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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

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You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, “You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness.

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, ��Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky x you #BOY OH BOY THE FORMATTING I WANNA SCREAM

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yukiwrites · 3 years

Text

Finally Together, Now and Forever

This was a commission for a dear friend that took a long time to finish due to personal life getting in the way, but I want to say that I really enjoyed writing this and that I don’t deserve you!! I love you and thank you so much for entrusting your beloved ship to me! Watch out for sin, ye who enters!

Summary: Claude had to leave Fódlan for the sake of both of their nations, but Byleth was determined to follow her beloved to Almyra as fast as possible. Once there, they would finally be able to live out their lives side by side.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

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After a gruesome war that lasted over 6 years, the unification of Fódlan had finally started.

In Claude’s words, Fódlan was now a newborn; frail and easily upset. For that reason, he had moved back to Almyra so he and Byleth could work hand in hand from either side of the border so as to bring both kingdoms together.

To be completely honest, Byleth was slightly upset that she had to be left alone in Fódlan while her promised one went back home to settle things. Of course, she understood that she had to wear the mantle of a ruler after being the so-called hero of the war, but her home was where Claude -- no, Khalid -- was. So, the moment he stepped out of Fódlan, so did the place where she belonged to.

With that in mind, Byleth worked tirelessly as not only the leader of the Church but as the ruler of the Unified Fódlan with only one goal in mind: pass down her duties to Seteth and move to Almyra to stay with Khalid.

Of course, Khalid was aware that that was their shared purpose, but he didn’t know how much Byleth had pushed up that goal in her own agenda. She worked as though possessed -- assigning new officials, moving the capital of Fódlan to Derdriu, creating a new Knight Order with her own connections to spread throughout the land, selecting noble Houses and commoners alike to govern pieces of land by hand so they would offer their allegiance to the seat of the Leader… To the passerby, it felt as if Byleth had more hours in the day, or at least five more pairs of arms to sign and create documents.

She made sure to instruct the officials that they should pledge their allegiance to the leader of the Unified Fódlan, not Byleth herself, to which some of them nodded in confusion at first. It was only when Byleth announced that she was passing down the mantle to Seteth mere 5 months after being instated that the people around her finally understood her intentions.

Or seemed to understand, at least. For them, Byleth was someone so unlikely that they referred to her as something more than human. She was charismatic, strong, wielded the Sword of the Creator, defeated the possessed King of Liberation, freed the nation of corruption and completely revamped its law system in less than half a year. It was something impossible for the mere common man to compare, so when Byleth stepped down, they felt as though they had been in the presence of a higher being and were eternally grateful for her service.

Scratching her cheek, Byleth felt bad that the people started to see her even more as something impossible when she was simply using whatever means she had at hand to just go be with her love. Yes, she manipulated hands of time once or twice but if she had the power to, why not use it for the benefit of the people (and her own in the meantime)?

Ahem, anyway, Byleth’s point was that she wanted to get back into Khalid’s arms right away and be a bit mischievous while she was at it, so she did not send word ahead of her arrival.

Of course, as the former Leader of the Unified Fódlan, she had sent a missive about her stepping down from power to all of their friendly neighbors (which included Almyra, obviously), but what she didn’t specify was that she left Derdriu on the very next day towards Khalid’s homeland.

She was all smiles as she galloped through the Throat towards the mountain range that would allow her view of Almyra’s western border. From there, she would ride to the neighboring town and fetch a carriage to the capital where she would finally see her beloved.

So they wouldn’t miss each other, she sent word ahead of her the moment she arrived at the neighboring town, wondering what Khalid’s face would be once he received the news that she was basically already at his doorstep.

This trip was strangely liberating.

Byleth was never one to accumulate wealth or belongings, so she only took what she usually did whenever she went on a mercenary mission. It would probably be weird for the onlooker to know that such a lightly packed woman was moving countries and getting married.

But she didn’t care how she looked -- she only wanted to see Khalid one second earlier, even one moment sooner.

By the time the capital was within view, Byleth started to fidget inside the carriage. Had he received her message? Would he be waiting for her once she got off? She could barely contain the smile blooming at the corners of her face.

To her surprise and pleasure, Byleth found a very disheveled Khalid waiting for her at the boarding station, as though he had hurried to meet her there.

“And here I thought nothing could surprise me anymore!” Khalid huffed as he gave his hand for Byleth to exit the carriage. “You got me, Teach-mmph!” He grinned as he called her nickname, but instead of taking his hand, Byleth took his lips by wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Were you surprised?” She asked after placing smaller kisses on his soft lips, taking all the wind of his sails. Khalid blushed for a moment, pressed his lips into a thin line to hide a childish grin from sprouting and dug his face into Byleth’s shoulder for a deeper hug.

He was glad that he left the palace without an attendant, otherwise he would be nagged at the entire way back for this public display of affection. The prince put more strength in his hug, as though he had only just noticed that his loved one was finally within his arms -- hopefully indefinitely this time.

“Honestly, I was so shocked I think I sprouted some grey hairs. Care to check?” He chuckled with a low voice, slowly lifting his face from her shoulder to press his forehead on hers. Byleth hummed as she ran her fingers through his hair, tickling the tip of his ears.

“Hmm, you’re safe for now.” She threaded her hands through his hair, face and beard, as though committing to memory that she had finally arrived… that she was finally with him, ready to walk along life with him by her side.

“Good. Hopefully my bride won’t give me any more frights like this one in the future.” He teased, finally letting go of the hug to take her by the hand. “Let’s get you to the palace; you must be tired from the trip.”

Byleth huffed, puffing her chest. “Not at all. Actually, I got reenergized the moment I saw you.”

Khalid pressed his lips as his face once again flushed. And here he thought he was the smooth talker of the relationship! How could she throw such a cheesy line with that straight face?

But, well, it wasn’t as though he didn’t feel the same, so he squeezed her hand in his.

“Yeah? Then let’s walk around a bit. I wanna know what you think about Almyra.” He lifted their hand hold with a shy smile, which made Byleth’s chest tingle with emotion.

Even if she couldn’t feel her own heartbeat, the love sprouting from within it was no less true than if she did. Nodding, Byleth allowed herself to be led by Khalid throughout the busy streets of the capital.

Even the buildings themselves were different -- they were built in a specific way that allowed for better air circulation, so one wouldn’t feel hot even in the middle of summer. The streets he guided her through were narrow, to make up for the large corridors that were home to many peddlers, heralds and gardens scattered throughout the city.

There were people dancing, smoking, eating, selling, buying… all amidst a colorful combination of tapestries, cushions and harmonized lifestyles. There were large mosques, with their domes built on rectangular plans and crescent moons on their top built right beside minarets proportional to the size of the mosque… Some of them were decorated with gold mosaic and marble floors, along with colorful walls.

According to Khalid, the capital was the trading hub of the entire Almyra due to its central location -- it wasn’t that far from the border, it also bordered the sea by quite a bit and there was a canal that crossed the entire city towards the other side of the continent.

True to his words, the port was immense -- to the point that ‘the city of water’, Derdriu, could barely compare. How wonderful it was that they finally managed to put both kingdom’s differences aside to start the trade! They would both profit immensely with this.

Everything was so new and pretty Byleth couldn’t help but stare everywhere in awe.

Khalid chuckled beside her, squeezing her hand to call her attention to him. “To think that before, I could never tell what went on inside your head… Now you’re basically wearing your emotions in your sleeve!”

Still befuddled with all the colors, smells and beauty all around her, Byleth’s eyes shone. “It was you who helped me get in touch with my feelings, so I’m all the more grateful for that.” She replied as though in passing, quickly looking away to marvel at the song of a beautiful bird.

“...” Khalid covered his mouth with his free hand to hide the happy grin that sprouted on his lips as his cheeks flushed again with his bride’s confession. So that was how it was going to be, huh? He had to up his game if he wanted to compete with these cheesy lines Byleth was throwing at him.

He took a more proactive stance in showing her around, pointing at historical places and asking her what she thought they served for so he could boast his own knowledge.

“That place there was where the civil servants had their meetings in my grandfather’s reign. By the time we start our rule, it’s gonna be a thing of the past.”

Byleth’s eyes twinkled with the line about ‘their rule’, as her chest tingled with emotion for being able to be right there with her loved one as they wrote history side by side. “Show me more.” She nodded, puffing her chest.

“Alright, it’s a bit of a trek, but there’s no way one can visit the capital without going to the Grand Bazaar!” He pulled her to walk a bit faster, almost bumping into people who were carrying goods on their heads. The place was absolutely stunning -- it looked so absurdly large, Byleth wondered if they would be able to leave there by the end of the week -- with small and big merchants haggling side by side, huddling themselves to attract the customers’ attention.

There were tapestries, cloths, books, scrolls, perfumes, body oils, incense, food seasoning, fresh produce, paintings, jewelry… it was all sparkling amidst the merchants’ loud voices and people’s laughter all around.

“But be careful, if you weren’t a compulsive shopper before, it would be for the best not to test your will here.” He pointed at her nose with a serious expression, then shifted his gaze to a bag he was suddenly carrying. “... the merchants WILL get the best of you.”

Byleth burst in laughter, slapping Khalid’s shoulder comically. “What is all this?”

“As you can see, I’m also a victim.” He confessed sheepishly, turning back to the cloth merchant he was talking to a moment ago. “That guy’s your partner, right?” he pointed to the jewelry merchant a few stores away, “tell him to bring those three ornaments and gundle here too.”

“Oh, thank you for your patronage! These will go wonderful with your bride’s fair skin!” The man rubbed his hands together in anticipation for the big sale, smiling eagerly to the happy couple.

Byleth cocked her head to the side. “What’re you buying?”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on buying stuff for our wedding NOW, but there was this sale so it’s best to take the opportunity that’s handed to you, right?” He winked, making Byleth finally blush.

“Oh…” She shyly looked down before raising her gaze back up. “Let me help with the bags.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll send someone to get it later.” He waved his hand, then placed the bag he was carrying on top of the other purchases. He felt like doing a little mischief so he handed a seal to the merchant who eagerly awaited for the payment. “Someone will come with the gold to carry all the stuff, but don’t worry that I remember the price we agreed.”

Once the man took the seal his face went pale, finally recognizing the man he had just sold a bunch of high-quality items for a bargain: the prince! “W-what, Your Highne-”

“Haha, see you later!” Khalid laughed heartily, pulling Byleth so they could leave before the man suddenly remembered that the prices were different.

They had a spring in their step as the sun started to settle in the horizon, a signal that it was time to go back to the palace to finally introduce Byleth to her new family. The view of the sun’s last golden rays illuminating the colorful city made it for yet another breathtaking moment for Byleth, who took it all in with a deep, comfortable breath.

Watching her settle right into the city that raised him made Khalid feel all mushy inside. He scratched his nose as he guided her towards the palace.

“Since Mother is also a native from Fódlan, she really wanted to be able to play the part of the bride’s family. So you’ll have what she didn’t have, her words.” Khalid said with a proud smile on his lips.

“I have a lot to learn about your customs,” Byleth nodded. “I’ll do whatever is in my power to adapt well so we can live out our lives together, Khalid.” Her eyes shone with resolution as her mouth yet again spouted those kinds of lines with a straight face.

Khalid had to clear his throat to chuckle away the embarrassment, his chest tingling with emotion. “Don’t worry; you’re gonna do great.”

They walked the brightly lit corridors of the palace as Khalid explained where everything was located and how to get there, though he promised to give her a tour later.

“Before rushing out this morning, I managed to tell the people here that I was going to pick you up, so now there’s probably a room ready for you and I’ll take you there after dinner.” The prince opened the twin large doors leading to the royal dining room, revealing the large table full of foregin (ah, not anymore, Byleth was the foregin here) delicacies as the warm smell of food wafted around them.

At the top of the long table sat the Almyran king, Arash; and by his side there was the white skinned queen, Tiana. They welcomed Byleth in with twin smiles and open arms.

“What joy it is to finally meet the one my son spoke of in his letters.” Arash nodded so Byleth could sit, gesturing to his empty side. Khalid sat on his father’s left, taking Byleth to sit beside him.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both, King Arash and Queen Tiana.” Byleth bowed at her seat, watching how Khalid’s familiar smile was reflected between both of his parents, warming the bride’s heart.

“Please, we’ll be family soon. Call me Mother.” Tiana bobbed her head to the sides, wearing a satisfied grin. “We’ll be peas of a pod, you and I.”

“Hey, hey, hey, remember she’s MY bride, Mother.” Khalid laughed as he took Byleth’s hand -- the one where she wore the ring he had given her before they had separated. He, too, wore the ring she gave him in turn.

Tiana laughed loudly as Arash chuckled quietly, in that kind of harmony that only a coupe that had been together for an entire lifetime could display. Byleth felt that she would be right at home amidst this warm and welcoming family.

Everything had been a new experience the moment she stepped out of Fódlan, which Byleth absorbed like a sponge; she took all that Khalid’s homeland had to offer and accepted it gladly, with all of her being. Arash and Tiana were all smiles as they taught Byleth the names of the dishes and how to eat them during the entire dinner, under Khalid’s warm gaze.

After they reluctantly parted from the royal couple, Khalid led Byleth towards the wing designated for distinguished guests -- she would be moved to the crown princess room after the wedding, though -- walking at slow steps seemingly not wanting to leave her for the day.

“How was your mother accepted by the people of Almyra?” Byleth asked as she smoothed her fingers through the engraved walls.

“Hmm,” Khalid looked up in thought. “I told you that people had -- well, still have -- a lot of prejudice against Fódlan, right? It was a rough childhood and from what I heard -- since Mother and Father wouldn’t tell me with their own mouths -- she went through a lot of stuff back then, too. But in Almyra, strength is deeply appreciated and, boy, you wouldn’t want to fight my Mother.” He barked a laugh, remembering the men Tiana piled up whenever she went out to train.

“But even if she earned her place, you were still mistreated, right?”

“Meh, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t bitter about it all, but it made me who I am today. It led me to Fódlan and, eventually, to you.” He kissed her hand amidst their hold, winking once they made eye contact.

Byleth smiled in turn, squeezing her hold in his as their steps were brought to a halt. They stood in front of Byleth’s room in silence, his fingers intertwined in hers unwilling to let go.

“Today was a long day, and the following days will be equally as long, but I’m glad that you’re here with me, Byleth.” He said in a whisper, as his warmth left hers. Once he was about to take a step back to allow her into her room, Byleth grabbed his sleeve.

“You’re leaving? I thought we would…” She glanced back to the door, biting her lower lip in anticipation.

Khalid’s face heated up with his bride’s suggestion, his body stiffening. “Well, uh, there are still some few weeks to the wedding, so I figured we’d…” He trailed off, awkwardly scratching his cheek.

Byleth tilted her head to the side in confusion. “But we did it before you left.” She said matter-of-factly, forcing the memories of their clumsy first time to resurface. They had been eager to have a taste of one another while also being pressed for time, so their touches were rough and awkward. After they parted, it only made them want each other more; to be able to fully take a hold of one’s beloved body and make it tremble with pleasure under but a touch.

They’ve been longing to be together again for so long their bodies ached.

Khalid gulped with difficulty, suddenly feeling the air very rare around them. “You know what,” he took off the button of his high-necked mantle, “I’m not waiting anymore.” He dove into her lips with a hunger of a starved man, digging his tongue into her mouth.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Byleth pulled him closer as she leaned on the door. Khalid slid one hand behind her back, gluing their bodies in a way that they could feel all that they had to offer while the other hand shuffled behind her to open the door. Once they were inside, they stumbled between their legs towards the bed, shoving the door closed behind them as an afterthought.

The first thing in Byleth’s mind was how fluffy the bed was -- she bounced right back up once she fell under Khalid -- but soon that thought was replaced by how hot Khalid was when she looked at him from below.

Panting after their long kiss, the couple fumbled with one another’s clothes -- Khalid with the straps around Byleth’s chest and Byleth with the buttons holding his mantle together. She felt the pressure around her chest loosen and immediately took off her top, revealing her bare skin.

Khalid held his breath for a second to appreciate how beautiful his bride was -- down to the shade of pink around her nipples. He licked his lips as he, too, took off his top and set to work on her breasts -- he took one in his mouth as he nudged the other between his fingers.

Byleth’s body shook as she lay down under Khalid’s erotic tongue movements, closing her eyes in pleasure. She dug her nails into his hair, pulling it the better he made her feel.

To be honest, Khalid had researched a lot in the arts of sexual relations after he went back home. He didn’t want Byleth to have that image of the clumsy first timer in her head forever, so he wanted to show off to her as soon as possible -- yet, the moment he had her naked splendor in front of him, his mind drew a blank.

He just wanted to taste her, to have her to himself in all of its meanings.

Trailing his tongue downwards to her navel, Khalid pulled down her shorts with gusto, breathing down on her most intimate part with the intensity of an avid taste-tester. Byleth naturally opened her legs to him, squirming under his touch as he opened her folds to insert his tongue in its midst.

“Ah…” Byleth bemoaned, throwing her head back in pleasure. That served only to spur Khalid’s tongue more as he searched for the spot that made her tremble with only but a tap. Once he felt her twitch with newfound gusto for her beloved’s mouth, Khalid slurped her clit, eager to drink from her most intimate place. “Ahn..!” That made Byleth pull his hair vigorously as her body shook with the sudden jolt of pleasure.

“Your voice is so sweet, my bride.” Khalid murmured in between her folds, threading his fingers through her milky skin towards her sex. Panting heavily, Byleth felt that she was left out, that he had stopped right when it was feeling good.

“You’re, ah… You’re bullying me.” She pouted as he rose from his position to free his pulsating erection from his pants. “You shouldn’t bully your elders, you know.” Byleth tried to tease, but her completely submissive pose made it sound more like a cheeky challenge rather than preaching: completely nude, with her legs spread open and her vulva pulsating with desire.

Khalid licked his lips, feeling the leftover taste of Byleth’s in his tongue. “What if I get addicted to it, Teach?” he said in a low voice, prodding his erection on her entrance. He could feel her twitching around him, as though she wanted to suck him in before he could even penetrate her.

He felt her huffing breath in his neck as he lowered himself to place kisses on her ear, wanting to hear her voice once he put it in from the closest distance as possible. Byleth naturally wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist as she rocked her hips teasingly, inviting him in; tempting him into claiming her as her rightful husband.

To feel her hot breathing on his ear, her eager nails digging on his back in anticipation, the way she moved herself up and down in wait for his entrance… Khalid felt weak in the legs. He bit his beloved's neck as he slid his erection in, slowly being welcomed into her deepest warmth.

“Ahn…!” Byleth let out a loud moan as he slid it in so gradually she had to bite his shoulder so as to keep herself sane. It felt so inexplicably good; to finally conjoin with the one she’s loved for so long… to have his equally deep desire flood her from within; to share the heat with him and only, oh and only him.

“This feels… you feel so good, my bride.” He huffed, pressing his forehead on hers before succumbing to her lips as his lower body pulled out and pushed in rhythmically.

Their moans became one in their kiss, his movements slow and steady at first, but soon gaining momentum in their blind search for pleasure. He dove deep and pulled out entirely, pounding her insides in a way that Byleth never thought possible; in a way that she would grow addicted to in their shared future.

Unwilling to let his lips out of hers, Byleth dug her nails into his scalp once more, pulling him to her making him go deeper with each thrust, making him love her with each movement.

Khalid squeezed his eyes as he approached the epitome of pleasure, his movements accelerating in harmony with the building discharge of their joined satisfaction. Byleth squeezed his shaft within her, the heat within her womb spreading through her entire body after one last deep thrust.

They came at the same time, panting as though they had reached enlightenment. Khalid fell on top of Byleth, exhausted but also refreshed, content but also in need of more. Huffing, Byleth hugged beloved, her legs still weak from the intense orgasm.

“I love you, Khalid.” She confessed amidst their drunk kisses.

“Stole the words out of my mouth, my bride. I love you too.” He closed his eyes to enjoy her tongue one more time, the vigor of their youth spurring them into succumbing to pleasure again and again throughout the night.

True to Khalid’s words from before, the wedding preparations would take a few weeks to be done. In the meantime, Byleth was instructed in how the usual almyran bride behaved during the ceremony and what to watch out for as they prepared themselves to be bound together for eternity.

Tiana took to Byleth like she truly was her own daughter. The queen taught her everything she wished someone had taught her when it was her turn as a bride, and made sure to be the one to preside the henna night once the time came. She wanted Byleth’s pale skin to shine with the culture Tiana absorbed as her own, wanting her daughter to be as happy as she ever could within this land that would one day house their funerals.

The patterns on Byleth and Khalid’s hands were a mirror of each other -- or rather, they complemented each other once they joined hands, blooming a wonderful pattern that would grow even more beautiful on the day of the wedding.

Bridal preparations were on full swing whenever Byleth’s beauty was concerned: Tiana had her body anointed with oil, applied perfumes and washed her hair with jasmine extracts, not to mention the creams and special diets. Byleth’s make-up was done by the lady who knew best how to enhance one’s eyes with their traditional eyeliner which went in perfect harmony with the henna on her hands and feet.

While she got the final touches on herself, Khalid had left from the entrance of the city to preside over a zaffa, a wedding procession, towards the castle. There were many entertainers, loud music, firecrackers and colorful decorations all around, to showcase to anyone, high and low, that their prince was about to get married.

People flocked behind the zaffa merrily, entering the outer castle along with all entertainers. The prince went up the steps towards the place whence his bride waited for him, bowing to his mother (that acted as the bride’s mother) to allow him to take the bride’s hand towards the wedding hall.

Outside, people from all kinds of backgrounds were allowed to enter and enjoy the festivities -- and later they would distribute more food to those of lesser possessions to share their happiness with the entire land.

Once Byleth took Khalid’s hand to get inside, they were finally able to take a look at one another in their wedding attires, both being washed over with emotion as they wore twin smiles on their faces.

“Forever,” Byleth murmured as they walked in.

“And beyond.” Khalid replied in a low voice, squeezing her hand before they sat on their thrones to watch over the party side by side.

Their vows hadn’t changed ever since they were taken hastily back in Fódlan. But now, oh, now they were finally able to say proudly that they had just taken the first step of the rest of their lives.

#claudeleth #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #claude fire emblem #khalid fire emblem #byleth fire emblem #my writings #yuki's commissions #a sin a day keeps the thirst at bay

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prorevenge · 4 years

Text

Ridiculed, accused of lying and incompetence, I shoved burning facts down their throats and made a successful business in the process.

"The best revenge is massive success." -Frank Sinatra

TL;DR; Told I was lying and didn't know anything about game design. Made a spite video game that became a huge hit. Jackass is also forever immortalized within the game credits.

PREFACE

This is a very unusual story compared to the typical posts you've read here. There's a lot to unpack but I'll try to summarize everything as best I can.

I hope you'll find it as entertaining as I did. And, what's great about this story is that it happened very recently, it happened here, evidence is searchable, and it's still kinda on-going. It's a tale of trolls, video game addiction, self-righteous arrogance, harassment, winning an impossible bet, a viral hit in Russia, and massive success with even some little revenge sprinkles for added measure.

Quick background about me: I've worked with game developers for decades and I'm an avid researcher and supporter of unorthodox and ethical video games used for educational and clinical purposes.

HOW IT STARTED

Two months ago, there was a new reddit post about "using video game to ease depression" that caught my attention.

The reason it caught my attention was because it was a game & study that I had in-depth knowledge of (from over a year prior.) Unlike everyone else in the thread, I was the only one who had actually seen the game, played it, knew the developers, and even had the original technical game design documents.

The article discussed a variety of topics but never addressed exactly HOW the video game was able to ease depression. So, I provided a quickly summary of what the game actually did.

[SKIP THIS SECTION IF NEUROSCIENCE & GAME DESIGN DON'T INTEREST YOU]

A quick side note about this article, for those that like extra details: One of the cool properties of ketamine is that, not only can it provide rapid and temporary relief for depression, it also actively heals damaged brain circuits. Then there's dopamine. A chemical that we internally produce, that has similar but less potent effects. There is no cure for depression, but these are promising treatments for some. The article focused on what's called "flow". Using certain game design methods you can induce a "flow state" by causing a sustained dopamine release. When used ethically, it can be highly beneficial in stimulating/training the brain to perform certain activities, improve or learn memorization, adapt to challenges, learn new concepts, exercise motor skills, and meanwhile rebuild pathways/synapses. While all of this is happening, the user is receiving pleasurable rewards without realizing it. This process can create new pathways, repair old circuits, and increasing their neuroplasticity. Increased neuroplasticity means improved cognitive functioning, reducing impairment of the reward process, and improving the effectiveness of antidepressant medications. Video games can be a unique non-drug option to accomplish this while easing symptoms. Research has already shown that many popular games can already accomplish this (unintended effects by the game developers). By comparison, the game design they used in this theoretical study was highly limited in scope, so permanent benefits were negligible compared to the temporary respite brought about by basic dopamine release. Science is still barely scratching the surface of neurotransmitters and flow state. There are still many unknowns, but dopamine isn't just a pleasure chemical that the media would like you to be believe. It can do quite a number of things. Research has shown that "flow state" can modify synaptic plasticity, improve connectors between cells/synapses, ultimately helping cells in the brain communicate better as a network and improve neural system intrinsic properties.

My summary posting was fine for a while, until predictable trolls arrived led by an "armchair game developer". Dr. Armchair definitely did not appreciate my post. It was an affront and insult to his profession. Within a few minutes, it dropped 30 karma. I don't care about imaginary internet points but I don't like being accused of lying. Dr. Armchair and his pals started with the usual "do you even lift?" Then it was quickly asserted, from their armchairs, that I knew nothing about flow, psychology, dopamine or game design at all. From their high horses, they contributed nothing useful; only taunts, defamation, attacking my character and physical appearance, and accusing me of being a liar and incompetence.

Apparently it was a very sensitive topic. Who knew?

It quickly devolved into Dr. Armchair gleefully, and repeatedly claiming, that he won, he was right, and I was wrong. He demanded that I essentially write a 300 page peer-reviewed study to prove him wrong, and when it couldn't be provided within 5 minutes, there were more gleeful cheers of "HAHA! I WAS RIGHT! I WAS RIGHT! I'M NOT LISTENING TO YOU LALALALALA.."

Obviously, it was going to be impossible to reason with Dr. Armchair and his buddies. But actions speak louder than words.

So, I claimed that I would provide undeniable proof in the form of a video game "a few months from now" that he could actually play for himself. Once again, claiming that I was lying and it was impossible. And more of the usual "It's been 5 minutes, where is it? Oh, you can't do it can you. HA! I was right! I BEAT YOU! I BEAT YOU!"

It was weird.

Eventually the mods had enough. Dr. Armchair and his cronies harassment, ad hominem attacks, accusations and inflammatory attacks resulted in multiple posts being removed. But my promise still stood and I fully intended on keeping it.

THE BOLD CLAIM

The plan was simple:

Create a proof of concept that demonstrates just the critical neuroscience principles that induce flow. To prove it beyond a doubt, I intended to also prove that MOST COMMON INGREDIENTS of a game are completely UNNECESSARY to accomplish this.

So, I made the very confident claim that the game would still be fun, addictive, and demonstrate flow state, even after ripping everything out:

No extras or frills. Built within a short period of time.

No music. No sound effects. No animations. No story.

No expensive art. In fact, hardly any at all: I would use ONE SINGLE ART ASSET for the gameplay (plus some lines.)

No feature creep. No sign-in system. No gacha mechanics.

No level design. No achievements. No RPG gamifications.

I could get at least a couple hundred people to play it.

I should have also mentioned that it would be built with ZERO BUDGET and NO MARKETING.

If this sounds like a strange way to make a game, it is. For a typical game developer, this would raise many eyebrows, and they'd consider it highly risky or improbable to achieve any success with both arms figurately tied behind your back while blindfolded.

HOW IT ENDED

While I was preparing to stress test the game online, it was discovered by .ru bots that were scouring the web for new games. Even before the game was ready, they published the game link on several Russian gaming sites.

The game exploded.

It has graphical similarities to Tetris, so it was a nice coincidence that the game essentially launched and did so well in Russia at first. After that, other game sites started discovering the game on their own too, even before I had a chance to submit the game myself. Most importantly, the proof of concept and everything I claimed worked (high ratings and retention). It proved so effective that the game is currently being played by hundreds of thousands of users worldwide. And it's a clear demonstration about the importance of combining psychology and game design.

I suppose you could say that there are many layers of revenge happening here, maybe even karmic justice or backfiring on their part, it's really hard to classify. The best kind of revenge is always massive success, and shoving it in their faces, however. But, on top of that, I also fully kept to my promises while proving these ignorant individuals so wrong they look like fools.

I also added some extra salt to the wound. I figured that success of the game was partly due to Dr. Armchair's ignorance. It was only fair that I included his name within the Game Credits. So, I officially gave this very wonderful human being a very "special thanks" for their support in making this success possible.

(source) story by (/u/postfu)

#prorevenge #by /u/postfu #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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relatablegenzwriter · 4 years

Note

heya~ bit weird but do you have any advice for outlining? I always outline but half way through actually writing something I realise I've not thought of something (OTL) Thanks in advance!!

Advice on Outlining

I honestly never thought I’d see the day someone asked me for advice on outlining. When I was about ten and aiming to be the world’s youngest published novelist (lmao look how that turned out), everyone who knew me as a writer also knew that I would never, ever outline before I wrote something. I argued that it sucked all the fun out of writing. I couldn’t let my characters do whatever they wanted if I had to stick to a script. I would have to spend more time planning that I could’ve spent on actually writing my stories. I’d see all the gaps and places where my story was lacking in its plot. I’m not selling this outlining thing well, am I?

As I’ve written more, I’ve also warmed up to the idea of outlining. I’ll again preface this by saying I have never finished a novel, despite having started countless, so I can’t speak to how outlining has helped me throughout a project. But I do have a general sense of what works and what doesn’t, at least for me, so I’ll do what I can.

After some careful thought, here’s my advice on how to outline.

Don’t outline.

At least, not right away. I’ve found that I need to know my story, its characters, its ~vibes~, etc. before I can really make an accurate outline. A common concern with outlines is that you’ll make people do things out of character, or that the story won’t want to go in the direction you tell it to. Test out the waters a little bit first. Write that one scene that’s been in your head–you know which one I’m talking about–and figure out the style, the main characters, the mood, everything you really need to get the feel of your story. I like to write a bunch of beginnings, which can be helpful even if you don’t know where to start your story. Some people like to do character questionnaires so they know who they’re dealing with. Others will have that one scene that they think of when they think of their story, and will write that first to figure out where to go from there. There’s a lot of ways to warm up to the story, so play with a bunch of them and figure out what works for you. The point I’m trying to get across here is that you can’t successfully outline if you don’t know your story well enough. Fortunately, that’s an easy problem to fix.

What’s next?

That depends. If you look up “outlining methods”, you’ll find hundreds of lists, questionnaires, and weird diagrams that look like they came straight out of high school English class. There is no magical way to outline. With that being said, I’ll describe the way that I outline my work, and then add some general tips at the end.

2. The basics.

Trying to write out every little detail from the beginning will likely overwhelm you and create writer’s block before you’ve even started writing.

don't do that.

Instead, get your basics all in one place: who are your characters? Where is it set? What is the premise? Once you do that, make note of the events that you know will happen. “Lily dies”, “Sam and Evan kiss”, “Aiyana confronts her family”, etc. I sometimes like to fill this out on paper or on a whiteboard like a timeline. Otherwise, making a bulleted list in a digital document also works. The one thing I’d advise is not to make this kind of list on paper, because as you start to insert more events between others, it’ll start to get really crowded.

3. Fill in the rest!

Start to generate scenes and events that go between the ones you already have. Some things to consider:

what propels the story from point A to point B?

what needs to happen to further your characters’ arcs? (a follow up: do you know how you want your characters to grow throughout this story? what needs to happen in order for them to change?)

what could POSSIBLY happen?

is there a character who’s not doing enough yet who you want to give more attention to? something that’s not highlighted much in your list that you want to focus on more?

And essentially, you’ve made an outline! I know, so few steps. But this is actually going to take a while. This method may not work for you, and you’ll have to find other ones (that I’m not going into detail about because I don’t use them or know much about them). You’ll have to take some time to get to know your story. Step three WILL give you writer’s block, and as always you’ll be able to break through it, but don’t expect this process to be easy. But it is worth it!

And finally…

4. Change it.

Once you sit down to write your story, chances are you’ll run into a plothole, or something you want to do differently. You asked about this in your question, and all I can say is yes! You’re right! For my oldest WIP, which has been around for almost six years, I can recall four specific outline revisions where I wrote the whole outline again from scratch. (This particular WIP has given me SERIOUS trouble, so take my experience with a grain of salt.) What I can say is that every time you revise your outline, it will get stronger, you’ll know your story better, and you’ll have more opportunity to be creative and revisit your story. I don’t understand why it’s considered the norm to outline once and then move on with a project, when it should be perfectly acceptable to pause your writing, say “that doesn’t look right”, and outline the story again. Your story, especially in the early stages, is fluid! You’ll actually be surprised by how long it remains that way, too. Point is, it’s okay for things to come up in the writing that don’t make sense with the outline, as long as you’re willing to revisit your original plans and reassess. I haven’t seen this approach discussed much if at all, so there’s a very good chance I could simply be a very disorganized writer who hasn’t made much progress on her big projects. But there could also be some legitimacy to this word jumble, so take what you will from it.

5. Other outlining exercises…

Try to map out individual character arcs as part of your outlining. That way, you can make sure that their development lines up with the events in the story and the development of other characters.

If you’re a visual person, writing plot points on sticky notes and arranging them on a wall is very useful and also makes you feel like This Man.

Free write (no erasing!), by hand, a summary of your plot–no detailed prose or dialogue, just a straightforward description of what happens. If questions come up, write them into the outline and keep writing. Once you finish you can go back and highlight all the questions you wrote.

Speaking of questions: when one comes up, really dive into it. What I like to do is write the question on top of a piece of paper and make a bulleted list of all the possible answers. Dive deeper into the ones you like, maybe combine a few. You could also do one of those web diagram things (those ones that look like clouds) if you’re the diagram type.

As your outline evolves, reassess why each scene is there. If it’s only purpose is “I like writing it”, maybe it’s time to write it for you and cut it out of the story. (Side note: this still applies to That Scene. You know the one.)

Call someone and explain the plot to them. They don’t necessarily need to be a writer, just someone who’s willing to listen to you relay the plot of a whole story to them. They can give input if they like, but the purpose of this is for you to have to explain your plot to someone else. It’ll be more obvious to you when something doesn’t make sense or belong in the story if you’re explaining it to another person. Especially note any clarifying questions or moments of confusion that they have. If you don’t have a person willing to do this, record yourself talking about it to your phone/camera/tablet/computer.

Don’t be afraid of the dramatic. When you’re first coming up with an outline, you’re exploring ALL possibilities. Even if your answer to “How does Aoife end up at Shauna’s house?” ends up being “She took the bus” instead of “The mailman, who is actually her estranged uncle, kidnapped her from her home and hid her in Shauna’s basement because Shauna and her uncle were having an affair”. You get to be creative, have fun, and even if you take the more realistic route, you’re reaffirming that that’s the direction you want to take.

Best of luck to you!

#writing #writers #writing tips #outlining #answering asks #my advice posts

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sparkingstoryinspiration · 4 years

Text

Outlining and plot development

Wherever you fall on the spectrum of pantser to plotter to throwing pens at your computer and hoping your story will write itself (that’s a self callout) here is a guide (that no one asked for!) to plotting your story!

Is this going to be an exhaustive list of everything you have to do to write the next NYT bestseller? no. This is, like everything else on this blog, a summary of ideas. They won’t all apply, they won’t all work for everyone, they won’t cover everything, but it’s a start. That’s the best part of the writing prompt business, you supply the inspiration and other people do the hard work!

Okay, let’s get into it

1. What story are you telling?

Now, I’m going to be really honest with you here. If you don’t know this, you have a lot of work to do. And that’s okay!

Take some time to flesh out your idea. Wherever you start, I promise you there’s more in your head waiting to be discovered. Take out a piece of paper, open up a new document, write it on your walls! (we will NOT be covering lost security deposits!) and do some brainstorming.

The basic elements of a story are

- characters

- conflict

- resolution

- plot twist(s)

- setting/background (think physical setting where the story takes place and informational setting, worldbuilding, context, etc)

We have a post on developing characters here and posts on the other elements are in the works! I wish I could say they’ll be posted in a timely manner but . . . they won’t, they just won’t lmao I’m sorry

You don’t have to have all of these points completely figured out before you move onto plotting! In fact, you shouldn’t! Or, if you think you do, be open to change because it’s important to remember that all these points, especially characters, are heavily affected by the plot!

2. How are you telling this story?

This is for the technical stuff.

What does the formatting look like? Are you breaking it up into chapters? Parts? Not everyone writes drafts like this so that’s okay, maybe you’re going to write out of order, maybe you’ll break it up after, whatever works for you though I highly encourage you to switch it up every now and then and see if anything works better for you than what you’ve been doing.

3. Consider the usual structure of a story

There are a lot of these, try not to get overwhelmed or too snagged on any of them but here are two interesting ones!

The first is the three act structure, we’re all pretty familiar with this.

Think of an action movie, it starts with a small introduction, it introduces a main character, side characters, stakes, a setting. Then the conflict happens!

BAM! the beloved spy is thought to be a traitor, their family is being held hostage and they have to betray everyone they work with to save them, they have a horrible secret that’s coming back to bite them in the ass. Whatever it is, this moves us into the second act, the journey, the trials, whatever you want to call them.

This is the largest part of the story and the tension continues to build until we reach the climax of the story. They save they world, or their family, or themselves, or they don’t. Whatever it is, this results in the final act where the action falls, everything is resolved, and the story is over (unless a sequel is set up but that’s a whole other issue), you get the idea.

(image found here)

Another popular structure is the hero cycle which echoes the three act structure but focuses particularly on, you guessed it! Heroes!

(image found here)

Let’s take a popular storybook hero as an example here, Percy Jackson. (Needless to say, there will be spoilers if you, for some terrible reason, have not read Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief)

All of these milestones are a little debatable but I’ll pick a few to use as examples.

Percy begins his story, he is introduced as a character, I could write a whole essay on Percy’s development and the incredible writing of Rick Riordan (lmao, I have) but I’ll try to keep this brief.

When his mother is kidnapped, he has a call to action, a goal: to save his mother.

He crosses a very literal threshold into Camp Half Blood and his story begins.

He goes through many trials and tests, Medusa, St. Louis, Waterland, the Lotus Hotel, and so on.

It’s called abyss here but I learned it as the final battle, in PJO Percy faces Ares. This is very similar to the climax and falling action of the three act structure. Following this, loose ends are tied up, characters complete their journeys and their arcs, and the hero returns.

It’s very fascinating, I highly recommend reading up on it. Again, you’ll find many many stories you read follow this structure.

There are literally so many of these and if you’re interested, here’s a link to some more. Keep in mind, your story doesn’t have to fit these perfectly but even if you’ve planned out a story without these in mind, you’ll probably find most, if not all of it, fits pretty well within these lines. They can also help with pacing, if your first act is most of your story, you may need to move your conflict and stakes up earlier in the story to maintain interest.

4. Now you outline

Obviously not everyone outlines. Personally, I cannot understand this at all. Now, since this entire post is about plotting and outlining, we’re not really going to talk about pantsing because . . . that kind of defeats the point of this post. But! If you have anything to say about pantsing, tips, tricks, personal experiences, by all means, reblog this and add them! I don’t have any experience with pantsing so I really don’t have much to say on the topic.

There are lots of different ways to outline a story. Personally, I recommend starting big. Think acts and parts, find your conflict and your stakes, you know you have to introduce your character and the world, how are you going to do that? That goes first, then stakes, so we care and then conflict, so the thing we care about is, well, at stake.

Chronologically, you have the journey now, but let’s take a minute to talk about the end.

4.5. How does it end?

Even if you’re a pantser, I really, really recommend that you know how your story ends. Having a point you want to get to can make a world of difference in the process of planning and writing a story. Sure, you can run a marathon without setting an end point, but it’ll slow you down if you’re always checking to see what mile you’re on.

So how does it end? Happy? Sad? Who is there? Logically speaking, your antagonist and protagonist should usually be present, supporting characters? How does it end, does the protagonist prevail and save the day? Is it a cliff hanger? If it’s a race to an end, who gets there first and what does it mean?

Find your ending, and then work on your middle.

5. The smaller picture

If you have the main points (a beginning and an ending, the conflict and the stakes, your characters), now you can start thinking about the smaller details.

You have an ending so what needs to happen to get your character(s) there? Consider your minor characters, where do they come in? Make sure they have a purpose!

Keep in mind, in the first draft and even the second and for as long as you need it to be, your outline is fluid. You may very well be writing your project and realize the pacing isn’t right, or that something needs to happen later in the story, or that you need to add a scene. Then, when it comes to editing and redrafting, it’s likely that you’ll change it even more.

Try not to get caught up in it being perfect, that’s not what first drafts are for. Make it workable and approach it with an open mind, things are going to change, that’s a given.

6. Write your story!

A few notes on this. As one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman says, “the process of doing your second draft is the process of making it look like you knew what you were doing all along.”

So once you’re done with your first draft and the time comes to redraft it and you’re working on your outline, now is the perfect time to add your foreshadowing and rework your plot twists. This isn’t to say they don’t have a place in your first draft, they do, give it your best shot! But your story is fluid and your outline and plans are bound to have changed and your editing stages are the best stages to really make sure foreshadowing, plot twists, and all or acts or hero cycle, or whatever you want to call it, works together.

And this concludes another guide that no one asked for. I hope you enjoyed it and if you have any suggestions for ones you’d like to see we currently have plot twists, endings, motivation, and more in the works!

Happy writing!

- Mod S

p.s. these can be found on our blog under the tag story development series!

#writing #ideas #inspiration #writing ideas #writing inspiration #stories #story ideas #story inspiration #plot development #outlining #the hero cycle #three act story #story structure #story development series #plot bunnies #story starters #story sparks

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corpsentry · 4 years

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behind the taylor swift gundam was in fact another, smaller gundam: a brief inquiry into the events of june 2020

so back in june this year june and i got together and we made this motherfucker of a story with this motherfucker of a thread to keep track of it all. but you already know that! and i’ve already got one foot and three elbows in my grave, so i’ll spare you the long-winded stuff. you wanna know how i wrote 93,035 words in 4 weeks? i’ll tell you how i wrote 93,035 words in 4 weeks-

-by linking you guys to copies of my planning documents because i feel like those words speak louder than any words i can offer in the present day. these are long documents. but they are also historical artifacts. very interesting. very weird. very, uh, full of cussing. so anyway, here’s

BIG DADDY: THE ORIGINAL PLANNING DOCUMENT

for those, like me, who have no motivation left in life to do anything and rely on summaries from others to acquire new knowledge, it all started with a single line.

prince of a fallen kingdom atsumu tries to kill hinata but falls in love with him instead

june, april something, 2020

with that in mind i tested the concept out with a few paragraphs of text, which you can find at the bottom of the Big Daddy document in the graveyard segment, accidentally sold my soul to the image of hinata with epaulettes, and then worked backwards, structuring an entire plot around two images:

a) hinata getting the shit beat out of him, with snark b) hinata and atsumu dancing in an empty ballroom under the stars

if you want a betrayal, you have to have something worth losing. if you want to fall in love with someone you don’t know, you have to meet them. if you have to meet them, there has to be a reason for that meeting, and so somewhere in between atsumu became a sword instructor and hinata the prince with daddy issues. june and i used this method of glancing anxiously over your shoulder to see what you’d missed to fill out the blanks in the story, after which i tacked up a bunch of post-its, typed out the plot, consulted june, typed out the plot again, and then broke the characters down into a bunch of questions, like ‘what do they want?’ and ‘what do they have?’ and ‘what are they afraid of?’

with the plot more or less ironed out, i decided it was time to start writing, and then i decided that i was actually too scared to start writing after all, so instead i set a couple of timers using classroomtimers.com (15-20 minutes long) and i sat down and i wrote about the world that hinata and atsumu inhabited.

each warm-up was 300-500 words long, and for the first few days, i’d write one before getting into writing the story proper. later these evolved into simply picking a scene from the story and launching straight into it, which became useful for opening those scenes later when i got to them organically.

then i got lazy! so i stopped. but these shitty little exercises were really useful for me because, unfettered by plot, convention, or any kind of tradition hovering over my shoulder, i was able to fuck around loosely enough to realize what i wanted this story to be. it was a very contrived kind of trial-and-error, an exploration of the characters, the story, but most importantly, the tone.

RESEARCH, PLANNING, AND VICTORIAN BOUGIE FASHION

this is a loose map of the castle and Important Locations within it, which i drew up at the start so i could keep track of where everything was and how i could get my characters from point A to point B. i wanted the story to have Some kind of internal logic, you know, even if that logic amounted to ‘a compass would function normally in this world whereas kageyama tobio would not’.

99% of my planning and organizing within those five weeks took place in this lovely dotted cat journal which my sister gave me for my birthday and i repurposed into a metaphorical Diary of Suffering while working on juno. i used it for everything from keeping track of narrative threads to clothing consistency checks, but the main purpose was this: each day at about 10 pm i’d crack open the cat book to a fresh page, stamp the date and the day of suffering at the top, and then write down a list of things i wanted to write, address, or fix today. then i’d sit at my laptop and write like a madman until about 7 in the morning. with breaks, of course, for sitting in the bathroom and staring at the wall and sitting in the kitchen and staring at the wall, but mostly i was writing. and complaining about writing. you were there, you probably remember that.

anyway, here are some pages from the cat book.

aside from the fact that my handwriting is complete shit, you can see that i made zero effort for any of this to be presentable. it was mainly a way for me to keep track of my thoughts because i have the attention span of an ikea wardrobe and tend to forget things as soon as i think of them. the lack of structure also mirrored the way that i went about writing juno. while i did proceed, for the most part, in chronological order, i had a lot of weird and useless revelations during lunch, which by this point was happening around 2 am, and in the 5 minutes before the exhaustion finally hit and carried me down to hell. i changed A Lot. again, to understand exactly how much the story evolved from day one onwards, please consult the big daddy document.

in the meantime, here’s something else.

once june sent over hinata and atsumu’s character designs i sat down like the fucking fool i am and spent 2 hours poring over a document about victorian and other fashion movements of the past so i could assign a noun, adjective, and verb to each element of their outfits. i don’t know why i did this. i certainly could have not, but i attempted to make sense of their ‘fits from a logistical perspective and that went into the cat book too. everything went into the cat book. the cat book is a relic of the past now, stuffed with artifacts such as the birth of oikawa tooru, and also his demise.

MEDIUM DADDY: EDITING, PROOFREADING, AND CREEPY MURDER CATS

i finished writing on june 26th, 2020, approximately a month after i’d first started planning, somewhere around may 27th or 28th. at that point i had about 90,000 words’ worth of story and no sanity left whatsoever, so i took a day-long break to stare at a wall and listen to taylor swift’s enchanted on loop.

and then i made a new document, which you can look at using the link above, and i laid out everything i had to do. i’d discovered a fuck ton of plot inconsistencies and general errors while writing and lying awake in bed at 9 a.m., sleepless in seattle, and now that i was free of the demon egging me towards the first finish line, it was time to Deal with them. i speed-scrolled through the draft, which was 200+ pages compressed into one google doc, because i like to tempt god’s wrath, and fixed up all the plot issues over the course of a few days. this was the fun part.

the actual, hard editing was the extremely un-fun part. i reread the entire thing, paragraph by paragraph, line by damn line, from start to finish, paying especially close attention to awkward phrasing, incomplete dialogue, and moments which had fallen flat in my haste to get on to the next one. this was really fucking terrible. i spent more time lying facedown on the floor than actually editing anything, but after a long time (about a week), that, too was done.

SMALL DADDY: TITLES, SUMMARIES, AND GOOD FUCKING BYES

i spent a good eighty days thinking about the title, though hilariously enough we ended up with something that was a blend of our names. june + elmo = juno, which is, all things considered, pretty perfect, but the process of picking the title was Hell, and i Did Not Come Up With The Title until about 2 hours before posting. you can take a look at the haphazard clusterfuck of my title-selecting process in small daddy, which is linked above.

so the title was a last-minute choice. so was the summary. and the chapter divisions. and actually all the songs in the playlist for juno. the day we dropped juno onto planet earth like a newborn baby pitched out of the sky, i spent an hour hunched over my laptop, cutting my 213 page google doc into chapters based on nothing more than a Vibe. two days before that, i also attempted to voice-act the entirety of juno, an affair which ended at the 20,000 word mark with a sore throat and the kind of exhaustion one typically wants to sleep in a coffin for 23 years to get rid of. so in all honesty, i did very little editing, which is why there are definitely minor typos and/or mistakes hanging out somewhere on that chunky ao3 webpage. but whatever.

my attitude by july 5th (was it july 5th? or 4th? somewhere around there) was basically whatever. anything so i could get finish this damn thing, chuck it out of the window, and never see another google doc until the next century. i’ve been asked a few times how exactly i wrote at a rate of roughly 2000-3000 words per day for four weeks straight, and my answer has always been this: i died. what died, you ask? my soul. my spirit. my Will To Live. i’m a creature of fixations, and juno was my fixation for june. will i ever be able to do this again? would i recommend this experience to anyone? is god real? the answer to all of the above is probably no. juno was a fever dream, and so is my cat book. and so are all the lattes i had. and so was my 9 am to 4 pm sleep schedule.

but what we made is real. the research, oikawa tooru, the 4 am conversations in which i was like ‘how the fuck do i end this’ and june was like ‘jade proposal’ (the proposal was her idea. all rise for twitter user atsuhinas. she is the mastermind behind all of the Inch Resting moments in this story; i just flapped a korok leaf in her direction and made sure the air circulation was working properly) are real as fuck, and looking back, there’s a lot i’d change, but i’m lazy. and college is starting. and anyway, i did write 93,035 words in just under five weeks, four if you don’t count the week of Editing Hell, so i think that’s pretty cool.

thank you for reading this to the end, and for following us on our journey through the enigmatic taylor swift gundam fic which quite literally consumed my entire twitter account for the five weeks i spent working on it. retrospectively speaking i really was butt-obsessed so i am frankly incredibly impressed with everyone around me for putting up with a Husk of a Man for a month. thank you for doing that. thank you for indulging my vague tweeting, and our butterfly dns, and for reading 93 thousand words of gay fanfiction set in a high fantasy world with epaulettes and galettes. on behalf of june, once again, we are incredibly grateful for all your support.

if you have any questions about specific aspects of the writing process, or anything you’d like to know in general with reference to JUNO, feel free to drop me an ask through my tumblr inbox, or through my curiouscat over here. i’m aware i didn’t cover everything, but there’s frankly too much to put in a tumblr post without passing away somewhere around the 56% mark, so let me know what’s on your mind, and i’ll try to answer that to the best of my abilities. but anyway, before i go, here are some

TAKEAWAYS

one: don’t try to write 93,000 words in five weeks. seriously don’t fucking do it you will end up jittery and sleep-deprived and you will leave all your friends on read for a month. pace yourself. set realistic goals. you wrote 2k this week? that’s fantastic. you wrote 4k in a day? you absolute motherfucker. i hope you’re taking a long fucking break tomorrow. your story will not run away from you, but if you run too fast, you will get tired, and then you will pass away.

two: you don’t have to know everything about your story before you start writing. in fact if you have a single camera shot of two characters holding hands under a rose garden awning, i think that’s fucking wonderful. if you look at big daddy, you’ll realize that my initial plot draft, and all the ones following that, are not perfectly aligned with the final version of juno. i improvised over half of the scenes in this motherfucker, and to be completely honest, some of the improvised scenes were the best. fucking oikawa tooru was improvised out of nowhere. he only got written in way later, around chapter 8 or something, because i realized i needed a plot device and a source of information to keep the playing table from toppling over. i Sat Down one day and was like ‘okay, it’s time to write oikawa into the introduction. because he matters now. he didn’t matter last week but now he does, and soon he’s going to be the fulcrum of the entire story, because it’s like that with oikawa tooru’. it’s okay to change your mind halfway. it’s okay to go back and rewrite entire scenes or segments. it’s okay to highlight 4 pages of fresh, sentimental writing, and hit delete. writing is a fluid process, and you Will make discoveries as you progress through your story alongside your characters. be understanding of that iterative process. be kind to yourself.

three: You Are That Motherfucker. you, me, your dog, your dog’s friend, your dog’s enemy, all of us are that motherfucker. i never thought i’d be able to write anything longer than the great big map, which was a much simpler, linear story in which the other main character did not appear in the current timeline until like the eighth chapter. juno was different. juno was the motherfucker, and i was scared shitless of it, and to cope with that fear joked constantly while writing that it’d never see the light of day.

but it did. it was a rocky process, and i was awake for 48 hours after posting it because of the sheer adrenalin stuck in my skull, but i got through it. and i wouldn’t have been able to do it without june, who stepped in when i flopped over facedown on the floor and dragged me to my feet like the badass friend she is, and without everyone else in my life, who put up with me talking about The Thing that i couldn’t really talk about, but juno’s up there now. forever, or until the internet collapses and civilization goes extinct. and if the nineteen year old clown with the attention span of an ikea armchair and an a level certificate from hell wrote the 93,000 word long thing, so can you. i mean this completely unironically and with every ounce of genuine emotion i can summon from the cracked asshole of my heart.

writing is hard. writing is scary. writing is an investigation of the world around you and therefore, by extension, yourself, and that kind of honesty is freaky. it’s like going skinny-dipping next to the president’s mansion. who’s going to see you? what if they take a photo? what if you lose your spot at university?

but don’t think about that. our world is overrun with stories the way cereal bowls are full of cereal, but it’s those stories that keep us all sane in the disgusting day-to-day muck of reality, so think about your story. what’s haunting you today? what message do you want to leave printed in font size 666 comic sans across the southern hemisphere of the planet? what will you be tomorrow?

a writer. you’re going to be a motherfucking writer.

#my stuff

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hrtys-world · 3 years

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Reading Records

Unit 1: the Nature and structure of the academic text

I learned about academic structure text to know how to write our essay properly and ideas, especially how to identify the structure of the text, it can also be nicer to understand and obey the flows of ideas therefore the most important in writing is to identify the unique features and language of various academic discipline, to find a connection between the various academic discipline and determine when and how to write for particular academic discipline, especially there is part of the paragraph that should start in topic sentence second is supporting sentence and concluding transitional sentence. Reading text critically is to read more energetically and it requires readers to use their critical abilities and apply certain processes, criteria, problems, and hypotheses. It also believed me to analyze and I could understand the idea of the sentence properly.

Unit 2: thesis statement and outlining

The thesis statement, helps me how to write my research paper In most academic papers, and also to write an introductory paragraph often starts with a short discussion of the topic the next step is to state our point of view on the topic that we selected, the main idea is that will dictate the purpose and flows of statements and the rest of the paper, when we are going to write a statement it must be the finding of a long process thinking and planning before it can formulate any kind of thesis by doing a thesis statement, we have to convey just one major idea, naming the topic and asserting something particular about it. The outlining helps us to establish an outline and will also help us to classify the main points of the topic, to organize the paragraph to make understanding, and to assure that the paragraph is fully formulated and the information or the supporting details.

Unit 3: what is the summary and techniques in summarizing a text

This unit, it helps me how to summarize the given original information and to comprehend, also it enables me to understand what is significant when we are summarizing. Summarizing is an important ability when we are researching. When we are Preparing to write a summary, we have to simulate the key ideas and points of the text especially to specify the general concept that exists throughout the entire piece to express the hypothesis and ideas with precise a specific language, and also there are techniques such as previewing, skimming and scanning. In previewing a text, it would help us to concentrate more on the parts of the text and there are steps to follow to be able to write a summary, skimming and scanning it can help us to determine which part of the text needs our foremost attention.

Unit 4: what is paraphrasing and techniques in paraphrasing and paraphrasing vs Quoting.

In paraphrasing, it helps me to know how to paraphrase information it is a restatement of a text, paragraph, or work of conveying the meaning in another form and it enables me to know how to show a good paraphrase, how will a writer comprehend the reading material he or she has read when we are paraphrasing it relays the information from the source text in our own words and reads the readers to the source of the information, especially I've learned what are the techniques in paraphrasing is to identify which words can be rewritten and form they could change into an adverb especially to rewrite the sentence or passage adapting to the change in part of speech. I learned that paraphrasing vs Quoting is more effective for longer sentences or groups of the sentence while Quoting is more frequently used with briefer phrases or sentences.

Unit 5: Citing sources information

From what I've learned, we have to give credit from the source of information and also the important conclusion or a way of articulating an opinion. It is a systematic technique of acknowledging resources used in our research. Citing or documenting information reference method. If our research articles are exact we need to establish a Bibliography or list of works cited. Also it allows those reading our work to find our sources that would be able to understand more about the concept that we include in our paper.

#Happy#feelingblessed#PT#EAPP

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nataliedanovelist · 4 years

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GF - Where the Crop Circles Grow ch.4

Summary: When things get out of hand at the Pines’ family farm, Ford asks an old college buddy to assist investigating anomalies and Stan hires a farmhand. Who knew asking for help would actually get you somewhere?

For @lemonfodrizzleart. Part of her Farmer AU and featuring her OC, Jackie Asante.

Special shout-out to Mystery Trio Animated’s old video for inspiring me on how to get the ball rolling. (I’m trying a healthy combination of Mystery Trio shit and canon shit.) Thank you so so much for reading and I hope you enjoy it!!!

Ao3 link here.

ch.3 - ch.5

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“Yes, son,” Fiddleford sighed with a smile. “As I’ve told you for the last fifteen minutes, we’re finally here.”

“Yay!” Tate cheered and grinned as the beautiful woods fell out of sight and the four-year-old’s hidden eyes widened at all the open space to play in. He grinned at the sheep and horse and cow and he saw that sign shaped like a pinetree that read “Pines’ Farm” and thought that was funny. The road was made of dirt and rocks and made weird noises under Daddy’s blue truck.

The road led up to a big house with a triangle roof and a porch. On the porch, two men Tate had never seen before sat in chairs and stood, waiting. Suddenly Tate was nervous and shrunk back into his car seat.

Fiddleford noticed this and smiled at his son. Tate was a kind and intelligent boy, but was often quiet, except when he was alone with Fiddleford. It was like he saved all of his words for him. Fiddleford parked and got out, deciding to let Tate move at his own space.

“Fiddleford, glad to see you’ve made it safely!”

“Howdy there, Stanford, good t’see ya!” What started as a handshake turned into a manly hug with smiles and pats on the back. When it was over, Stanford patted his old roommate’s shoulder and said, “Fiddleford, this is my twin brother, Stanley. Stanley, well, you already know who this is.”

It didn’t take a genius to know who Stanley was either, not just considering the fact he did in fact look like Ford’s twin without being identical, but Fiddleford had heard enough stories and seen enough pictures to recognize this guy from a mile away. “Pleased t’finally meet ya, Stanley.” And he held out a hand to shake.

Stan laughed, took it, and shook him possibly slightly too rough. “Ha! Just Stan’ll do, Fiddleford… Jeez, that’s a mouth full. Mind McGucket or Fiddler or Fidds.”

Fiddleford winced. “Anythang but Fiddler since I ain’t one.”

Stan snapped his fingers and said sarcastically. “Darn. N’ here I was thinkin’ we could put a band together, with Ford’s piano skills n’ my beautiful voice.”

Ford snorted while Fiddleford smiled unsurely. “Well, I do play the banjo…”

“Great! We’ll call ourselves the Three Cowboys! I’ll get to writin’ our first song later.” Stan peered over Fiddleford’s shoulder and at the truck. “But first, did you even brin’ the squirt with you?”

Fiddleford looked back at the trunk and could barely see the top of his son’s head in the front passenger’s seat. “Nah, he’s there. He’s just shy.”

“Ah, well he’ll join us when he’s ready.” Ford said and moved to the trunk. “Here, let me help you with your things and show you to your room, buddy.”

“Well, thank ya kindly, Stanford, I reckon you can get this one. Oh, here, I’ll take that one, it mighty heavy.”

Ford and Fiddleford were chatting away like a pair of school girls as they went into the house, arms full of luggage. The McGuckets sure did bring a lot of crap. Stan shook his head with a smile and moved to the trunk, but on the way he swore he saw a little boy with bangs over his eyes looking at him, but then ducking under the car’s window again. Stan smiled and softly knocked on the glass. “Y’ello?”

The boy didn’t appear, but he did crank the window down. “Hi.”

“I’m Stan.”

“Tate.”

“Nice to meet you.” Stan said. “You know, your daddy n’ my brother are close friends.”

“I know.” The boy said quietly. “Daddy says we’re gonna live here a bit.”

“Yup.” Stan said happily, and then asked, “You reckon you’re okay with that?”

“Uh, huh.”

Stan had no idea what it was like to be shy as a kid. Ford might have, which is why he was inclined to let the boy get out of the truck whenever he pleased, but Stan wondered if maybe all it took was someone to show that they were happy he was here and would be even happier to see him happy. He went to the trunk, grabbed a big suitcase with Tate’s name on the tag, and then went back to the window. “C’mon, kid. I got a surprise for you in your new room.”

That got the boy to perk up. He poked his little head up, just enough to look at Stan’s soft smile and outstretched hand, and Tate grinned. “Okay.” He hopped out and closed the door behind him and took Stan’s hand.

Stan squeezed his little hand reassuringly and led the boy into the house. They crossed the living room together to get to the back hallway and Stan led him to the other bedroom, the one connected to Jackie’s Jack and Jill bathroom. Tate gasped with joy to find a bunk bed by the door with a new knitted blanket at the foot. He climbed up the ladder and jumped into the fluffy feather-stuffed mattress and laughed. “Wowie, Zowie! I get a bunk bed?!”

Stan barked a laugh and sat his suitcase on the bottom bunk. As a kid he had no idea that a lot of other kids in the world thought this was the coolest thing to have in a bedroom, it was just convenient for the Pines twins, but now they were grown and perfectly happy with two full beds in their attic bedroom so Tate could have a twin-sized bed in his new room. “You sure do. Don’t tell Ford I told you this, but he knitted you that blanket and if you’ll look in that chest there’s some more surprises for you.”

Tate scurried down to the floor and t the toy chest under the window. He gasped as he found it half-full with brand new toys. There was a jump-rope, some chalk, a wooden train, complete with engine, cars, and a caboose, and a football and a baseball with a bat. Tate’s voice was caught in his throat, leaving his mouth to open and close like a fish. He knew he should say thank you, but he was left speechless due to all of the nice new things.

“So, whatcha think, squirt?” Stan asked, and when Tate looked at him the farmer knew what the boy was trying to say.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Ford’s favorite workspace, the thinking parlor, there was a desk that used to be filled to the brim with Pa’s work-papers, but with the deed tightly secure in the family’s safe and after a furlough cleansing, there was now only one drawer dedicated to important old documents and the rest of the ancient desk was free to use for Ford’s investigations and ideas. Ford and Fiddleford stood there now, the Southern engineer watching his best friend pull things out from here and there, as if preparing for a school presentation. Fiddleford smiled as he saw how little his friend had changed.

Ford had suggested to leave Fiddleford to unpack once he showed him his room, assuming he wanted to rest after the trip, but Fiddleford had insisted that Ford show him the plans and Ford understood on a personal level; he was sure Fiddleford wanted to forget his problems for a moment and be distracted with an issue he can actually solve. So Ford laid out a map of Gravity Falls with little red xs sprinkled here and there and he pulled out a red marker and uncapped it.

“Right,” Ford started as he smiled at his old roommate. “As I said over the phone, Gravity Falls is a friendly enough town, but it has got to be one of the strangest towns there are. I hadn’t realized how strange it was until leaving for Backupsmore and I realized that some things weren’t normal. Not to mention, if you look at the map, a lot of anomalies I’ve noticed occur away from our farm, so as children it’s not like we were fully exposed to them.”

Fiddleford did in fact notice that there were no red xs on the Pines’ farm, or close to the barrier. There were one or two in the actual town itself, but most of the xs were in the woods and in the mountains. Probably whatever creatures were out there purposely stayed in the woods, like any other wildlife, to avoid mankind. Fiddleford nodded and said, “Alright, but what sort of anomalies have ya noticed?”

Ford pulled out a journal with a golden six-fingered hand on it and opened it to showcase some very well drawn sketches. Fiddleford stared to find unicorns, eye bats, two-headed snakes, dark vague shadows, and possibly a werewolf? Fiddleford blinked and muttered, “Uh… ya… ya sure it’s…”

“I swear on my life,” Ford said seriously. “I’ve seen some strange things out there, Fiddleford. I haven’t had a chance to get a proper look at any of it, but I’m hoping with your help I may finally be able to catch something, or at least some solid evidence, that proves I’m not crazy.”

Fiddleford detected a hint of bitterness by the end of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if anyone else Ford had explained this to had written him off as a whack-job. Fiddleford smiled and patted his shoulder. “Hey, I believe ya. Reckon somebody’s gotta catalog these critters. Why not it be us, right? So, suppose tomorrow mornin’ we just get on out there n’ explore the woods for some weird critters?”

Ford smiled back with determination and excitement gleaming in his eyes. “That’s the idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Tate was watching TV in the living room while Jackie was in the kitchen with Stan by her side. Yes, Jackie did all the cooking and was good at it, but Stan knew how to make some stuff edible and it seemed like a fair trade; if Stan was going to teach Jackie how to run a farm, she might as well teach him a thing or two about cooking.

“So, what can you cook, Stanley?” Jackie asked while she seasoned some flour that was already in a big paper bag.

“Besides Stancakes?” He clarified. “Uh, I can do grits. That’s about it, missy.”

Jackie giggled good-naturedly and said, “Well, first thang you gotta know ‘bout cooking is this fellow right here.” And she held up a big container of Crisco. “The best thang they did since put mayonnaise in a jar.” Jackie spooned some of the thick white stuff out and put it on the hot skillet to melt like butter. “Gum in your hair? Squeaky door hinge? Crisco.”

When Jackie’s back was turned to work on the chicken, Stan stuck his finger in some of the Crisco; it looked pretty, almost like frosting for a cake. To hide what he did, Stan stuck his finger in his mouth; the taste wasn’t great.

“Bags under your eyes? Wanna soften some scaly feet? Crisco.” Jackie added as she dipped a breast in the egg wash then put it in the bag, then did the process again with another piece of chicken. “But it’s best for frying chicken. Mm! I love fried chicken! Gotta be my favorite! It takes a lot of work to make, but it tastes so good and it’s always worth it! Well, worth it to me, anyways.” Jackie rolled up the bag tight and held it out to Stan. “Shake that.”

“Oh, sure.” Stan took the bag filled with chicken and flour. He shook it and found that once he got a rhythm for it it was actually kind of fun. With a stupid grin on his face he rattled the bag really heavy, making Jackie laugh.

“Alright alright, Stan, the chicken’s already dead.” Jackie took the bag and opened it to see how well seasoned it was. “Yup, she dead. And well dressed for the funeral, too.”

Stan laughed and the timer dinged. “Oh, will you take out the cornbread, please?” Jackie asked as she stirred the green beans, the Crisco not quite fully melted yet, but almost.

“You got it.” Stan slipped on some oven mitts and opened the oven. There sat a beautiful skillet full of Mexican cornbread. This wasn’t just cornbread, this was cornbread with spices and bits of corn. The smell made Stan’s mouth water like a dog and he happily put it on a folded up towel on the table. “Sweet Lord!”

“Give it a minute to cool, Lee, geez!” Jackie said, able to read his mind and know he wanted to pick at it.

Stan stuck his tongue at the back of her head and watched her fry the chicken. The grease bubbled around the chicken and flew everywhere, like firecrackers. Stan took a step back as he got sprayed a little bit, meanwhile all Jackie did was flinch and asked, “Will you call the boys for dinner? It'll be ready by the time they get in here.”

“Sure.” Everyone was inside the house, so there was no sense in ringing the triangle; Stan poked his head in the living room to tell Tate dinner was ready and then knocked on the parlor door to tell the nerds that food was ready.

By the time Stan came back with Tate by his side, the table was set with pitchers of sweet tea and water on the table, big bowl of green beans, the skillet full of Mexican cornbread, and Jackie had just flipped the chicken. Stan licked his lips and playfully fought with Tate for space in the kitchen sink as they washed up.

Fiddleford followed Ford to the bathroom to wash and then to the kitchen. He stared happily at the set-up before him, and then his eyes widened at the stranger in the room. A dark-skinned woman used tongs to lift fried chicken out of a skillet and onto a tray lined with paper towels. She wore an apron over leans and a white t-shirt, her past-shoulder-length black hair tied in a loose, low ponytail to keep her hair away from her cooking. Fiddleford smiled; he had known the twins had hired help but he had no clue who that was; he had accidentally assumed it was another man.

The woman set the tray of steaming chicken on the table, wiped her forehead dry, and smiled at Fiddleford. “You must be Ford’s friend. I’m Jackie.” She introduced and held out her hand.

Fiddleford gently took it and shook her head with a smile. “Fiddleford H. McGucket, ma’am. It’s a pleasure t’meet ya.”

Jackie’s cheeks turned rosy at his politeness and invited him to sit. Soon they were all happily digging into the delicious dinner and enjoyed every bite.

Fiddleford was extremely impressed. The chicken crunched happily in his mouth and the chicken’s meat was soft and delicious. The green beans were flavored with bacon and onions, and the Mexican cornbread was very good. As Fiddleford munch on his bread while he listened to Stan tell a story, he couldn’t help but think how much better the cornbread would be with some butter. He checked the table for it, and perhaps he was overlooking it, but he didn’t see it.

“Jackie, may I have some butter, please.” Fiddleford asked politely when Stan was taking a break from his story to drink some water.

Jackie smiled and nodded. “Sure.” Let’s forget the fact that Ford was sitting next to Fiddleford and was the closest to the fridge. Jackie didn’t even notice, and she casually got the butter-dish out of the fridge, sat with it, and handed it to the southerner as he dipped his head and whispered “thank you” as to not interrupt Stan.

By the end of the meal, Stan was patting his gut happily and sighing heavily. “Yup. Jackie, I think you get better with every meal.”

While Jackie stood and took her dishes to the sink, her face grew warmer.

“Yes, that was delicious, Jackie, thank you.” Ford praised.

“Well,” Jackie opened the fridge and pulled something out. “I hope everyone left room for dessert.”

“Mm! Pie!” Stan gasped happily and rubbed his hands together; it didn’t matter if it killed him, he’d make room for Round 2.

“Lemon Meringue.” Jackie explained, sitting the pie down on the table as she took up the mostly-empty bowl of green beans and began to put the vegetables in a smaller container for the fridge; leftovers made for an excellent lunch.

Mouth watering and eyes as big as dinner plates, once Jackie sat down the small plates, forks, and pie knife on the table, Stan cut right into the beautiful dessert while Ford began to collect dishes.

Fiddleford, too full for pie at the moment, stood and stretched his arms over his head. “So, should we get back to work, Stanford?”

“Sorry, let me finish these dishes first.” Ford said as he began to clean. “Got to thank Jackie for the meal the best way I can.”

Jackie lightly shoved his shoulder as she brought over the skillet of cornbread and began to move it to a plastic container. “Hey, I don’t wanna eat canned meat or TV dinners any more than you do.”

“You know, Tate,” Stan mumbled with pie in his cheeks like a chipmunk. “If you’ll look in that cabinet there should be a jar with holes if you wanna catch some firefl-...”

“FIREFLIES?!” Tate excitedly interrupted, drained his cup of water, and dashed to where Stan said the jar would be. Lo and behold two jars with holes poked into the lids shined and Tate snatched one up. “Daddy, wanna catch some with me?” The boy pleaded.

“Sure, son,” Fiddleford said with a smile, playing with his boy sounding much better than returning to work that can be done another time, so they hurried out the kitchen door and were amazed to find dozens of blinking bugs out on the farm.

Tate grinned and ran with his father admiring the scene. Stan decided he could enjoy his pie just as much on the doorstep as he could at the table, and he took his dessert with him and sat with the door open to watch the McGuckets play. Jackie and Ford got a nice view of the scene from the sink and happily chatted away as they cleaned the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stan yawned into his hand and he hummed a little song to himself. “Doo, doo de, doo, doo… gettin’ a midnight snack, gonna eat some…”

Stan turned on the hall-light, his eyes still sensitive to bright lights, so he could see his way into the kitchen without bumping into the table or walking into the fridge. He gasped in horror and then growled like an angry bulldog at the open fridge and spilt content. “Pie!” He finished his song bitterly with one knee before the open fridge. “Oh, c’mon! I was gonna eat that! Actually, this part here still looks good…”

With no one to judge him, Stan scooped up some lemon-filling with two fingers and hummed with satisfaction as the delicious taste grazed his mouth. On his feet again, Stan was about to grab some paper towels to start cleaning up the mess when something ran across his foot.

Stan yelled and jumped about a foot in the air before grabbing a hanging pan from the wall and holding it as he would a weapon. He first thought that the pie fell off the cramped shelf in the fridge, opening the door, but now he wondered if they had a late-night visitor. Wouldn’t be the first time a raccoon got into the house.

Stan carefully moved to where he knew a light-switch for the oven’s light was and he braced himself for whatever was coming. He flicked it on and saw something out of the corner of his eye run into the hall. Did a chicken escape the coop? “C’mere you…” Stan growled and ran down the hall.

Nothing appeared on the stairs for the attic, or further down the hall for Jackie’s room, so maybe whatever it was went into the living room. Pan still at the ready for some whacking, Stan crept into the living room and relaxed his old boxing stance to find it empty. The farmer scratched at his mullet to try to think what could have slipped away from him and gotten into the fridge. Stan was in the hallway, going to put the pan away and clean up the pie, when he noticed a small draft and he checked the front door. Sure enough, something had broken the screen in the screen door.

Stan groaned and closed and locked the main door. Tate must have forgotten to close the door when he went to the truck to get something for bed. Well, after chores Stan would just have to repair the hole.

When Stan re-entered his attic bedroom, his eyes immediately caught his twin asleep on top of a book, a flashlight on the floor by his dangling arm. That nerd had a bad habit of never stopping until his body made him. Shaking his head with a smile, Stan slammed the door loudly on purpose, making Ford jump awake with a grunt. “Huh?! Wh… Stanley?”

“You know you’ll sleep better on your pillow, not a book, right?” Stan asked as he took off his robe and let it fall on the floor by his bed, leaving on his boxers and t-shirt.

Ford snorted and readjusted his lopsided glasses. “What were you doing up?” He yawned into his palm.

“Well I was gonna have some more pie,” Stan said as he sat on his bed. “But somethang raided our fridge n’ ruined my midnight snack.”

“Was it a raccoon again?” Ford asked as he folded his glasses and put them on his nightstand by his book.

“Maybe, but I got a glimpse of it before it ran off n’ the little bit I did see didn’t look nothin’ like a black n’ white thief.”

“Well…” Ford yawned again and said dozily, “It’s too early to think. Goodnight.” And he laid on his right side, his back to his brother, and quickly fell asleep.

Stan chuckled as he shook his head and laid down for some shut-eye.

~~~~~~~~~~

After morning chores, Jackie walked in through the kitchen-door to grab something when she thought she heard the sound of a hammer down the hall. She peeked and found Stan on one knee in front of the door, working on putting a new screen over the door. “Broken screen?” She clarified as she stood by his side, her hands behind her back.

“Yeah, something chewed through n’ got into the house.” Stan shivered as he recalled the foggy memory. “It ran across my foot. Ugh, I can still feel it’s little fingers.”

“Yikes.” Jackie said and looked into the living room to find Tate coloring at the card table. “Well, since that pie’s gone, I’m gonna pick some blackberries for a cobbler. Should I make Tate help me or you got him?”

“Nah, some of those berries aren’t ready, you better pick ‘em.” Stan said as he stood up straight and wiped his hands clean. “I’m gonna take him with me into town to get some stuff from the store. Any requests?”

“Oh! Can you get some hot chilis, please?” Jackie quickly remembered.

“Sure. OY! Squirt!” Stan called and leaned against the doorway. “Wanna go into town with me? You can ride shotgun in the Stanmobile if you want?”

Tate grinned like a Cheshire cat and yelped, “Okay!” and then scooped up his crayons and book to put them away in his room.

“Sure you don’t wanna take Truffles into town?” Jackie asked, remembering Stan’s comment that the horse needs to travel every so often.

“With Tate?” Stan snorted. “Nah, wild thing isn’t ready for a kid. Let me break him a bit more n’ then we’ll see. Maybe take him out in the woods tomorrow. Maybe take a gal with me.” He added with a wink, making Jackie smile like an idiot as she shoved him in a playful manner.

“Well then good luck finding a date in town.” And she went back into the kitchen to grab a basket to berry-pick with.

Meanwhile, while Jackie worked on blackberry cobbler and Stan took Tate into town, Ford and Fiddleford were in the woods, equipped with a compass, a map, Ford’s journal, and a backpack on Fiddleford. A few days before Fiddleford arrived, Ford had placed several cameras in a variety of areas to try to get some idea of what they’re dealing with, a lead of some kind or evidence that there was something out there.

“Okay, that’s 1A, 1B, and 1C.” Ford checked off the map, his journal under his arm. “2A, 2B, and 2C were well intact. We just need 3A, 3B, and 3C. This way.”

“Ya sure ya know where you’re goin’?” Fiddleford checked. No offense to his friend, but all these oaks and pines looked the same to him.

“Don’t worry, I know these woods like the back of my hand.” Ford eased. “I used to spend a lot of time here with Stanley as kids. The trees are a great hiding place from bullies.” He chuckled at a memory and decided to share. “One time, we climbed up a big pinetree to hide from a group of kids, when one of the branches broke off and landed right on one of the kid’s head. Stanley says Pines got to stick together.”

Fiddleford laughed at the little joke as he followed Ford along the woods. They came to a small clearing and Ford stopped. “Here we are. Okay, up there should be Camera 3B. If you’ll get 3A down there, I’ll get 3B.”

“Gotcha.” Fiddleford found Camera 3A tucked into some leaves. He looked around for a third camera, and again, maybe he was just needing new glasses, but he didn’t see one. “Uh, Stanford, where’d ya put 3C?”

Up on a branch and untying a camera, Ford called and pointed. “Down there, by the rock.”

Fiddleford shuffled his feet in case he were to step on the camera, but he looked around and even felt the brush with his hands was startled to turn up empty-handed. “Uh… I ain’t findin’ it.”

“That’s odd, hold on, buddy, I’ll help you look.” Ford said and hopped down with the camera to search for Camera 3C. It truly wasn’t where Ford had placed it and it was nowhere around the clearing.

“Maybe a deer or rabbit took it?” Fiddleford speculated.

“Or a unicorn! Or a gremlin! Or a goblin!” Ford gasped with wonder sparkling in his brown eyes. “Or both!”

“Calm down there, Dr. Crackpot.” Fiddleford chuckled and made Ford smile. “Let's just get this film developed before we get our hopes up higher than a Georgia pine.”

“Great, now you’re doing it, too.”

“No! No, I just… it was either that or higher than the Empire State buildin’, n’ we’re in the woods…”

“With a Pines.”

“... with a lot o’ pinetrees.” Fiddleford laughed at their fun babble and they followed the compass for the farm.

By the time Jackie was pulling a sweet-smelling cobbler out of the oven and about to go outside to check on the sheep, Tate and Stan came home with some groceries. Tate immediately dug around a bag once it was placed on the table, pulled out some Gummy Koalas, and ran off. Jackie gave Stan a skeptical look, to which the farmer just shrugged and pulled out a white paper bag full of hot red peppers.

“Oh, great, thanks.”

“No problem, missy.” Stan said as Jackie lunged a hand into the bag and he pulled out a box of freezy-pops to put in the freezer. “What, gonna make chili? Mexican food? Spicy fried chicken?”

“Nope.” And Jackie bit into a pepper and munched on it with a big smile.

Stan yelped in shock and quickly shut himself up, but that didn’t stop him from breaking a bead of sweat and his eye twitching at her. “What in Moses’s name are you doing?”

“Having a snack.” Jackie explained as she took a second bite, only leaving the stem. “It’ll be awhile ‘til dinner.”

“What, apples n’ bananas not good enough for you?”

“Nope.” Jackie repeated and bit into another one.

“Gah!” Stan yelled and grabbed his hair as he stared at her. “How do you do that?! Stop that!”

“Nope.” Jackie said a third time and happily finished her second chili.

With shivers on his back and an impressed smile that was impossible to miss, Stan left Jackie to shake her head and munch on her snack in peace.

Tate, at this time, was running into the living room, hoping to eat his candy in front of the TV, but his daddy and his daddy’s friend were in the living room already, stringing pictures up and they had a bunch of adult-looking equipment. “Daddy, whatcha doin’?” He asked.

“Hey there, sport.” Fiddleford said and took the time to give him a side hug as he watched a photo develop in the liquid-filled pan. “Just developin’ these photos here. They’ll help us figure out what we’re dealin’ with.”

“Oh. Can I help?” The boy asked hopefully.

“I don’t know if there anythang ya can do.” Fiddleford moved his back to his son and smiled. “Whatcha got there?”

Tate grinned and showed his daddy the gummies. “Uncle Stan gave ‘em t’me! He’s real nice.”

“He sure is. Did ya make sure t’tell him that n’ thank him.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Good.” And Fiddleford ruffled his hat to mess with his hair.

Ford smiled at the father and son duo and resumed his work, recording their findings. None of the pictures so far got a full image of anything, but glimpses here and there showed that something strange was out there. Ford stared at one picture that showed someone very short and what looked like the bottom of a beard. And in another photo, when Ford looked back on it, he realized that wasn’t a twig; it was a pointy hat. “Fiddleford, come look at this.”

Fiddleford moved away from his son and towards his friend and he stared at the image that had caught Ford’s attention. “Oh… oh my…”

“I know.”

“Whatcha reckon that there is?”

Tate looked at the picture and noticed the red circle on another one. He grinned and called out, “Gnomes!”

The three turned to look back at the doorway of the living room and they saw Stan laughing at them, shaking his head. “Gnomes?! Ma used to use ‘em for an excuse for when socks went missin’, remember Sixer? There ain’t no such thing as gnomes. Except the stone ones you get at the store.”

“Ya don’t believe in gnomes, Uncle Stan?” Tate asked.

“Stanley doesn’t believe in the supernatural.” Ford answered with a roll of his eyes and he tried to resume his work. “Even as kids you couldn’t spook him with stories about monsters or ghosts or anything like that. But show him a picture of a r-...”

“Alright, that’s enough outta you, Poindexter!” Stan scooped up Tate, making the boy giggle, and held him under his arm. “I ain’t gonna let you poison this poor kid’s brain with nerd talk. C’mon, I’ll show you how to rangle in sheep.”

“Be careful, son.” Fiddleford called after them. “N’ stay outta the stalls! Don’t mess with Truffles!”

“Okay.”

The evening that came was cool and pleasant, perfect porch-sitting weather. Stan finished his freezy-pop first and read the joke that was now revealed to him for finishing his treat. “Okay okay, what is a ghost’s favorite ice-cream flavor?”

“Oh!” Tate gasped with his hand in the air, sitting on the steps with a banana-flavored pop in his hand. “Oh! Boo-berry!”

“It’s definitely Boo-berry.” Fiddleford said, sitting next to his son.

“How about cookies and scream?” Ford guessed.

Stan chuckled as he rocked in his chair. “I’m gonna say Corpse-mellon. N’ it… huh.” Stan looked all over the stick, but there was no answer to the joke. “It’s blank.”

“Blank stick?” Ford paraphrased. “That’s a bad omen, Stanley. Be careful, something terrible might happen.”

“Yeah,” Stan said slowly and shook his head. “You’re off your rocker, Sixer.”

“I am not!”

Jackie, who had been standing as she ate, sneakily pushed her foot down on the back of Ford’s rocker. On reflex, he leaned forward and Jackie released just in time for the six-fingered nerd to lose his balance and fall forward and on his face. The whole gang laughed while Ford got up red-faced. Stan patted Jackie’s back and howled with laughter, “I love this gal!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackie was checking the cornfields to make sure everything was in order when she could hear some familiar sheep sounds. She stretched her neck to look past some corn and she saw little Dot wiggling past the short fence and skip into the woods. Jackie yelled in shock and ran after the lamb, grateful that this time it wasn't storming and the sun was shining brightly. “Gosh darn it, Dot! Your ma sucks at keeping an eye on you!”

Because Jackie was so close this time and not blinded by rain, she actually managed to scoop up the lamb quickly. She smacked the lamb a little bit, Stan giving her permission to spank any naughty animals, and she hugged Dot so she would know she was forgiven. A snap of a twig made Jackie jerk her head upward and she listened and kept her eyes sharp. Now she knew Ford and Fiddleford were out in the woods again, close to a breakthrough according to the nerds, so she was sure it was one of them heading home or passing by. How funny it would be to come across each other. So you can imagine how shocked Jackie was to find a little bearded man standing on a rock and looking up at her.

Jackie bit her lip to keep from yelling; she wouldn’t like it if someone yelled at her due to the shock of her appearance, and she didn’t want to scare this weird creature away. The pointy hat and beard told Jackie that this was definitely a gnome. It’s beard was all over the place and gray and the gnome had a big-ish nose and a bit of an overbite with some misshapen teeth, but his eyes, though lopsided and slightly cross eyed, were warm and this creature gave off a kind atmosphere.

Jackie smiled and got on one knee with the lamb in her arms. “Hello.”

The gnome lifted a little arm and wiggled his fingers at her politely. Jackie freed a hand and held it out to him to either shake or hop on. Whichever he wanted. The gnome smiled at her and hopped up on her palm, sitting with his hands prompting him up from behind.

“What a nice lil’ guy.” Jackie complimented. “What’s your name?”

“Shmebulock. Senior.” The gnome croaked.

“I’m Jackie, nice to meet you.” The human smiled while the lamb sniffed the air around Shmebulock. “Wow, a real gnome. I’ve got a friend who’d love to meet you.”

“Shmebulock.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go. Maybe gnomes were limited in speech. Before she could ask another question, Shmebulock whistled loudly. Jackie barely had time to register that she was faced with dozens of other gnomes and she screamed in horror when they leaped from the trees for her and Dot.

Jackie’s scream was heard by Ford and Fiddleford, who were currently setting up the cameras again, dropped everything, no questions asked, and ran as fast as they could for Fiddleford’s truck and drove in the direction they feared Jackie was in danger. There was a thick dirt road leading deeper into the woods the men ran on and they saw a truly unusual sight at the edge of the trees.

Jackie was running for her life with a lamb in her arms, a crowd of gnomes behind her. Fiddleford stopped the car and Jackie hopped in the truck before it sped off to try to lose the gnomes. She huffed and puffed, her heart going as fast as the truck, and Ford opened the back window to check on her from the passenger’s seat. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.” Jackie breathed and Dot “bah”ed happily.

Ford smiled at them and gasped with amazement and wonder as one huge gnome, made out of dozens of small gnomes, ran after them, looking like Santa Clause on his period, red all over with sharp teeth and hat and a big beard. “Wow.” He awed and pulled out his journal to begin sketching.

“DRIVE, FIDDS!” Jackie yelled.

The giant threw gnomes like darts and some of them landed in the truck. While Jackie kicked one off the car, Shmebulock Senior was being slammed against the steering wheel by Fiddleford’s hand, but then one leaped on his face, building him and veering the truck off course. Ford punched the gnome off of his friend, only leaving behind a black eye on the driver.

“Thanks, Ford.” Fidds groaned.

“Don’t mention it. Hey, what’s that?” Ford asked and pointed ahead.

The three humans screamed as the truck ran right into an oak tree. They then held their heads and groaned as they stumbled out of the truck. Poor Fiddleford was a nervous wreck over the wreck. “My truck!”

“Don’t worry, I can fix it.” Ford tried to comfort his friend, ignoring the tire that just popped and the bumper that just fell off. “Probably.”

“At least we lost… oh, no we didn’t.” Jackie held Dot closer to her chest as the giant gnome was before them.

Ford stood in front of Jackie, Fiddleford, and Dot protectively, his arms outstretched, as the gnomes broke away to better surround them and insure there was no way out. The little men of the forest growled and snarled like animals, until a loud voice commanded silence. “ENOUGH!”

Slithering out from the shadows like a snake, but rather on a long white beard than a scaly body, came a gnome much older looking and much different from the other gnomes. This gnome carried a staff with a mushroom on top, wore purple instead of red, had a crown and a red cape, and his voice was as sour as lemons and his eyes were green with envy. Those green, empty, creepy eyes were on Jackie, and while all the gnomes bowed to their king, this guy dipped his head respectively to her.

“My Queen!” He cheered happily. “The time has come to fulfill your destiny!”

“EW, WHAT?!” Jackie yelled. “Nu, huh! No way!”

“Leave her alone!” Ford demanded.

“As it is written, in the Prophecy of Shmizzledorph…”

“Go away!” Fiddleford interrupted.

“... the Prophecy…!” But Ford threw one of his boots at the gnome and the king yelped out a sharp, “Ouch! Alright, fine! You want her back? There’s only one way…”

The gnomes around them giggled, anticipating that they would walk away with a new queen tonight. Jackie stuck out his tongue at them.

“You must answer… A RIDDLE!”

Ford, Fiddleford, and Jackie all blinked at the over-exaggerating king. Ford shrugged and said, “Fine, I like a good riddle.”

“What… IS A GHOST’S FAVORITE ICE-CREAM FLAVOR?!”

Now the humans were nervous. Nervous, surprised, and maybe a little bit impressed. The three huddled like they were about to play football and rambled off ideas.

“Boo-berry!” Fiddleford whispered.

“Cookies and scream!” Ford hissed.

“Stanford, go with Fidds’ answer.” Jackie voted quietly.

“But what if it’s not boo-berry?” Ford asked nervously. “Then you’ll have to be that creep’s queen.”

“But what if it’s not cookies and scream?” Jackie returned.

With a squeeze on his old roommate’s shoulder, Fiddleford gave Ford that softer facial expression and whispered, “Stanford, trust me.”

Ford thought for a moment, took in a deep breath, and nodded. The team broke away and Ford faced the king who was elevated by his own beard. “Boo-berry?”

The gnome was silent. Ford feared he was wrong, but then, “IMPOSSIBAAAAAAAAAAAAALE!”

The humans held each other as the gnomes were then all turned into stone, the little statues they were destined to become. With Fiddleford sandwiched between Ford and Jackie, they watched as the king turned to stone and a little bird landed peacefully on his outstretched hand.

“Huh,” Fiddleford quipped when their protective hug was loosening. “I didn’t actually think that would work.”

The trio worked together to push Fiddleford’s truck back home, but not without a souvenir. As Ford placed a gnome on the porch step, Jackie sat Dot down and let the lamb skip off to join the other sheep. “Thanks for saving my butt back there, guys.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t let you get dragged off into the woods to marry that creep.” Fiddleford reassured her teasingly with a light shove on the shoulder.

“And really, we should be thanking you.” Ford gently corrected. “Thanks to you we finally got what was on our cameras! And I have plenty to write about in the journal! Thank you, Jackie.”

The only lady on the farm couldn’t keep the smile off her face until Stan slammed the door open with Tate by his side. “Whoa, what happened to you three?” He asked, noting the scrapes, Fiddleford’s black eye, and the leaves in Jackie’s hair. “You get hit by a bus or something?”

“If we told you, you wouldn’t believe us, Stanley.” Ford said daringly, his eyes sparkling with mischief and a prideful smirk on his smug face.

Stan grinned and crossed his arms over his chest while Tate ran into Fiddleford’s arms for a hug. “Try me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford yawned into his six-fingered hand as he ruffled his brown hair and wandered towards the kitchen. “Mm, thank Moses Stan didn’t eat all the strawberry cobbler.”

He turned on the light and gasped to find a gnome standing by the open fridge, helping himself to the cobbler, which was lying on the floor. The gnome screeched and scampered past his feet and Ford ran after it to see it run through a hole in the screendoor. The young scientist hurried out the door and watched the gnome run off into the woods. The stone-gnome on the step was gone.

“This is bad.”

#GF #gravity falls #i know im not funny but a girl can try #farmer au #gift #gnomes #lemonfodrizzleart #lemon is MY queen #love you girl!#i love ALL of you!#fanfiction

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amosbrittany · 4 years

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Shattered Chapter 5

I swear I did not entirely die on this. lol Have up to chapter 9 done, shit just happened and video games are most distracting.

Disclaimer : I don’t own Transformers Animated or any characters for that matter.

Notes : I haven’t done fanfiction, let alone TF based, in ages. And never for TFA, So I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing but what the hell, I’m going for it. lol I took quite a few liberties, pulling bits from various continuities to build this sucker.

Warnings : I have a tendency to put characters through hell. A bit of Bumblebee/Blitzwing this chapter. Eventual Optimus/Sentinel, Megatron/Ultra Magnus, Jazz/Prowl and Ratchet/Pharma.

Summary : The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but Sentinel’s latest stunt might just kill them all…or worse.

The day Ultra Magnus decided to make his way to Trypticon, his chosen agents had set neatly hidden explosives all over Iacon's warp drives over the past few solar cycles as they worked from the shadows silently and swiftly. Fortress Maximus and Metroplex, as well as Omega Surpreme and the Steelhaven, had been prime targets. The only significant structure on the planet at the time capable of transwarping would be Trypticon. A few cycles after he relocated the prison, while they were scrambling to figure out what happened and retaliate, the Nexus would be taken down. It would give him a decent head start as the Autobots tried to make heads or tails of the chaos when their edge of the war was lost. By the time any wayward ships abroad came home to lead a pursuit, he would have a decent lead.

He walked down the long strip of road leading to the ominous prison in Kaon, muttering curses under his breath as it seemed his transformation cog no longer functioned. It made the trip longer than he liked and he had to adjust given the delays the defect caused, as it wasn't simply isolated to himself. Ultra Magnus already had his agents in place, lying in wait within the prison walls to take out the guards there. When he relocated the prison, he would make a deal with the Decepticons. Granted, he knew better than to trust them, but Megatron's head would prove a fine bargaining chip and outing their traitor, a show of good faith.

He had made sure the guards were prepared for his arrival, to accelerate the whole process. They quickly ushered him in once he reached the entrance and he proceeded to make a beeline for the control hub of the city-like compound. He found the warden waiting for him. "Ultra Magnus, always so good to-Uh...huh." Springer had started to greet him, hand extended before he visibly balked at his appearance. The green Autobot cleared his vocalizer apologetically then grimaced. "You...look different."

"Yes, so I'm told." The Magnus scoffed, rolling his optics. His gaze swept hungrily over the control room. "How is Trypticon's transwarp system?"

"The transwarp system? Everything is running just fine, sir." The question was oddly specific and that caused Springer to squint with suspicion. "Is...that why you wanted to visit, sir? To check on the systems? Cause that sounds like a comm-link sort of thing to me..."

"Oh, I have other reasons." He glanced at the clock, watching the time intently.

The warden gave him a quizzical look, following his gaze. "You waiting for something...?"

"Indeed I am."

~+~

Optimus rubbed his face plates. He had some newfound respect for Sentinel concerning this position at least. With Ultra Magnus being unusually difficult and flighty, it had been a lot of work to keep up with. With the capture of the Decepticons and their leader, things had to be shifted around, changes made, plans formulated. He had to oversee the construction of a prominent outpost on Earth, re-order teams, and assist the Council in as many matters as he could. Ultra Magnus and the Fringes debacle had not helped in the slightest.

Alpha Trion had accepted the agreement with Blitzwing and after going over the rosters, it was decided that Bumblebee would head operations for Autobot City on Earth with his own team consisting of the reformed Decepticon, Ironhide, Bulkhead, and Ratchet. At first he had wanted to keep the old medic close, but they had talked it over and he understood his friend's concerns. Ultimately, Pharma would become his own crew's medic. Earth, Ratchet worried, might prove something of a sensory overload for his already delicate processor and he preferred the idea of a leader who had a better track of patience than Bumblebee. Besides, two mechs with several screws loose on one team was just begging for trouble.

The yellow minibot was excited to get the assignment underway and had taken off for Kaon with the necessary documentation files to pick up their new 'Autobot' and get him up to speed. They still had a few solar cycles before they set off for Earth on the Ark, but he was sure Blitzwing could use some repairs and upgrades after his lengthy prison stay. His paint certainly could use a major touch up. As for his badge, it would likely take some time and convincing to get him to wear it just yet.

It had been tempting to go with Bumblebee, if only to see if he couldn't convince Springer to let him see Sentinel and maybe even see what Ultra Magnus was really up to over there. He imagined the Magnus staring down Megatron's disembodied head and having a little chat with him. Oh, to be a nanofly on the wall for that one. But besides that, he was concerned, mostly for Sentinel should Ultra Magnus decide to pay him a visit. He sighed wistfully, taking a moment to relax before his office doors flew open and Jazz rushed in on him. Optimus twitched, sitting up straight when he saw how agitated the other was. "Jazz, is everything okay...?"

"Pit nah, it ain't okay! Prowl's body is MIA!"

The claim sent him reeling for a klik and Optimus had to shake his head to get the sudden daze to clear. "I'm-Sorry, what? What do you mean by that?" A chilling feeling crawled up his back struts as he recalled Ultra Magnus's presence in the mausoleum a few solar cycles ago. Surely he hadn't done something nefarious...But with the way he'd been acting...Optimus pursed his lips as he opened his desk screen and began hunting through the various channels to find anything on the security for the tomb.

"You look like ya got somethin' in mind, bossbot." Jazz rounded the desk to watch over his shoulder. The cyber ninja often visited their fallen comrade's place of rest. It was a habit that caused Optimus some concern due to how often he did it, it made him wonder about the pair, but now he was almost grateful for it.

"...Ultra Magnus was at the mausoleum a few solar cycles ago. I had a bad feeling about it, but I didn't think much of it. I mean what could he possibly do in there...Here, I think this was it." Finding the backlogged security footage, he narrowed it down to the day and time. As they watched, Jazz let out a strangled noise of horror and Optimus offlined his optics. He felt like he'd just been run through the chassis as the scene played out, Ultra Magnus tossing their friend from his resting place and dragging him off like a sack of parts. Although part of him absolutely hated to press on, he forced himself to find the other footage, which led them to where Magnus had gathered several others...

And proceeded to do exactly what Sentinel had done to him, to the dead Autobots before him.

Blitzwing's words came back to him. "Cyclonus alvays zaid it came from zhe 'heart of darkness und zhe root of all evil'." The stuff was a scourge not even the Decepticons would touch. They knew it did this, Oil Slick had told Sentinel as much, but this was the terrible detail the mad scientist had omitted. It could spread like a terrible cancer. Bumblebee had said Blitzwing warned him that the Decepticons had hoped this would cause them enough of a distraction that their 'reformed comrade' would be able to find a way to release them. This was the whole dirty plan to begin with.

As the resurrected Autobots disappeared off the screen, the main question he had now was WHY...Why do that? What was the purpose? Why...

Why was he at Trypticon?

"...He's going to do something at Trypticon."

Jazz recovered from his horror only slightly. "You don't think he'd set the Decepticons loose..."

"I don't know, but I'm going to treat it like that's the plan." Optimus opened his comm-link, reaching out to Springer. <Springer, I need you to get Ultra Magnus out of there. By any means necessary. His accomplices might be there as well! Lock down the prison!>

~+~

That was a hell of a task. And what accomplices was he referring to? Ultra Magnus had come alone.

Back in Kaon, Springer's optics widened slightly when he received the call and now he had a tall order to fill. There was an alarming edge to Optimus's voice. 'I knew there was something fishy about this.' He thought to himself as he turned to Ultra Magnus and stalled, staring back at his violet gaze.

"I take it Optimus told you to get rid of me." The Magnus calmly assessed. The green Autobot froze, mouth failing to work properly. Ultra Magnus smirked smugly. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I don't normally toot my own horn, but I like to think I am an excellent strategist. I knew if anyone got a clue before the big bang, that it would be him. But I'm afraid my pieces are already in place. And there is nothing you're going to be able to do about it."

"Big bang? What big bang?" Springer demanded.

"Mmm, the biggest..."

Drawing his sword, the warden took a step towards him only to stop when cries and the sounds of battle erupted in the central command hub where they were. Magnus's agents struck out from the shadows, the initial targets of the attack going down quickly and violently. While he was distracted, Ultra Magnus swung his hammer, catching Springer upside his helm and rendering him unconscious. He accessed his comm-link as he sauntered over to the controls for the transwarp, letting his agents scurry out to incapacitate or kill any guards in their way. <Oh Optimus, that was almost well timed...Almost.>

<Magnus. What the hell did you do? Where's Prowl?!>

As he let Optimus stew in silence, wracking his processor to make heads and tails of his scheme, he picked the coordinates for a location on Earth from his data banks and proceeded to enter them into Tyrpticon's destination as the transwarp drive began to power up.

~+~

"But if you go to Earth then I won't see you again...And I feel we have much to discuss." Really, there was much for Pharma to get off his chassis. For stellar cycles, he was always too damned proud to just come out and say what he felt, he had always waited for Ratchet to say something. But it was becoming painfully clear that the older medic was insufferably oblivious. He was also spending a great deal of time with that teacher and he didn't know what was going on there. He hated it.

"Well it was either you or me, and we both know you woulda hated workin' with a reformed Con. Besides, I wanna see Sari again and being on Optimus's team means regular trips back and forth so it ain't like ya won't see this old rustbucket. Just try not to give the kid too much trouble."

Pharma started to grin with delight at the idea of regular visits for himself while Arcee was glued to her classroom, but it faded quickly when there was a commotion on Ratchet's end of the line and something violently exploded, knocking the other medic out of sight and killing the connection instantly. "Wh-? Ratchet?" The jet held his hands up, flabbergasted. "What just happened? Ratch-!"

The sound of something falling over made Pharma jump and twist around, met with the sight of a walking corpse crouching on a medical berth. It was Dodger, but he had died some time ago so how was he there now? Pharma let out a small squeak, backing around the console he was using. The dead bot was spattered with energon and brandished a pair of soaked blades he flicked menacingly. "Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no-! Not today, Mortilus!" Pharma cried, breaking into a run with the assassin hot on his heel struts.

An idea struck him at the last nanoklik and he threw himself into a quarantine chamber, slamming the door shut behind him and engaging the lock. He didn't care to be locked up in a quarantine cell again, but it beat being murdered. The bloodied blade slashed against the thick glass but after several attempts, the other stopped. His plates shivered fearfully as the corpse settled for staring him down through the door, as if it waited long enough, it would have him. "What in the Pit is happening...?"

~+~

"Vhat in zhe pit iz going on..." But a few cycles ago, Springer had told him approval for his pardon was underway and Bumblebee would be there shortly to collect him. He had tittered with glee, ready to put the mines and the prison behind him. Now however, the air was alive with battle and screaming Autobots. Energon was everywhere. A familiar and terrible sight had descended on the guards. Undead Autobots, the only color on their frames the insidious violet flow of Dark Energon. It was Karn all over again, just on a minuscule scale. "Oh Primus, Oil Slick...vhat did you do..."

"Scrap." Said scientist muttered. His gambit had backfired in the worst possible way.

"Oh great! Fan-fragging-tastic! Way to go, you-you-you...goop head!" Drag Strip screamed from her cell.

"Goop head, niiiiice one."

Lugnut rumbled, pleased with the wanton Autobot slaughter taking place around them. His only regret was that he wasn't taking part in it. He banged his arm against the cell wall he shared with Blitzwing. "At least you will not have to go along with the sham of pretending to be an accursed Autobot and you can die A PROUD DECEPTICON SOLDIER IN GLORIOUS AND VIOLENT BATTLE!"

Blitzwing sighed, regretting he would not see Bumblebee again as he turned from the bloody scenery beyond his cell. "I vould razher not die period..." He muttered to himself, crossing his arms petulantly.

~+~

"What in the Pit is happening?!" Since Ultra Magnus decided to let his surprise answer for itself, Optimus was trying to get a handle on the situation. But when Metroplex shook from several explosions, he was finding himself at a loss. Other, more distant explosions could be heard and reports were flying in that Fortress Maximus and several ships including the Steelhaven had been hit. He knew they were merely distractions, but he still wasn't certain for what. He was still trying to work out the why.

"Optimus, what is going on?" Alpha Trion hurried over to him with several other council members.

"Sir, it seems Ultra Magnus has launched some kind of attack here in Iacon and we've lost contact with the staff at Trypticon. We just found evidence that he used the shards from himself to resurrect other Autobots as well."

The old mech's face plates crinkled in thought. "...What has been struck here?"

"Seems like it was the...transwarp engine rooms. That's where folks are narrowin' down the origination of the explosions." Jazz supplied.

"The-" Alpha Trion stiffened as it struck him. "He's stealing Trypticon and preventing us from pursuit."

"But WHY?? That's what I can't wrap my helm around!" Optimus's servos flew up to grab his helm. What in the name of Cybertron was the Magnus doing? As Alpha Trion tried to reroute any and all warships to Tyrpticon for a full blown assault, the Prime tried to get his focus back. "And how long will it take for him to actually do that?"

"The quantum engines will need but twenty cycles to jump the entirety of the prison wherever it is he plans to go. Much less if he plans to take only part of it. And if he is freeing the Decepticons, it will most likely be to a place like New Kaon or Charr."

Jazz shook his head. "Not gonna get much there in time to take the prison down, sir. Not unless we kick on the Nexus and if Magnus rigged the fortresses and ships-"

"Then we will use only one tower while the trackers seek out the other explosives..."

~+~

Ultra Magnus watched the quantum engines power, waiting for when it looked like the core of the prison would be good to go. No doubt Alpha Trion was expecting him to take the whole kit and kaboodle, but all he needed was the heart of the beast. That was where all the essentials were. He idly peeled away his Autobot badge as he continued to observe the engines's progress. There was little point to wearing it now...

He wasn't much of an Autobot. Not anymore.

"Report." He ordered.

Flanking him, his Terrorcons bowed in compliance. Prowl answered him. "All of the guards, civilians and workers that ran or fought have been slain. Along with the warden, we have detained three guards, two civilians, and five workers. The only surviving medic, Pharma, has locked himself in one of the quarantine units. We cannot get him out without specific codes, and he cannot get himself out."

"We'll remove him shortly then." The codes were not an issue, as Magnus he had access to everything, and the medical bay was a part of the core he intended to take. It was fortunate they had Pharma of all medics. He could easily be scared into doing as he was told. Ratchet wasn't around to embolden him. "Dispose of Scalpel. I don't need that little crab scuttling off where I cannot find him and I especially don't need that being the case and he puts Megatron back together before I am ready to deal with him."

"Of course, master." The cyber ninja disappeared to deal with the Decepticon in question.

The main screen of the central command hub pinged. He smiled eerily. "Someone is trying to make a house call. Delightful." He leaned back languidly in his chair, enabling the screen. As expected, Alpha Trion's ancient visage greeted him. He couldn't see Optimus, he was most likely out on the field, trying to handle the chaos, save the injured and assess the damage. "Oh...Where is the SIC? Attending to Ratchet, I suppose...I did leave a nasty little something on Omega Supreme in particular. Can't have that beast come after us, after all..."

"Ultra Magnus. I do not know why you are out to free the Decepticons, but I-"

"Hm? Oh, no. That has nothing to do with this at all actually. Before I'm done, they'll be offline, I assure you." Ultra Magnus waved his hand dismissively. "Particularly Blitzwing, I've no doubt. When I tell the others about his little plans, I'll let them rip him apart."

The way the old mech's face plate crinkled, indicating that he had been thrown off and confused, was quite nice. He always enjoyed that look on his face. But the old mech pressed forward, speaking to him as if he were addressing a wayward son, a troubled youth. His tone was almost pleading and weary, as if his answer would fill him with understanding. But they both knew it would only be more questions, more confusion. "Then why, Magnus...Why are you doing this?"

"In the end, Alpha, death claims us all. But this? This was not how it was supposed to be. Not for me. I was but a step from the Well of Allsparks, and now...It's forever denied me." Magnus lifted his hand, staring at it. The proto-flesh of his form was slowly deteriorating, becoming emaciated. What had once been thick, strong digits, were becoming thinning claws. He had no idea if he had a time limit on what his body could endure of the Dark Energon, but he wasn't inclined to find out. He pushed up from his seat, discreetly glancing at the console screen. The time was now. "I am going to have this remedied. I will not suffer for eternity for the selfish and foolish actions of a swine in search of his glory. And if I have to take everyone and everything down with me to save myself from oblivion, I will. I’ll gladly take my stay in the Pit for it all if I have to. If you want someone to blame, feel free to blame Sentinel...although I promise that while I do my work, I will ensure he is properly punished. Good bye, Alpha Trion."

Punctuating his grim words, Ultra Magnus reached down and threw the switch, teleporting Trypticon's main body away to Earth.

#transformers animated #transformers #fanfiction #ultra magnus #optimus prime #prowl #jazz #bumblebee #blitzwing #ratchet #pharma #megatron #idfk yall

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nsylianteng · 4 years

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Notes on Writing That Works (Roman and Raphaelson)

1. The goal is not clarity but effective communication. Writing that works. What does the reader need to know so they can take action in the way you want them to?

2. Beware of “smart talk” which is unnecessarily complicated or abstract or both.

3. Before writing, put down what you want the reader to do, next the three most important things the reader needs to understand to take that action. Then start to write.

4. Once you’ve decided what to say, come right out and say it. Mumbles command less attention than people who speak up. When you say something, make sure you have said it.

5. When you write anything longer than a few paragraphs, start by telling the reader where you are going.

6. Make an outline, use your outline to help your reader, number and underline section headings, summarize.

7. Use short words and short sentences.

8. Active verbs add energy to your writing. Good writers use the active voice. Active voice makes it more personal, a human being talking rather than an institution. Passive voice hides who is speaking, active voice reveals it.

9. Use vigorous adjectives and adverbs that sharpen your point.

10. Write the way you talk. Except if you talk in jargon.

11. Be specific. If possible use numbers to communicate scale.

12. Be direct. Use simple, declarative sentences. Churchill could have said “the situation in regard to France is very serious.” What he said instead was “The news from France is bad.”

13. Strike out words you don’t need. Instead of “in the event of,” say “if”.

14. Don’t write like a lawyer of bureaucrat. If you find yourself writing this way, ask yourself how you would say it to your reader if you were talking to them face to face. Err on being too casual then adjust.

15. A good start in breaking out of bureaucratese is to banish from your writing unnecessary Latin. For example, “re:”

16. Keep in mind what your reader doesn’t know. Never expect people to read your mind as well as your letter or paper.

17. Don’t be pretentious. “The optics of the plan” instead of “how the plan will look”. This style of talk is generally heard among middle managers, welcome from those who have risen to the top who are less interested in impressing people than in clear communications and getting things done.

18. When writing email, cut ruthlessly to get to the essence. Anything over one screen risks not being read. Take out 50% of what you’ve written and you’ll be amazed how your points leap out. Make it brief but complete — “meaty, concise, and to the point”

19. Avoid email tag. Some emails are too short in the sense that it doesn’t provide context which causes the reader to ask for clarification. If you expect a response, set a deadline so it’s not at the reader’s inclination which may be never.

20. Set the right tone. Good places to set them: subject line, beginning or ending salutation.

21. When writing a report: draw conclusions from what you saw or heard, specify how certain you feel about your conclusions. Some will be beyond question, others speculative. Tell your reader which is which.

22. When writing letters, your first sentence should perform the function of a title. Your reader wants to know at once what the letter is about.

23. Letters that ask for something. Say what you want right away, explain why, then say thanks. Don’t start by explaining why you want it or expressing your appreciation. Your reader won’t be interested in either before you reveal what you are asking for.

24. For presentations: Be direct about what your data saying. Instead of “Why Acme?” say “Our edge is service.”

25. Read every word on the screen to the audience, then expound. It’s not unnecessary. Your audience will read it anyway. If what you say doesn’t match what they’re reading, they will be confused. If your style is to ad lib, use key words or phrases instead of sentences.

26. Face the audience when you present.

27. Involve the audience. Use visual devices to present dry information. Invite your audience to answer questions before revealing the answer. Add something unexpected - a tape recording, etc.

28. Edit, Reorganize, Revise, Rehearse. Go through your presentation at least twice.

29. On speeches: Start by figuring out what single point you want your audience to take away. Then start writing.

30. Think about addressing one individual rather than a faceless audience. Think of it as a conversation with a friend.

31. Cross out the first several paragraphs. Your opening is usually halfway down the page.

32. Good speeches alway express a strongly held personal point of view. Ideas you believe in make good speeches. Start with a single point you want your audience to take away then conclude with a memorable way to cement it.

33. No speech was ever too short. Most good talks take less than 20 minutes.

34. Rehearse so you know it by heart so you sound more spontaneous and more confident. Confidence and presence is what sets a memorable speaker apart from the ordinary one.

35. Take the traumatic step of seeing yourself on videotape. An illuminating teacher.

36. The goal of plans are reports is: Action. A plan starts with a clear statement of purpose.

37. Present foundational facts ending in a conclusion. Doing otherwise is leaving your reader with information that, like a Mexican pyramid, doesn’t come to a point.

38. The point of a report is to report what is actually happening and what you think should be done about it.

39. Start a report by: Stating the purpose and why anybody should care.

40. Annual Reports. Write with a specific reader in mind. Buffett says, “I pretend that I’m writing to my sister. I have no trouble picturing them: Though highly intelligent, they are not experts in accounting or finance. They will understand plain English but jargon may puzzle them.

41. Henry Kissinger used to say that State Department memos commonly offer three options: The first leads to nuclear war, the second leads to surrender, the third is what they want you to choose.

42. Think of it as selling, not presenting. Just laying out your views is not enough. You must marshall for logic and passion behind your facts.

43. Tell people where you are going. In the first paragraph, establish both subject and scope.

44. Executive summaries: Include all main points, a sentence or two for each, then let the full document fill in the details.

45. Recommend up front. Then lay out specific reasons in support.

46. But remember, a chain of specifics is no stronger than its weakest link.

47. Proposals and Grants. Make it urgent. “You can make the difference” is one way to get to a “yes.”

48. Create a sense of urgency when asking for money.

49. Resumes. It’s important for your reader to know how far you moved the rock, not how much time you spent pushing it.

50. Write for the eye as well as the mind. Make it easy to read by using headings, breaking up paragraphs, numbering and so on.

Buy it on Bookshop.org

#writing that works

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prorevenge · 4 years

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Ridiculed, accused of lying and incompetence, I shoved burning facts down their throats and made a successful business in the process.

"The best revenge is massive success." -Frank Sinatra

TL;DR; Told I was lying and didn't know anything about game design. Made a spite video game that became a huge hit. Jackass is also forever immortalized within the game credits.

PREFACE

This is a very unusual story compared to the typical posts you've read here. There's a lot to unpack but I'll try to summarize everything as best I can.

Quick background about me: I've worked with game developers for decades and I'm an avid researcher and supporter of unorthodox and ethical video games used for educational and clinical purposes.

HOW IT STARTED

Two months ago, there was a new reddit post about "using video game to ease depression" that caught my attention.

The article discussed a variety of topics but never addressed exactly HOW the video game was able to ease depression. So, I provided a quickly summary of what the game actually did.

[SKIP THIS SECTION IF NEUROSCIENCE & GAME DESIGN DON'T INTEREST YOU]

Apparently it was a very sensitive topic. Who knew?

Obviously, it was going to be impossible to reason with Dr. Armchair and his buddies. But actions speak louder than words.

It was weird.

THE BOLD CLAIM

The plan was simple:

So, I made the very confident claim that the game would still be fun, addictive, and demonstrate flow state, even after ripping everything out:

No extras or frills. Built within a short period of time.

No music. No sound effects. No animations. No story.

No expensive art. In fact, hardly any at all: I would use ONE SINGLE ART ASSET for the gameplay (plus some lines.)

No feature creep. No sign-in system. No gacha mechanics.

No level design. No achievements. No RPG gamifications.

I could get at least a couple hundred people to play it.

I should have also mentioned that it would be built with ZERO BUDGET and NO MARKETING.

HOW IT ENDED

The game exploded.

(source) story by (/u/postfu)

#prorevenge #by /u/postfu #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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mediaeval-muse · 5 years

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Important note for early medievalists

In case some of you are unaware, there was a huge upset (for lack of a better word) within the International Society of Anglo-Saxonists a few weeks ago. This organization - the only one dedicated to the study of early medieval England, to my knowledge - is currently in the midst of a huge change. At this point, it’s uncertain if the organization will continue to exist.

So what’s going on?

Trigger warning for racism and white supremacy, including online bullying.

First, some background. Please read this article about racism in the field, as well as this series of tweets about why the term “Anglo-Saxon” is racist, even in an academic context. For the purposes of this post, I’m using “ISAS” and “Anglo-Saxon” for clarity. After this post, I will no longer be using these terms.

The Basics

In 2017, Dr. Adam Miyashiro, a native Hawai’ian, is excluded from a publication put forth by ISAS following the conference in Honolulu. He begins to vocally draw attention to white supremacy and gatekeeping within medieval studies (particularly early medieval studies). He gives a keynote lecture at ISAS 2019 in Albuquerque on this topic.

ISAS 2019: Business Meeting announces the board’s plans to hold a vote regarding a change in the name of the organization. No alternatives have been presented: the vote is only to gauge whether or not the general membership wishes to rename itself. There is also an intention to vote on whether demographic diversity should be a requirement for the advisory board makeup.

September 5-7, 2019: Dr. Mary Rambaran-Olm delivers a talk at the Race Before Race symposium (an academic symposium dedicated to critical race studies in medieval and early modern fields) about white supremacy within early medieval studies

Dr. Rambaran-Olm publicly resigns her position from the ISAS advisory board during her talk, citing the board’s inaction in combating white supremacy within the field as well as its insistence on a hierarchical structure that disadvantages grad students and early career researchers (ECRs)

Dr. Rambaran-Olm tweets a list of demands for change within the organization

The Immediate Aftermath

Dr. Rambaran-Olm’s resignation triggers a series of condemnations against ISAS from other medieval organizations, including Medievalists of Color and Queerdievalists

Dr. Rambaran-Olm receives threats of violence on social media, especially after the Washington Post publishes this article

There was a rumor going around that a notorious sexual predator in the field was being considered for a leadership role in the organization. As far as I know, this is false, but some prominent scholars have not deleted their social media posts about it. (I’m withholding his name not to protect him, but because I don’t know if I could suffer legal consequences for naming him when he hasn’t been formally charged with anything. I’m but a poor grad student.)

ISAS decides to move up the vote for a name change. The advanced timeline does not allow for members to discuss and debate the motion, leading to some people hastily voting then regretting their decision after listening to the conversation about the merits of changing the name.

The ISAS listserv receives some truly tone-deaf and outright racist messages from (senior) scholars trying to influence the vote.

Guy Halsall, the partner of Dr. Helen Foxhall Forbes (the ISAS board member responsible for drafting the harassment policy), begins bullying grad students and ECRs on social media, calling them names and slurs for supporting a more inclusive field and organization. He makes his account private when called out, then deletes it altogether.

Where We’re At Now

Most of the advisory board members of ISAS have resigned. There are a handful left, but they include Dr. Rauer (who sent out a racist email) and Dr. Forbes (whose partner bullied grads and ECRs)

ISAS members voted to change the name (~60% approval) AND to make demographic diversity a requirement for advisory board representation (~78% approval)

Medieval scholars have started using the hashtag #commit2change to document what they are going to do to make the field more open to BIPOC scholars and students

A number of grads and ECRs have left ISAS in solidarity with BIPOC scholars

Some Links

A summary from Inside Higher Ed

About decolonizing your syllabus

My Thoughts

I have been a member of ISAS since 2016 and I attended the conference in Albuquerque, so I have some first-hand experience with the conference events and the listserv.

I voted in favor of the name change and the demographic diversity requirement.

I agree that “Anglo-Saxon” is an exclusionary term that harms BIPOC scholars, and though I have used it in the past in an academic context, I will no longer be using it unless I’m citing previous scholarship. Instead, I will be using “early medieval England/English” unless a better term is put forth. I urge fellow medievalists to do the same.

At this point, I’m planning to stick with ISAS to facilitate the changes I want to see, unless it becomes evident to me that the vote was just a show and people aren’t really committed to change. If that’s the case, I will leave, but I do want to try to make changes first.

This whole thing wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. Some very prominent scholars turned out to be vocal supporters of BIPOC colleagues. The question now is: is it enough?

This field is not about white people or white history, so don’t @ me. It should be open to everyone.

“Anglo-Saxon” isn’t even an appropriate term, since early medieval England contained inhabitants that were neither Angles nor Saxons. There were many, many peoples, including various Celtic groups, Jutes, etc. So, “historical accuracy” is not a good argument for keeping the term.

As far as I know, “Old English” is still ok for describing the vernacular language of early medieval England. If this changes, I will make a post about it.

This problem is not unique to the study of early medieval England. Medieval and Early Modern Studies need to reflect on its own practices and make academia more welcoming to BIPOC students and scholars.

As far as I know, the victims of Notorious Sexual Predator have not sought criminal charges, and he hasn’t been punished by any institution he has worked for. Some scholars have taken it upon themselves to call for his demise. I’m in favor, though I do want to protect victims and prevent people from appropriating their struggle.

Why You Should Care

This isn’t an ISAS problem, it’s a medieval studies problem. ISAS is just where it’s all coming to a head.

BIPOC scholars matter.

ISAS is responsible for a lot of funding of scholarship for research in early medieval England. It’s also the only professional organization (that I know of) that is devoted to this time period/field. Everything else is later medieval or general medieval. ISAS has historically legitimized early medieval studies in academia. Presenting at ISAS can likewise make a scholar’s career. The impact is huge.

What You Can Do

Educate yourself on the struggles of BIPOC scholars (as well as BIPOC people in general). Not sure where to start? Here’s some advice

Support more BIPOC scholars by citing and centering their work, refusing to participate in panels that don’t include diverse voices, and following BIPOC scholars on social media

Refrain from using the term “Anglo-Saxon” in your scholarship (but if you’re quoting and/or providing a bibliographic reference, this is advice is less clear-cut. I’m personally using the term in citations and acknowledging somewhere in my work that the field has a history of racism. I want readers to be able to find the things I cite, while also not erasing the field’s racist history. I don’t think pretending it never existed is the answer.)

Report bullying on social media when you see it

Follow the #commit2change hashtag for some ideas on how to make your classrooms more inclusive

Donate to the Belle De Costa Greene Fund, a travel grant for medievalists of color

You don’t have to join ISAS now, or remain in ISAS if it makes you uncomfortable. You can enact changes at whatever level you’re at without joining the org.

There’s probably more, but I’m tired. If you’re a young medievalist and have questions, you’re welcome to PM me.

#medieval

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skyleaf1 · 4 years

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Exactly How To Get Ready For Divorce & Separation Arbitration.

Woollcombeyonge The Good Separation.

Content

# 7 Is Mediation Compulsory In The Uk?

Arbitration Often Tends To Be Faster Than Court Proceedings.

Arbitration Has A Tendency To Be More Affordable Than Court Process.

Our Family Members And Youngster Regulation Lawyers Can Aid You.

Mediation In Divorce.

We are able to use arbitration assessment as well as information conferences for ₤ 99 as well as joint arbitration meetings for ₤ 180 each per meeting. It is in clients interests to produce relevant paperwork for analysis as failing to do so might delay the begin of arbitration and ineligibility for legal help.

Why do judges order mediation?

The purpose of court mediation is to help parents come to a resolution and establish a parenting plan without incurring the costs of litigation. Court ordered mediation is an open forum for each party to express their concerns to a neutral third party certified mediator.

The conciliator does not offer guidance, yet helps individuals make decisions by checking out the alternatives and working out what is ideal for all concerned. Our structured working method permits us to achieve outcomes more quickly and also set you back successfully than any kind of various other mediation company in the location.

# 7 Is Mediation Compulsory In The Uk?

The information on this website is to be taken into consideration a guide as well as is therefore not legal guidance. You use this info with the understanding that Wiselaw does decline liability for any kind of direct or indirect losses as a result of any individual relying upon or acting on the information on this website.

A skilled moderator aids you lower conflict and also improve co-operation. The moderator encourages you to interact respectfully as well as agree the very best solutions for all the family. This brought about an interest in Psychology therefore experienced as a Psychodynamic Pair Counsellor with South Essex Relate. During his training, Dai felt his relationship with his partner and boy was enhanced.As a dedicated Vegetarian for over 30 years, Dai changed course and developed the first totally Vegetarian and also Vegan dining establishment in Essex.

Mediation Tends To Be Faster Than Court Procedures.

Various other instances of arbitration not appropriating would be if either partner was bankrupt as well as the dispute mored than financing. If the arbitrator determines that arbitration sessions will fix absolutely nothing then they would inform their customer so. The initial conference with a mediator is called a Mediation Info & Assessment Meeting.

Also a Youngster Arrangements Order itself goes through variation relying on what remains in the youngster's best interests. a D81 Kind-- this is a kind which lays out, in recap form, the details of the events' assets and liabilities as well as their earnings and also the basic information that the court will after that need to approve the permission order. Both parties need to have actually seen the various other's D81 or the events have the choice of doing a joint D81. These require to becounter-signed by a Declaration of Reality at the conclusion of the paper.

Arbitration Has A Tendency To Be Cheaper Than Court Proceedings.

Arbitration by video clip meeting is an identified approach, authorized by the FMC. We have actually utilized Zoom for MIAM meetings for a number of years as well as we have currently used it successfully to aid many customers to reach arrangements throughout the lockdown duration. Family members conflicts that are settled via mediation are less expensive, quicker and according to scholastic research study, less spiteful than those that are cleared up with the courts."

He owned and also ran business for over 6 years as well as is exceptionally happy with this achievement. Continuing with his need to boost the lives of others and enhance his own ability base, Dai decided to train as a Family members Mediator in 2011. Karrina has been working in the voluntary field for over 15 years delivering recommendations and assistance in Welfare Conveniences and Financial Obligation. With her range of abilities that she obtained working with a varied range of clients, she has actually lately qualified as Legal Help Agency certified Family Moderator in 2015. Karrina is likewise an in-court conciliator in Luton, functioning extremely closely with CAFCASS and lay magistrates.

Our Family And Child Law Lawyers Can Aid You.

If your situation is not appropriate for arbitration you will still require to show the judge you have actually considered it by filling in the pertinent court form. As soon as you've found a moderator, the following action is to go to an initial meeting with them to find out if it's best for you. In some cases this is called an Arbitration Details & Assessment Fulfilling. All Bureau conciliators are approved by the Family members Mediation Council and function within its Arbitration Code of Technique.

What should I do before mediation?

Guidance: Preparing Yourself for Mediation 1. Ensure that both party and representative are present, fully informed and have authority to resolve the dispute. 2. Expect the unexpected. 3. Listen, listen, listen!! 4. Watch those tactics. 5. Be prepared for mediation. 6. Be imaginative. 7. Watch yourself. More items

Their response will certainly be noted as well as if the situation advances to court after that the ex-partner's rejection to go to mediation will certainly likewise be kept in mind by the court in charge when a choice is made. It is not appropriate for sure severe situations of conflict where misuse, violence or bankruptcy exists. If these instances can be verified then mediation is not essential to finish a legal partnership such as marital relationship or civil collaboration. Family members mediation is perfectly suitable for all situations where a disagreement exists and a remedy can be caused if both celebrations agree to discuss and compromise in the direction of a remedy. If you attempt to solve your differences with mediation, apart from being a whole lot less costly than going to court it likewise allows the couple continue to be much more in control of their conditions. Arbitrators are also trained and also experienced in assisting their clients look at things more fairly than they might have done on their own.

The Household Justice Council has actually issued brand-new assistance for dividing pairs desiring to get to contract regarding their financial setups. They will certainly ask you to offer details of your monetary scenario; this can help you to assume even more plainly about the future. My 3 pointers are to concentrate on the future, placed kids initially and pay attention to the other person's point of view. I have three ideas-- constantly approach arbitration with an open and also checking mind; consider separate, restorative support to aid with the emotions you will certainly experience and also be honest with yourself and the mediator. When you are battling to reach a contract in arbitration, don't consider every subject of conversation as a factor you definitely should win so as to get a great end result. The very best outcomes and ones that are verified to last much longer, are ones where you both feel you have actually come away with something.

Elizabeth ‘Willow’ Reed - Oak Ridger

Elizabeth ‘Willow’ Reed.

Posted: Thu, 07 Jan 2021 04:15:42 GMT [source]

MISCONCEPTION-- You can dedicate adultery anytime up until the mandate outright is revealed. Whether this is the most effective ground for your situations is a various matter. You would not generally obtain economically from utilizing adultery as a ground for divorce.

For Civil Commercial and also Office conflict resolution our Conciliator will certainly call all parties entailed to obtain an understanding of the situation and talk about how to continue. First published in 2019, the '101 Concerns' has actually become the indispensable overview to dividing with kids. Now in its second edition, leading professionals give insights and suggestions as well as parents and also children reflect on their experiences. With Covid updates as well as much more this book will certainly supply advice and support to any separating moms and dad. The Handover Book by Ashley Palmer is an one-of-a-kind and easy interaction book for apart family members. It will allow them both to always know what is happening in their youngsters's hectic lives as they go from one home to one more . It's a way of interacting the crucial things they both need to learn about their youngsters, while keeping your connection as parents pleasant and also calm.

The 2nd document is a 'without prejudice' paper called a Memorandum of Understanding. The Memorandum of Understanding lay out a narrative summary of the propositions made by the parties to every various other and the outcome that has been reached. It will possibly supply some explanation to the lawyer taking a look at this offer after that about why the celebrations came to the result that they did.

Select an experienced Family Mediation Council Accredited arbitrator. Being recognized ways that they will have accomplished a minimum of the minimal degree of competence to practise. Having experience simply implies that they will certainly have undertaken lots of arbitrations. MYTH-- You can use our disclosure kinds, which are much easier to complete for mediation and also separation negotiation. MISCONCEPTION-- You need to disclose all your funds or any kind of agreement reached can be 'set aside' and also you might need to start the whole procedure once more.

Garden Court Mediation remains to provide a fixed cost system for mediations below ₤ 50,000.

Sporting activity Resolutions offers a shortlist of seasoned sport specialist moderators for the parties to choose from.

This can as well as usually does result in the Moderator shuttling between the parties for time prior to there is any additional plenary meeting.

Nonetheless, it is always open up to the celebrations to elevate any issues they wish to re-address as well as to re-convene in plenary meeting for that or any kind of other function.

If uk family mediation service divorce mediation cumbria app can not concur or would certainly favor Sporting activity Resolutions to designate the moderator, after that we have the ability to do so.

The following phase is normally separate personal meetings with each of the events or groups of celebrations.

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In summary, the requirements relating to mediation and whether it matters and/or needed in your case are rather made complex. It is important to be cautious since court team have actually now been directed to decline applications where proof of presence at a MIAM and/or an exception do not go along with the court application. Monday 14th July 2014I saw an inquiry on an online forum recently which asked whether separation arbitration was compulsory.

Whilst we endeavour to provide accurate info, Wiselaw does not accept liability for any kind of errors or noninclusions on this site. You may qualify for legal help for mediation if you receive Income-Based Jobseekers Allocation, Earnings Support, Revenue Based Employment and also Assistance Allocation or assured debt as well as have less than ₤ 8,000 in funding or properties. As has currently been pointed out shuttle mediation can be promoted in order to maintain both parties in different areas. Otherwise, if your case includes physical violence or abuse there are organisations such as Female's Help, Males's Suggestions Line, Refuge or Resident's Guidance that can aid celebrations better in these severe scenarios. This will normally sustain even more time and effort and will, for that reason, be much more pricey. If economic problems need to be sorted out then you will certainly require to submit a financial disclosure kind when you attend your MIAM session, so be prepared to create bank statements and evidence of savings and also assets. The much better ready you are the quicker you can get to the issues that need dealing with.

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