in it, and the fantastic iconic shot of the Falcon taking off. Lots of fun.

Falcon chase. 8. Great tension and space shots. 

Alderaan destruction. 8. Great acting. Leia does her best, but it’s hard to get a sense of the destruction of the whole planet. Not much at stake since we haven’t seen it or met anyone from there. Rogue One did this better. 

Talking in the Falcon. 8. “Let the wookie win.” All sort of out of place after we just watched a planet get blowed up. Great Han stuff, great stuff with Luke getting a taste of the Force. 

Asteroid field Alderaan. 9. “That’s no moon.” Such cool shots. Falcon gets pulled into the Death Star. Vader is on point again. Just perfect pacing. 

Death Star sneaking. 8. The “first” (or second, in my order) of a long line of scenes where small numbers of rebels sneak around a large Empire base, but this one is fun. Good tension. R2 Hax0ring and Obi-Wan jedi ninja sneaking are fun. Not big into the stupid crackpot idea to save the princess from the jail, but the Han vs. Luke argument here is fun. C3PO manages not to be terrible, but also not good. 

Leia rescue. 6-8. The cleverness of the “my god, he’s loose!” Chewy prisoner plan is fun. Great sexual tension with Leia and Han from the get-go. Great, iconic trash compactor scene and first (and most natural?) “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Very annoying “3PO!!” repetition by Luke. The blaster accuracy and subsequent shitty hollywood rope-swing with Leia and Luke is kind of grating and that part is a 6. 

Vader and Obi-wan. 9. Starts out with yet another great scene with Vader and Tarkin. Watching Vader vs. Obi-Wan is so much more interesting after watching him go HAM in Rogue One - Obi-Wan must be powerful and dangerous. The fight is better than I remember, and you almost forget Luke’s annoying “Ben!?” exclamation. How does Luke get Ben’s lightsaber!?

Escape in the Falcon. 7.  Takes a while to get the scene setup, but builds some good tension. Great soundtrack, great effects. R2 putting the fire out is funny. “Great kid, don’t get cocky!” But why only 4 TIE fighters chasing them? What about the tractor beam? Why are these star destroyers so big? Why are you so happy that “we did it” when you’re still right next to a huge death star? 

Leia and Han. 8. These interactions are incredible. Luke is a schmuck here, and Han fucking with him is funny. 

Yavin 4 pre-attack. 6. Great tension-building with the Death Star getting to Yavin vs. planning for the trench run. Han leaving with the reward is great. Pacing is a little slow given how urgent this should be - what’s with all this pilot grabass? Luke and Leia is a mediocre scene. X-wing takeoff scene is fine at building suspense but is it really necessary? 

Trench Run. 7. Great action vs. Death Star approaching its range. Great aerial battle with TIE fighters. “X-wings too small for a huge battle station” trope will be repeated so many times you wonder why they build the ships so big. LOVE Vader getting after it himself in the TIE fighter. The A-wing trench run is very fun. Tarkin’s arrogance here makes no sense given Rogue One... he should know there’s a vulnerability. It’s a very tragic attack... everyone is dead and it comes down to Luke. But why are all the pilots simply acting as fodder for Luke? Why don’t they try to engage the TIE fighters? “Use the force!” and “The force is strong with this one!” are hokey but I guess that’s OK. We get Tarkin saving the scene with “you may fire when ready,” which is so well delivered every time. Han ex Machina at the end here. And Luke succeeds. 

Short celebration. 3. Vader is alive, straight into a god-awful scene. Sparse clapping and quiet “hoorays” and hokeyness all around. What the shit, Lucas? 

Ending celebration (Throne room medal scene). 9. Fantastic music and framing and imagery. R2′s back! Yay hokey!

Credits. Such memorable music. Fantastic. Credits in the stars. 

VERDICT

Yep, there’s a reason this movie launched a multi-decade world-changing franchise. Lucas’s vision is powerful but you can also see how he was helped along by great editing, and you can see where the editors met their limits (post-DS celebration scene... man, so bad). Most scenes were 8′s or 9′s, a couple 10′s in there, and only one score below a 6 at all. Great movie.

REVIEW LINKS:

Introduction: Star Wars, a rediscovery.

Rogue One: 6.92 / 10.00 (stdev 2.06).

Episode 4: A New Hope. 8.00 / 10.00 (stdev 1.34).

Episode 5: The Empire Strikes Back. 8.00 / 10.00 (stdev 1.29).

Episode 1: The Phantom Menace. 5.00 / 10.00 (stdev 2.08). But probably worse than that, actually.

Episode 2: Attack of the Clones. 5.48 / 10.00 (stdev 2.07).

Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith. 7.00 / 10.00 (stdev 1.77).

Episode 6: Return of the Jedi. 7.90 / 10.00 (stdev 1.91).

Episode 7: The Force Awakens. 6.57 / 10.00 (stdev 2.01).

Episode 8: The Last Jedi. 6.31 / 10.00 (stdev 1.89).

Verdict: Star Wars, A rediscovery.

[jeannette-marshall-optioneerjm]

I’d settle on being the Queen of something

Sir BUDDY:  My sidekick and assistant 

In a meandering mood, without any particular destination in mind, online, of course.  Definitely, with some great mood selections from my really cool playlists [ I say myself attesting to the many hours I categorized my iTunes music library in a mood setting and that means both from where I physically am to where I am continually striving for better moods. When one is struggling with depression, it means that they are likely grasping for safety nets of positive inspiration or motivation.  Giving back.  Giving what one knows or has sharing honest advice based on one’s own unique perspective in whatever that may represent:  as a person (wife, mother, friend, daughter, sister, aunt, outlaw or in-law I may be.  

Buddy avoided a younger dog-sibling by the masterful decree by HH that I could NOT adopt a dog

I’ve discovered a new identity emerging from the wisp and whoosh of inspiration that glimmers across one’s screen.  Maybe I’ve been hovering in a lot of different areas, appearing scattered, however, there is still consistency from my original vision/mission statement:  “To help others go from average to REMARKABLE”.  I see that slogan here and there.  Maybe I can do that creatively, who knows. But wandering around, I saw posts and what felt like a flurry of activity from FACEBOOK ~ wow, who’s radar did I get on now?  Or is the merge between KRED and EMPIRE really trying to outdo the other battle of supremacy on leading edge Artificial Intelligence by throwing more and more things across your computer screen, daring you to click on what they’ve carefully selected you to view.

I hope it doesn’t mean that we’re closer to a Brave New World (was that the one I read in Grade 12 English about mind control, big brother?) ~ will have to fact check.  My growing list of fact checking is getting annoying.  I’d rather write than check facts, something that I would spend hours doing when I first began blogging as optioneerJM seven years ago.

I’m amazed at the craftiness of Facebook tempting me with MEMORIES and growing that part of AI which is another way of saying Automated Internet …. what you do, where you click, how often you click is being captured for your entertainment or knowledge value, which ever your behavior predicts that you have a tendency to go to or click on. Regardless, I firmly plan my crown upon my head as the official new dear abby of online.  Why?  It’s fun and it seems to help people and more questions keep coming for me to answer with more people viewing my answers daily.  Although sales was my first forage on to the social media spectrum, social media certainly follow in a natural graduation.  Now I am being invited to try products and be beta first responders/testers.  It’s all very cool.  However, nothing I do online makes any money.  The pathetic truth that it is.

My gauntlet is tossed.  I challenge 2018 to bring me compensation so that I can continue to create:  both painted images or written thought.  Well enough to quit a full time job since it requires around the clock, if not attention, connected.  If I get a little more honest by evaluating my own numbers (I gush at the thought to play around with them) ………… if Dear Abby it is, then voila a Queen of Advice can be born.

I will be re-posting on my other blogs.  The goal is to create images that portray the mood or character of my blog, then create a page that it all blends and compliments each other.  That is a big TO DO/GET’R’DONE for 2018 I don’t know what does?  Suggestions welcome. Nevertheless or irregardless as his highness would say (as crowned from the Hunkster Hubster to His Highness or HH starting in the countdown to 2018.)  The following advice has gotten traction on Quora.

Whatayaknow Is what you know.  You know what you know.  You answer with your best face forward with integrity and honesty to strengthen your resolve:  questions posed by anyone and everyone, then voted by anyone, and the tricksters or smartsters at Quora are putting more answers forward to you answer.  So much so, you can start to distinguish the ones from genuine users with profiles and others suggested by Quora.  Quora is telling me what answers and how I answer some questions is well received, therefore, they are now padding my ANSWERS banner with a sprinkling or mixture of both. Here is an example on the traction and reaction from 23 hours ago:

I am a very lazy guy, but I want to win at least one Nobel Prize. What should I do?

 Karissa Franklin Kinsella and Kashfia Nizum upvoted this

Jeannette Marshall, a mother, a wife, an employee, a manager, an executive, an entrepreneur

Answered 23h ago

Originally Answered: I want a Nobel Prize. What should I do? · Remove Banner

Honestly?

Well I want to be a Queen, princess at the very least. With it the responsibility of always being fashionably dressed, impeccable coif, an assistant, a butler, a maid, a financier, at the very least. People curtsy or bowing upon meeting. I would wear gloves to avoid germs, dirt, disease.

I am financially reliable since I can provide my own tiara, having a selection of a few.

I am humble, I try to help others without any monetary reward. Although, treasuring honesty, admit that I salvitate at the thought of compensation from people reading my gripes, quips, tips, trips posts.

I am truly sorry!

I got sidetracked, totally disregarding the question. I apologize. Oopsie.

Simply?

Go to the Nobel website and determine under which category you feel more aligned with: peace, literature, for examples, then study who have been the most recent recipients that you more closely identify with: can adopt a believable adaptation of anyone of them by providing the skill and talent to stand beside them. Then I’d say:

Go for it!

Who is anyone that could contradict YOU?

YOU are the ONLY person in lives in that house: your brain, body.

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