#but it was interesting to me that that argument sounded like a script

[backjustforberena]

what I really loved (yet another thing to be quite honest) about that fireplace scene between Rhaenys and Corlys is that nothing is said out of anger. There’s no anger in either of them, not really. 

Also: Steve Toussaint’s face when he’s saying that line about this brief, mortal life!!!

[kelcemenow]

Let's Stay Together.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 2112

Warnings Some strong-ish language and some angst and fluff.

This fic is a request from @fantasywritersstuff and I loved the idea but really struggled to make Travis behave like an asshole! But I think I've done alright with this one! "Hey!! So I have an idea for a request for Travis ! I say him and the reader have a really bad fight/argument and he says something really mean and instantly regrets it and tries anything to get reader to forgive him and in the end they make up !!"

Your eyes scanned over the script on the laptop screen in front of you. Your agent had sent over some scenes for a role in a new movie that the producer and director wanted to see you for and you were intrigued. You had made a name for yourself in your teenage years, starring in Disney movies, usually musical based and after a short break from acting to focus on a singing career, you were keen to delve into more mature characters.

As you read the last few lines, you heard keys jingle by the front door and when it opened, Travis walked in with his practice bag, slightly red-faced and sweaty.

"Hey baby!" He shouted through to the lounge.

You craned your neck in his direction, "Hey! I'm in here."

He made his way to you, leaning down to plant a kiss on the top of your head.

"How was practice?"

He slumped down on the sofa next to you, "Crushed it, baby. You know me, catching shit and running it to the end, man."

You smiled and rolled your eyes, returning to your laptop screen, "Same old, same old?"

"That's right." He shuffled closer, "Whatcha doing?"

"Carl sent me a movie script to look at."

He raised his eyebrows, "Oh yeah? What is it?"

You began to type a response, "It's an action, spy type thing. The role they want me for is the femme fatale sort of woman. It's pretty sexy, actually."

He rested his head on your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck, "I don't mind helping you practice for that.'

You giggled, "I'm sure you don't."

"So, you gonna do it?"

You twisted your mouth, "Maybe, I don't know. I'm asking Carl who else is involved."

"Sounds interesting, baby. You'd kill it." He rose from the sofa, "You thought about what you want for dinner?"

"No, not really."

Travis grabbed his phone from his pocket, "I can order takeout if you want?"

You smiled up at him, "Yeah, sure!"

You were just about to close your laptop when the sound of an email notification chimed. You opened your emails to see a reply from Carl.

After tapping it open, you laughed, "Oh Trav, you'll never guess who I'd be acting opposite?"

Travis stared down at his screen, "Shoot."

"Tom Brady."

There was a silent pause before Travis turned his head to you, "No way. That's crazy."

You breathed another laugh as you read from the screen, "Yeah. Apparently he's branching out into more acting and he's playing one of the male leads."

Travis furrowed his brow, "You can't be serious?"

"Yeah, that's what it says." You pointed to the screen.

"No, I mean you can't be serious about doing it?"

You jerked your head back in confusion, "Why not?"

"Because it's Brady. Babe...I can't watch you getting all freaky with some guy I used to play against. You can't do it."

"Why can't I?

You watched him as he paced the floor, "Because I don't want to see that."

"Since when do you tell me what I can and can't do?"

He stood still for a moment, holding his hands out in front of him, "I told you, I don't want to see you getting fucked by Brady."

You tilted your head to one side in defence, "There isn't even a sex scene, and even if there was, It's acting, Travis."

"It's stupid!" He raised his voice.

"Excuse me?"

"This whole, acting comeback thing that you're trying to do is so stupid. Why can't you just be happy the way things are?"

You closed your laptop quickly, "My job is stupid?"

"Yeah." He breathed as he ran his hands over his buzzed head, "No, no. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant-"

You picked up your laptop and quickly got up from the sofa, "You're an asshole, Travis."

"Baby...Y/N, I didn't mean-"

You cut him off by slamming the bedroom door shut. You could feel the anger rising in your chest and shakiness in your hands. The one person who you needed to support you was Travis. You had supported him through his years playing football but you were bored of being the trophy wife. Staying at home whilst he was away for games, cheering him on in the stands, being on his arm at events. You wanted more and your passion had always been acting.

You stepped out through the doors on onto your balcony area, holding onto the rail and breathing the fresh Missouri air deep into your lungs, desperate to calm down. You stared off into the trees, watching them move gently as you bit down on your bottom lip. You didn't turn around when you heard footsteps behind you, you weren't ready to speak to Travis yet. Instead, you continued to glare straight forward, tightening your grip on the cool metal in your hands.

Travis cleared his throat, "I ordered dinner...your favourite."

"Okay." You said plainly, with no expression in your voice.

There was a moment of silence before you felt Travis' hand on your waist. You twisted away from his touch, hearing him sigh with disappointment behind you before his footsteps signalled that he had left the balcony.

You took another deep breath, filled with hurt but also a feeling of surprise. You had been with Travis since college and married for 3 years. He knew that after a disagreement, all you needed was space. The fact that he followed you outside and attempted to touch you was confusing to you.

"He must really be sorry." You thought to yourself as you turned on your heels and walked back into the house.

As you paced towards the kitchen to make yourself a drink, you noticed that Travis was nowhere to be seen. You peered out of the window to see that his car was also gone. You shrugged your shoulder slightly and opened the fridge, reaching for some orange juice.

As you were flicking through Netflix, the front door opened and Travis walked in, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. You looked at him briefly before turning back to the TV screen. The sofa dipped as he sat down next to you, almost waiting for you for acknowledge his presence. The tension was thick and when Travis cleared his throat, you turned your head slowly towards him.

"Y/N, baby. I am so sorry." His eyes pleaded, his hands held out the flowers.

You gave him a soft smile, "Thank you for the flowers. But it doesn't fix what you said."

"What does then?"

"I don't know." You stood up, taking the flowers from him and disappearing into the kitchen.

______________________________________________________________

The rest of the evening had been exceptionally awkward. You had avoided Travis as much as possible, staying away in separate rooms of the house and when you went to bed, he didn't come with you. Instead, you noticed that he had stayed the night on the sofa. The morning sun shone on his face as he slept, a blanket pulled up to his waist and a cushion under his head.

You continued with your Sunday morning as usual, brewing a pot of coffee and making pancakes whilst singing to the radio. You were halfway through Is This Love by Bob Marley, dancing with the pan in your hand when Travis appeared in the doorway.

"Are any of those for me?"

You picked up two plates from the cupboard above your head, "Sure."

"Does that mean that you've forgiven me?"

You shot him a look.

He held his hands up in defence, "Baby, please. Listen to me?"

"Honestly, I don't know what you can say to make all of this better, so we'd both be wasting our time."

Travis took hold of your hands, pulling them away from the pancakes, "I love you so much and I am a jackass for what I said. Honestly, you are the best thing that I have in my life and I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe jealousy...I don't know. But what I do know is that I will support you in whatever you do."

"Travis, the pancakes are gonna burn."

"I don't give a shit. I will do anything for you to love me again."

You rolled your eyes, "I do love you, that won't stop. I'll always love you. But I can be pissed at you...which I am."

Travis lowered his head just as a song began playing on the radio that made him look back up at you.

"I, I'm so in love with you."

You tried to hold your face straight as he began to sway his hips as he sang.

"Whatever you want to do, is alright with me."

You could feel your lips curling upwards when he pulled you closer, "'Cause you make me feel so brand new, and I want to spend my life with you."

You hid your slight smile by looking at your feet but Travis used his finger to lift your chin, "Our wedding song. Man, what a day that was. You looked even more beautiful that I could ever imagine. I couldn't stop staring at you all day and all night. I just kept reminding myself that I am the luckiest guy in the world. And I was certainly the luckiest guy that night."

You placed your hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down so that your lips were close to his ear, "You'll have to do better than that, big guy. Enjoy your burnt pancakes."

______________________________________________________________

You smiled at Donna, as she returned to her seat next to you at Music Hall Kansas City. Travis and Jason has gotten their Mom up as a special guest for the New Heights Podcast Live Show and she grabbed at your arm.

"Did I do okay?"

"Are you kidding?" You beamed at her, "You were awesome! Did you hear them? They love you!"

The crowd were still cheering as Travis stood up, the microphone held tightly in his right hand.

"Okay, Kansas City. I need y'all to help me out with something now." His left arm was outstretched towards the audience, "You all know my smokin' hot wife is here tonight."

The crowd went wild again as you felt your cheeks burn slightly.

"And your boy Travis has been a jackass."

The noise continued as he hung his head.

"Uh oh!" Jason shouted into his microphone, glancing over to you in you seat, "What did you do, Travis?"

"I said something stupid, man!"

"Is your mouth getting you in trouble again?" Jason asked from his seat.

Travis rubbed the back of his neck, nervously, "I'm in the doghouse, man. So, KC! Can you help me to get back in the good books please?"

You turned to Donna who was grinning at you. The crowd were still cheering so loud that your ears were ringing.

"Oh baby, let's...let's stay together." Travis closed his eyes and sang into the microphone.

You giggled as he began to dance around the stage and the crowd started to join in.

"Lovin' you whether, whether, times are good or bad, happy or sad!"

Jason accompanied by clapping along and Donna placed her hand onto your back, urging you to get onto the stage. Travis held his hand out and beckoned to you. You widened your eyes as you rose to your feet, with help from Donna.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh yeah! Whether times are good or bad, happy or sad!"

You stepped onto the stage, the lights blinding your right side. You smiled at Travis and watched as he continued, urging the crowd to join in louder.

"I, I'm so in love with you. Whatever you want to do, is alright with me." He closed his eyes again and gripped the microphone with both hands as he attempted the high note.

You laughed loudly and walked towards him.

"'Cause you make me feel so brand new, and I want to spend my life with you."

Once you were face to face with him, you placed your hands on his strong jawline, singing back to him.

"Let me say that since, baby, since we've been together. Ooh, loving you forever, is what I need. Let me, be the one you come running to, I'll never be untrue."

You pressed a kiss to his lips, without tongues but still just as passionate. His arms snaked around your waist and he lifted you off the ground for a couple of seconds, the crowd reacting with loud cheers.

Once he had lowered you back down onto the stage, he lifted the microphone back to his mouth, "We did it KC!"

______________________________________________________________

I found it so hard to be mad at him...and to stay mad at him! I kept imagining his sad face and I kept melting! I hope this was what you were wanting? And keep the requests coming!!

Taglist @kkrenae

[its-time-to-write]

hello i have a request for an idea i literally cannot get out of my head: jamie and a partner who is really into knitting/crocheting and they knit him something as a gift and the fluffiness that ensues xxx

this was a v cute ask!! Here you go!

glitter on the floor

Knitting is a luxury, something you only do when you have a good chunk of time set aside. You’ll pull out a project while watching a movie and each time without fail, Jamie Tartt will give you puppy dog eyes and ask, “Is that for me?”

It never is.

That’s because you’ve been working on something for him for Christmas, and you’re pretty sure it’s your best work yet. 

You and Jamie are planning on having a tiny Christmas celebration, just the two of you, before he’s off to Manchester and you’re on a plane to your parents. You’re going to put on matching pajamas and sit by the Christmas tree and eat a shit-ton of snacks, because you’re both adults who can do what you want, and what you want to do is gorge yourselves on everything you definitely shouldn’t have.

So here you are, a week before Christmas, all cozy at home exchanging gifts and giggling about what comes after presents, which may may not be a variation of sexy Christmas that you stole from Keeley. 

“Open this one next,” you say, handing Jamie a particularly interesting package. 

You’re grinning, but there’s something sinister in your eyes. Jamie’s not sure what to make of it because it’s Christmas, or at least it almost is, so why are you looking at him like a cat that just ate the family goldfish?

He hesitantly takes the proffered package, perfectly wrapped in forest green with a bright white bow. He unwraps it carefully, sets the ribbon aside, and opens a box to reveal- 

A sweater. 

He exhales a little. Oh good, it’s just a sweater. But your eyes are still gleaming so he’s sure there’s more to it, especially because you’re practically vibrating from the effort of keeping yourself from laughing. 

Jamie pulls the sweater from the box and it unfolds, revealing the fact that it is a couple sizes too large for him. But you’ve obviously made it so he’s going to like it anyway. 

“Turn it around,” you say before he can give you his appreciation. Jamie complies, to reveal words stitched to the front in flowing script. 

this is our Get Along sweater

“Ask me what it’s for,” you command gleefully and Jamie’s pretty sure he’s never seen you this silly, so he bites. 

“Alright, what the fuck is this for?” he asks, matching your grin. 

You have to bite back a laugh. “Ok so remember how we talked about you being an only child? But I had siblings and our parents had to figure out creative ways to discipline us? One of the ways was a ‘get-along’ shirt. The two of us who were fighting had to wear the same shirt until we got over it. Sometimes it took like three or four hours. And one time, my mom managed to get three of us in one. It was hilarious.”

“Sounds like,” says Jamie. “Doubt you were in it very often. So is this for you and me, then?”

You sniff. “As if. Putting on clothes never solves our arguments. It’s for you and Roy.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before Jamie’s saying, “Fucking hell,” and you’re in stitches. 

“I already told Ted about it,” you manage to gasp out. “I’m really only showing it to you right now, because I’m dropping it off at Nelson Road as soon as the holiday is over.”

“Christ,” is all Jamie can come up with. His only consolation is that he can’t imagine how Ted could force him and Roy into this sweater. He might be more susceptible to caving, but Roy? No way. 

(In this moment, Jamie overlooks Roy’s fondness for you, as well as Ted’s extreme stubbornness when it comes to enforcing new policies he just made up.)

Ted sends you a photo of the sweater in action a week after they return.

[tswwwit]

Lol omg at your last ask because imagine dippers under some truth spell and ends up spilling a bunch of secrets that Bill already knew and had stashed to use for later

This is no longer 'last ask' relevant because I had this partially written in my drafts for like a million years - but a Truth spell on Dipper would be very interesting!

So I took this prompt and didn't really answer it except in some ways.

Here's a thing!

“You never bring me any souvenirs.” Bill complains. In an all-too-whiny tone, and an all-too-close lean into Dipper's personal space.

Plus, it's a blatant lie. One Dipper shouldn't respond to. 

He does anyway. “I literally brought you harpy feathers last week.” 

“Doesn’t count! That was for a ritual you wanted to pull off!” Bill sounds miffed, though he also plants a palm on Dipper’s head and starts ruffling hair. “Now where's the emerald from last March? Or like, the headdress from that cult with all the rabbit bones? The good stuff."

Dipper grunts. He focuses on navigating back out of the cave, turning the clay tablet over in his hands.

Figures Bill would remember all the times he did get something. His memory is excellent. And he’s greedy, because a new toy every time is a big ask. 

What does Bill expect, anyway. Not every situation Dipper gets into has something to bring back. What could he even offer? An ear taken off every monster he has to fight?

Wait, no. Bill would love that.

Dipper makes a face. “You've just proved that it's not ‘never’. With examples." 

"Sure, but when’s the last time it was cool?” 

Dipper sighs. No point in arguing. Bill could go on forever about how 'unfair' it is that he doesn't get trophies from every trip, or trinkets from conquered lands, or, again, ears from every enemy. When he’s decided to complain, no reasonable argument will shake him out of it.

“Too bad, then. You’re only getting some gifts.” Dipper shakes his head rapidly to dislodge Bill’s hand from his hair. "It’s hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to you."

“Hey! I could argue that it’s related! In fact -”

Dipper tunes out the rest of Bill’s ramble, rolling his eyes. Listening with half an ear to Bill's ongoing tirade about being a poorly kept man, and unappreciated in his time. 

Despite how much he already has, Bill always wants more. Somehow he sniffed out Dipper’s latest excursion, showing up right at the end and looking for ‘loot’.

Which Dipper, by all rights, should prevent. 

 Anything magical falling into Bill's hands can cause chaos, no matter how innocuous it seems. The flower incident alone is reason not to hand Bill anything, ever, and the fact that Dipper still does sometimes should be appreciated, damn it.

Bill's complaining on and on, but whatever. Eventually he'll get bored.

 In the meantime, Dipper turns the clay tablet around again with a frown. He found something interesting, at least.

Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a language he recognizes. The script is strange, scrawled in different directions. For all he knows he’s holding it upside down. He hopes Bill doesn’t notice until he’s figured out - 

"Whatcha got there?" Just as expected - and right on time. 

Dipper feels the tablet yanked out of his grasp, unfazed. He doesn't break his stride.

"I found it in the lair, after... you know." Charred bones, explosions - Dipper wishes he could use, like water, or something, but mastery over even one element is powerful as is. "Anyway, that monster was collecting a lot of weird magic stuff, and this was the only interesting thing it had." He shrugs. Then, because Bill will like it, adds, "So... to the victor go the spoils?"

“Now that’s the spirit!” Bill gives him a grin, holding the tablet up to squint at it. Thankfully not turning it around. One point for Dipper, on not looking incompetent.

Still, if anyone can read it…

“What language is this?” Dipper not-so-subtly leans over, trying to peek around Bill’s arm.

"Old Draconic," Bill says, without missing a beat. Humming to himself as he apparently reads the text. Perking up a bit, smile widening. "Oh, hey! Iambic pentameter."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, sapling. I just wish when people did the whole 'ancient poetry curse' thing, they'd get a little more creative. You never see hexameter! Or tetrameter! Not even a tasteful use of spondee.” Bill sticks his tongue out.  "Come to think of it - I don’t think anyone’s done a prose epic that made the reader wanna tear their eyes out since Joyce."

Sometimes with Bill, you have to read between the lines. The long, irrelevant babbling lines.

"Just tell me if I need to get Ford or not." Dipper says, flat. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

Among all the other stuff, Bill said ‘curse’. Never, ever a good sign.

Though the monster he just took down wasn’t a dragon, and that wasn’t really a ‘horde’ so much as something resembling the contents of the Mystery Shack, there’s absolutely no good thing about a curse. If Dipper somehow triggered it - 

Great. As if hanging around Bill alone didn’t invite enough bad fortune, he’s picking up parts of his own stupid curiosity.

"Nah, don’t bother with the loser uncle!" Bill waves his concern away, amused. “This is just purple prose! Buncha  ‘oooh, bad things’ll happen if you mess with my stuff.’ Totally boilerplate spellcraft with some flowery wording.” 

With a shrug, Bill dismisses the whole thing. Which includes chucking the tablet over his shoulder, but Dipper manages to snag it before it falls and shatters into a million pieces.

“Typical dragon horde enchantment. All bluster, no burning.” Bill keeps walking without a care in the world. “They’re full of hot air!”

“So I’m not cursed,” Dipper prompts, catching up to him. “Aside from you, I mean.”

“Flatterer,” Bill says, slightly warmer. He continues, shrugging. “No reason you would be! No dragons in the area, and the warning sign there’s too old. By my guess, the original horde was raided centuries ago! Just another piece of random crap that got dragged into that junkyard." And he ruffles Dipper’s hair again, in the second-most annoying way. "You’re stuck with me, though.”

Dipper ducks and twists, thus freeing himself from the minor torment. “I think I can live with that.”

One would think that chatting with a demon - one as cryptic and ominous and aggravating as Bill - would only cause irritation, at best. 

It still does, of course. But when it comes to Dipper, Bill… sometimes lays things out straight. On occasion. Especially when he’s instructing, doubly when it comes to magic. Like he’s trying to pour all the facts he can into Dipper’s brain, overfilling the cup.

If his goal is to overload this one mortal mind, though, he'll have to work a lot harder. 

Dipper gets out his notebook, while Bill looks away, and pretends he didn’t see it. Yet another poorly-veiled lesson, with Bill obviously trying to plant seeds re: actually casting curses. Tough luck managing that. His subtle lean towards chaos might escape the unwary, but to Dipper? Bill’s way too transparent.

The fact is, that Dipper absorbs things fast. Even Bill will admit it, sometimes without being prompted. 

That Includes stuff Bill doesn't even know he's teaching.

Bill’s also rambling on about historical curses, and how often these things backfire, or misfire. It’d almost sound like a series of unconnected, gossipy anecdotes, if it weren’t for the extra technical details. 

And Dipper’s not falling for it. As far as he's concerned, his first curse was his last one.

But then…

Even if he’s not going to use the knowledge, there's no reason not to learn it. Knowledge about making curses can also be used to break them, after all. Taking all the facts Bill smacked a ‘For Evil Purposes Only’ sticker on and using them to shatter an evil plan would be very satisfying.

They’re nearly out of the cave at this point, so Dipper figures it’s fine to let his guard down a bit. The monster's dead, all the traps were cleared out on the way in - everything should be fine.

He clicks his pen a couple times, and asks Bill to repeat that last thing, about the life drain. It gets a snort of amusement, but Bill’s more than happy to elaborate at length. Dipper struggles to keep up with Bill’s rapid-fire speech; he's trying to make this intentionally difficult, damn it.

Bill leads on with careless gestures and an uninterrupted stride. Getting ahead of Dipper by several meters, but Dipper’s got to note down what he says before he has to do something awful, like ask Bill to repeat himself.

Dipper is, in fact, so busy trying to write in shorthand, and walk, and not hit a stalactite with his face, all at the same time, that he sort of loses track of where he is.

And okay, maybe he trips over a rock slightly, and nearly faceplants, bonking against the sudden curve of a wall with a swear.

Dipper takes a step back, rubbing at his forehead. Annoying, but, whatever. There were a few traps around, but he pretty much cleared out the cave on the way in, so it’s probably - oh, hell.

Not fine, he dropped the stupid tablet.

Great. The only really interesting object, shattered into half a dozen pieces. So much from saving it from Bill; Dipper himself fumbled the bag.

He backs up to evaluate the damage -

The stone sinks under his foot, and something goes ‘click’.

With a start, Dipper raises a shield without thinking, arm jerking up as he wills his magic into the gesture. It's solid enough for something done on reflex, but an impact hits hard on his side, with sudden, stinging pain. 

And a pretty hard impact, at that. He didn’t get it solid enough, damn it, wasn’t expecting something physical -  

Dipper wheezes out a breath, slumping to the ground and clutching his stomach. 

Alright. So. He got most of the traps. 

He sits down, and lets his head thump back against the stone, teeth bared in a grimace. Stupid. Should have been paying attention. 

The commotion makes Bill turn his head, blinking at Dipper sitting on the ground. 

Then -  because he’s an asshole - he starts laughing. 

“I know I’m fascinating, sapling, but really?” He tuts, setting fists on his hips. “Not sure if I should be flattered that you’re obsessed with me, or disappointed that you’re dumb enough to walk right into a wall.”

Dipper sucks in a breath, gingerly touching his side. Doesn’t seem like - he glances down. Sure, it stings, and his shirt’s torn, a long, shallow cut on his stomach, just near the old scar. But that’s about it. Over to his side, an arrow rolls against the ground, stone head clicking against the ground.

Over by the cave mouth, Bill’s cackling. God, he’s a jerk sometimes. 

But he must not have seen the trap set off, too wrapped up in his own stupid bullshit, or he’d be less of one. Dipper knows that for a fact. Though he’d really, really prefer he’d never had that experience. 

“C’mon, kid. If you’re not even more brain damaged from your bump, let’s ditch this joint.” Bill jerks his head over his shoulder. 

Dipper hugs himself around the torso, grimacing. Not bothering to respond. His heart is still pounding, or he’d have a retort ready. Adrenaline’s helped him out in a lot of situations, but not with talking. He’ll get up when he’s ready.

“What, you smash your skull open or something?” Bill raises one arch eyebrow. 

Though Dipper knows why Bill’s like this, it’s still deeply annoying. He shakes his head in lieu of a reply. In a second, he’ll be calm enough to tell Bill exactly what he thinks of his incredibly poor bedside - and cave-side - manner. 

“Figures. Can’t leave you alone for five minutes without your guts spilling everywhere.” Bill clicks his tongue, folding his arms and stepping forward. “What’s the damage?”

“It hurts.” Dipper says, through gritted teeth. Then pauses. Wait, he meant to say - He shakes his head rapidly, only for more words to force themselves out, unbidden. “I got cut again.”

Again, not what he intended. Dipper lowers his chin, teeth clenched. What the hell, he shouldn’t have said that. Bill’s mocking aside, maybe he did hit his head a little too hard. Once Bill gets the mockery out of his system, he’s going to be a total pest about it, too.

With a huff, Dipper slumps. Settling in for a sulk, waiting for the next jab - But there’s no insult forthcoming. Or argument. 

In fact, Bill’s gone totally silent. Which is super weird. 

Dipper looks up at the cave entrance, expecting a comment or a question, or at least a huge grin. He tenses up, hunching over.

And meets a frozen, unsmiling face. 

Bill dropped his arms, they hang limp by his sides. His expression’s gone blank.

The next moment, he’s right in front of Dipper, kneeling and tugging at his arms with alarming urgency. 

“Alright, lemme see.” Bill’s face is very close. Though he’s trying to pull his arms away, Dipper resists out of sheer surprise. Bill growls, eye darting around until it lands on the arrow. “Oh for - Really can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Move.” 

Another pull, less hard this time. Like he’s trying to ease Dipper’s arms away.

“Wh- Hey!” Dipper plants a foot against Bill’s chest, but that hardly stops anything. He raises his arms. Holding them up, in fact, like he’s at gunpoint. Where’d this come from. “Don’t get upset, I’m fine.”

“Ha! Good one, sapling. Who’s upset, exactly?” Bill says, teeth bared, and in a deeply upset way. He tugs Dipper’s shirt, up, fingers tracing the cut before pressing into his stomach. “I’m just wondering if I need a replacement mortal this soon into your miserable existence. No big deal!”

Okay, this is too much. 

Dipper struggles up, despite Bill trying to shove him down again. Bracing himself on the cave wall, and glaring. “Calm down already.”

“I’m perfectly calm.” Bill says, through gritted teeth. At best he looks miffed, but he’s at least stopped trying to make Dipper lie down in the recovery position or whatever. With a glare, he tugs up Dipper’s shirt, prodding at the shallow cut. “What the hell, kid. I thought you said it hurt!”

“Ow.” Dipper’s stomach jumps at another poke. He smacks Bill’s hand away. “It does, alright? Quit poking.”

Bill doesn’t seem impressed. His fingers trail over the larger, older scar on Dipper’s left side, then glares at Dipper’s stomach like it’s insulted him. A beat, then - “You don’t usually complain.”

“I-” Okay, true. Dipper glares anyway. “Shut up.” 

He doesn’t complain because it’s the only option. For all that Bill whines and teases and taunts Dipper, all the time, about being some ‘fragile mortal meatsack’, already rotting before his eyes, he really doesn’t like it when it’s brought forcefully to his attention. 

God, he shouldn't have said anything. Ninety-five percent of the time, there isn’t any harm to mention. But when Dipper does ends up showing he is kind of… mortal, and it’s small, he just. Doesn’t bring it up. For all that they bicker all the time, he doesn’t like to make Bill upset.

Bill grunts, mouth turned down at the corners. He stands up quickly, folding his arms. His lip curls up in a sneer. “If you wanted attention, kid, there are way better ways to-”

Oh, fuck that. Dipper flips him off, and starts storming off. 

God, this is stupid. Whenever Dipper ever breaks a bone or something, he gets teased about being so weak and vulnerable. Which he is, but neither of them like the reminder. 

These days, it also comes with some weirdly maybe-sincere ‘kiss it better’ thing that Dipper then has to disinfect. A lot of hovering, and rambling commentary. Sometimes creative descriptions of how much worse it could have been, and Dipper never needed those, at any time. Bill gets oddly fixated on such random little moments, and it’s just -

Dipper doesn’t like it, is all. Bill gets the way he gets, it’s a lot, and it’s easier just to avoid it. If he were a different guy - a human guy, or even mostly-human monster- Dipper might try to talk to him about it.

But Bill’s a demon. Not normal, barely sane even on his best days, and worse, he’s Bill, so. That conversation would go precisely nowhere.

Behind him, he hears said demon approaching, fast. Stupid jerk. He should be as tall as his real form. That’d be fair. More accurate, too, and then Dipper could properly stomp off without Bill catching up so easily.

Already the bastard is by Dipper’s side. A tall, irritating presence. Hovering close without grabbing on, which adds to said irritation. 

Dipper leans away, but Bill catches him around the waist and drags him in.

“Don’t get so grumpy, sapling, you’re fine! A little nick in the outer layer rarely killed anyone since they invented antibiotics.” Though he pinches Dipper’s cheek, he yanks his head away with a grunt. Bill sighs. “Everything’s a-okay here! Looks like I don't have to find a replacement just yet.”

Bill’s an idiot. Dipper scoffs, though an unpleasant feeling crawls in his gut. “Oh yeah? Who would you replace me with?”

“Eh, not like I got anyone specific in mind.” Bill waves that off, nonchalant. “But I have options! Lots of options.” He bumps a hip against Dipper. “Keep that in mind before you go charging off into obvious traps.”

This goddamn liar. Dipper  elbows him in the side, because the asshole deserves it. 

Not that Dipper’s worried, or anything. From what little he’s heard of Bill’s exes in the demonic rumor mill - Bill’s been, as they say, less than successful. Already Dipper’s outstripped his longest by years.. Bill can lie day in and day out about his options, put on a brave face - but they both know he’s not going to find this again. Not easily. 

“Good luck finding another husband, asshole.” Dipper says with appropriate derision. It’s annoying that Bill even brought it up. There’s a good riposte in there, somewhere - but while his brain is coming up with an insult, his mouth runs on automatic. “But I was really worried that you would last week. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day until you sent a dick pic. It was weirdly comforting.”

Bill turns toward him with genuine surprise. He even blinks a few times, no retort emerging, and Dipper looks back at him with equal surprise. 

Until his mind catches up with what he just said. 

Dipper digs his heels in the ground, slamming to a halt. Clapping both hands to his mouth, eyes wide.

Beside him Bill nearly trips at the sudden stop, flailing for balance with a swear.

Shit, shit shit. Dipper really didn’t mean to say that. He knows Bill’s not looking around, that he’s not interested. Cynically, that he couldn’t manage it if he was. Last week was just a one-off anxiety, like all the others Dipper’s brain comes up with when it gets too much free time. Totally irrational, and really hard to stop fixating on.

Bill keeps staring. Not angry, just confused, for long enough that Dipper wants to shrink into the ground and melt into nothingness. 

Then he asks, “What the hell, Pine Tree?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know why I thought that. I don’t know why I said that.” Dipper cringes into himself, grimacing and ducking his head. He runs a hand over his slightly sweaty face. “I didn't even want you to know I got hurt.” 

At that, Bill snorts. “Oh, please. I’d have seen that first time I got your shirt off. You can’t keep secrets from me!” 

Dipper folds his arms, internally seething - and his stupid mouth moves to say,  “I’ve done it before.” 

This time, the silence is tense.

Dipper wipes his sweating forehead again, not daring to meet Bill’s eye. God he shouldn't have -

Before he can think, he blurts out, “I think something’s wrong.” 

“Probably!” Bill agrees, with a smile just a little too sharp. He takes Dipper’s face in both hands, eye narrowed. “Hold still a sec.”

As Bill’s eye flickers blue, and the magic between them surges -  Dipper squirms a bit, but. Well. If anything’s wrong with him - magically, anyway - Bill’s the best one to diagnose it..

Bill tilts his head to one side, then the other. After a moment, his mouth twists up into something unpleasant, eye glowing slightly brighter for an instant.

Then he sighs, and lets Dipper go. His expression is neutral, except for the slightest downturn of his mouth. His lips part like he’s about to speak, then twist up into a grimace.

Uh oh.

Whatever Bill saw, he didn’t like it.

“What?” Dipper pats his head, then his chest. If there was something weird, magically about him, he - wouldn’t be able to tell, actually. He’s too close to get a good look. Oh god, what if he did hit his head too hard, and something in his brain is bleeding, or worse. “Wait. Am I dying?”

“Worse! You’re telling the truth.” Bill claps his hands together. Though he’s smiling again, it’s brittle and annoyed. “Don’t suppose you know any curse breakers that aren’t your great-uncle?”

“Not really,” Dipper admits. Bill's words catch up to him, and he bites his lip. Then, because the situation deserves it, “Fuck.”

Protection curse. The tablet.

Damn it.

A part of a horde, from a long time ago. Messed with. It should have been something less awful. Like warts, or sprouting plants from his skin, or a big fireball. Pretty much anything else would be less awful.

Truth curses are rare, they’re difficult as hell - but judging by the words spilling out of Dipper, he’s caught a pretty strong variant.

Of all the curses that could hit him. Why this one.

Hell, maybe it’s intended to be the worst curse possible for the ‘thief’. That would explain how targeted this feels. 

And knowing Dipper’s luck, that part was explained on, like, the back of the tablet.

“Welp! Good thing I’m not short on contacts, kid.” Bill grapes his shoulder, shaking him a bit, before he trails an arm over Dipper’s shoulders. “Who wants some fumbling idiot uncle to fix this kinda spell, anyway?”

Dipper would! If it was feasible. He makes a brief attempt at shrugging Bill’s arm up before letting his shoulders slump.

The idea of Ford hearing about this is….

Dipper sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Ford really would have a way around this. He'd certainly have the best intentions, Dipper’s certain. He'd...

Also not have the best sense of boundaries.

Though he'd be doing it for the right reasons, he'd ask the wrong questions. Out of concern, and arguably valid worry; he's never fully believed that Bill can't influence him. Despite how many times Dipper’s tried to explain it to him, Ford just can’t wrap his mind around certain truths.

With this curse, though. Between poor social sense, the Pines curiosity, and what Dipper might blurt out, while compelled to answer - 

On this, Dipper agrees with Bill. They’ll have to find something else to break this.

In the meantime, he’ll manage, like he has all the other times his life has sucked. Hardly the worst case scenario. If Bill had been cursed - someone who lies like he breathes -  Who knows? Give it a few days, and he might just explode from all the backed up bullshit.

“Wait.” A horrible thought strikes. Dipper reels on his husband, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“What, me? I’m a perfectly moral human man,” Bill says, resting a hand on his chest, lifting his chin with pride. “A boring sentient mammal who’s never found curses entertaining.” 

Yep, Bill’s fine. As always, it’s Dipper who gets the short end of the stick. 

He breathes in slowly, and lets it out. 

Yeah. Still sucks. He’ll deal. Cursed, but not dead. In danger, but not the worst - and his husband’s being annoying, which means he’s perfectly fine. There’s a solution too - it’s just going to be a huge, annoying process getting to it. 

“So,” Bill says, slowly. Drawing the word out in a long string, while he finger-walks his arm up around Dipper’s shoulder.

Uh oh.

Speaking of annoying…

“Watch it,” Dipper hunches his shoulders, not daring to look his idiot husband in the eye. “You’re this close to sleeping on the couch for a month.” Not a big enough threat, Bill’s still thinking- “Or for a year.”

“Oh, sure,” Bill says, in a distracted tone. His fingers pause on their walk, one ‘leg’ poised on Dipper’s clavicle. They hold the position for a long moment, tapping out a little marching step - and seconds later, his palm slaps down on Dipper’s shoulder. “So, Pine Tree! How do you feel about this ‘Bill Cipher’ guy?”

Though Dipper resists, and he really tries to, the words slip out past his teeth, his lips form the sounds -

“I love you.” God. Damnit. He clenches his fists, as Bill’s sheer smugness radiates from him like heat. “And I’m thinking about shoving you off a cliff right now.”

When Bill paused, Dipper thought he might have fended this off. Wishful thinking, really, Bill’s almost impossible to stop. Dipper used what leverage he had, but all he’s managed to avoid are the worst, most invasive questions.

When it comes to Bill, that’s pretty close to a win.

Not that it’s going to feel like one.

Bill has, in fact, been encouraged. Now that he’s heard something he likes, he leans in like a weird creep. Dipper can practically hear the leer in his voice. “And on a scale of one to ten, how handsome am I?

“Ten point five,” Dipper needs to loosen his jaw or he might break a filling. Being pumped for information is bad enough without pumping up Bill’s already ridiculous ego. “You bastard.” 

Bill’s chest puffs out, there’s a strut in his stride. The grin is so wide now Dipper’s pretty sure it should hurt- and if he dares to pucker up, he’s not getting lips on his awful face.  “And am I the most clever and sexually amazing guy in the universe or what?

This time, Dipper snorts. 

“Definitely not.” He ignores the sharp, indignant sound next to him, tilting his head in thought. “For one, there’s succubi and incubi, so. Sexually, you’re not even on top amongst demons.” He glances over at the offended ‘o’ of Bill’s mouth. “And I know you’re not the most clever, because I win our debates nearly half the time. Maybe you’re up there, but not the most. And that’s just the surface level stuff.”

Dipper doesn’t have a complete cosmological view of the multiverse, but he has learned a lot. Mostly stuff he picked up from his husband, and demonic gossip. It’s absolutely enough to go on a long, long ramble about how Bill most likely doesn’t rank number one in anything. If Dipper avoids the topics where he actually is.

He’s barely fifteen seconds in before Bill starts scowling, with a grumpy hunch to his shoulders - But screw him. 

Dipper starts smiling, just a bit. Then, to be a dick, he adds, 

“The ten and a half is just me, anyway. To the average human, you’re maybe an eight..” Dipper continues, over another spluttered protest. Again, true; not everyone likes the slightly inhuman maniac cyclops look. “Six with your personality.” 

Bill groans. “Ugh, you pedant.” He squeezes Dipper’s shoulder, jostling him slightly. “C’mon, you know what I meant! What’s the real - “

“Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle the answers,” Dipper warns, jabbing Bill in the chest. So far it hasn’t been too much, but it could be. Time to draw a line. “I will suck so much fun out of this for you.” 

Bill Cipher, unintentional teacher once more. Now Dipper knows the curse isn’t about perfect truth. When he can deliberately misinterpret a question’s intent, and can go on tangents  - that means he has loopholes. There might even be more, if he tries.

And if they can’t get this settled soon, he’ll need every one of those he can find.

“Clever brat.” Bill’s frowning, but he can’t disguise the amusement in his voice. His eyebrows wiggle, his arm hauling him close -  "Go ahead, then. Anything else you wanna share?"

"I know two and half ways to kill you, Bill Cipher." Dipper gets right up in his face. He won’t let Bill push this any further. "Don't tempt me to use them."

Being face to face like this, Dipper watches Bill’s eye go wide - ha, didn’t expect that, did he. With that threat, he’ll - 

Start cackling. And weirdly, turn a little pink. Dipper feels all the momentum he had whoosh out of him like sad balloon animal. 

“Boy, you are a saucy one!” Bill whistles, low. He places his hands demurely on his cheeks, fluttering his eye at Dipper with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Talk deadly to me.”

By this time, Dipper figures he should be used to stumbling into demonic flirtation. Only it turns out it’s basically fractal in nature, and he keeps running into new and newer edge cases.

“Fun as this is - we gotta get you cleared up, and no time like the present!” Bill’s calmed down enough to scoop an arm around his waist, leading Dipper onward. “Can’t have you babbling everything to everyone, y’know?”

“What, you don’t want me telling you everything?” Total bullshit. Dipper elbows him in the side. “I thought you wanted to get in my head.”

“Hey! I didn’t ask for our game to be set on ‘beginner’ mode. That’s boring.” Bill flicks his fingers - but he’s got his ‘evading questions’ look on. “You’re lucky I’m so- oof.”

Another elbow, harder this time. Bill grunts, but capitulates. Rubbing at his eye briefly, he sighs.

“So! How many of my secrets would you say you know, Pine Tree?” Bill tightens his grip on Dipper’s waist, tugging him closer. “And I’m talking about the ones that I wouldn’t enjoy getting out in the world.”

“More than I can count.” Dipper says without thinking. Then, with thinking -  “Oh.”

Dipper hadn’t considered how much Bill’s taught him, before this exact moment. How much he’s learned. Even unintentionally. Especially unintentionally. 

Crap, even his threat before was kind of - 

Shit. There’s definitely, absolutely, no way can they go to Ford about this. Total recipe for disaster.

“See? We both got liabilities in play here.” Bill moves easily as Dipper picks up the pace. If anything he’s amused, and not feeling nearly as urgent. Another reason he’s an idiot. “All we gotta do is get you patched up quick, and no more loose lips sinking ships! Easy-peasy.”

“It better be,” Dipper mutters. Nothing ever goes right for him. And by extension, them.

“Trust me, kid! I got this handled!” Bill snaps his fingers - and smacks Dipper’s butt with a wink. “I know some guys!”

[gaylordscooter]

Log of the Multiverse entry number ???

the "star sanses" have been together for a few months now—well, back together. we're supposedly a group that "protects the multiverse". I say "supposedly" because that's what people tend to assume, but honestly the truthfulness of that assumption depends on your definition of "protecting" the multiverse.

to ink, it's keeping the "creators" interests in mind, i.e. keep things on script. (which isn't as simple as it sounds, apparently. i've been paying attention to loopholes—most prominent ones being "outcode" characters who are free of a script in theory because they aren't attached to an au. but most outcodes mess with other au's scripts so theoretically ink should get rid of as many outcodes as he can, but that would be going against their creators's wishes. my hypothesis is that outcodes tend to trump the script of incode universes, which is a flawed hypothesis because i think ink isn't actually able to alter scripts—but i digress)

right, i started writing this because dream and ink had an argument.

are having an argument actually, i can still hear them.

ok hang on ink's comingover to me right now

ink kinda dropped me off at swap's place for my safety, i think.

HELLO, MY TWIN'S DIARY!

that was swap (he's more of another me than a twin.). alsothis isn't a diary. he's reading over my shoulder insisting it's a diary givemeasecond

OKAY. so aruging arguing. arguemnebt. what was i writing about again

their argument. dream and ink found that they have a...difference in nnnnnnnnnnnnn i lost my train of thought again

morals? goals? goals. morals. whatever

workplace differences I Guess.

Basically. these scripts that ink's making sure goes according to the scripts (i dont think that makes sense) Making Sure The Scripts Aren't Interrupted/Changed. man i am bad atartic articacuting AT ARTICULATING. things

AND dream (see entry on dream) obviously wants people to be happy because guardian of positivity and what-not, he already wrote about that in a previous entry i don't need to repeat it but i will because i already lost my train of thought im blaming swap he's distracting me. he insists he's not but he is looking over my shoulder im getting stage fright im looking him in the eyes right now STOP READING THIS

okay. he left the room to make some food. i expect a housefire soon i'll make this quick

people write sad stories. is what im getting at. ink wants these people's stories to play out properly. dream wants people to be happy so he doesn't want the sad part of the story to happen.

i write "story" but y'know these are real events that happen in that universe. real to us, i suppose. not to the creators. how the hell does ink not get existential about this. i think he'd be more insane if he had a soul—error's an example of that actually (if you can count him having a soul??)

housefire soon stay on topic.

so then i thought "is this it? is the group disbanding?" but the argument took a turn. dream doesn't process negative emotions, to my knowledge, so an argument with him doesn't last long because he kinda just...gives up?? it's kinda sad honestly.

but this time it was like he was arguing with himself. if i had to guess it was because of cognitive dissonance. he gets kinda l, how should i say this, weird? when he can't make everyone happy and this was one of those times (because it's keep sad story please creators or make sad story unsad but go against the creators). by the time ink took me here, dream was hardly even focused on either of us.

(i smell smoke.)

point is. i don't know if dream's doing the "right" thing by trying to make everyone happy? maybe too much positivity is bad. as weird as that sounds. like, there has to be a reason there's also a guardian of negativity.

[tenok]

Still fuming about «Crowley’s so queer it makes Aziraphale looks straight» take. I saw some people saying «queer is not a political identity» as an argument against it... and actually I disagree. Queer is an identity that’s as much about politics and community as is about gender and orientation. «Queer as in fuck you» indeed! And while I’m pretty sure that if you’ll ask Aziraphale he will say that he’s queer because mentally he still in times where it was term preferred by community as whole (or he’ll say that «gay» is his gender because he still links gender and orientation together and it’s a habit thats hard to break), I’ll argue that he’s definitely queer by definition. And I won’t say that one of them more or less queer, I want to vomit just from thinking this, but he and Crowley definitely different flavors of queer; and the point is community.

See, the Crowley we see is not the very community-oriented being. He despises angels and demons alike, he’s not close with humans, through whole series we saw him connected with Aziraphale, maybe Warlock, Shadwell to some point and only as a subordinate he’s not really interested in (Aziraphale actually remembered all the names of soldiers Shadwell pulled from his ass, on the other hand [book, also in script if I remember correctly]). But for Aziraphale community is the whole deal. He links himself to communities: community of book collectors, for example ([in book at least]), community of angels (even in season two he regretfully said that he misses reporting back to his lot), as soon as he put his roots there he become part of British and specifically London community (immediately clocked as British by everyone, for better or for worse). And he’s clearly consider himself and considered by others as part of queer community. For example:

He’s clocked as specifically effeminate gay man (which is part of queer umbrella oh my god stop misuse of political slogans gay are not some kind of others that are lesser for being gay!!!) by everyone, to the point of getting called homophobic slurs (twice in book, once in series) and being targeted by literal Nazis. He’s not arguing or denying, he reclaims it: he’s not calling himself gay, he’s proudly declaring that he’s THE southern pansy (not very «hurray establishment» of him hmmm?). He looks so gay and safe that cemetery man from season 2 doesn’t see a problem in telling him he uses grindr!

Tied to this: he can present as anyone else, he chooses to look soft, gay, effeminate, he chooses to make silly sounds and flamboyant gestures, and as soon as he gets comfortable he likes to go a little campy (can you imagine Crowley in ribbons and frills? do we see male-presenting Crowley in pink silky shoes? would he fight to the death before you put him into pencil-drawen moustache and bright cape with shiny starts? yes he’s GNC! there’s more then one way to be GNC and one is not better then other because it’s in black and sexy!). I’ll argue that him choosing one comfortable presentation and stick to this is no less groundbreaking by heavens standards then «hoarding all the genders» since he’s not treats his corporation as «meat suite», he really had an identity tied to it!

And using this identity he becomes part of 100 guineas club. Part of gay/queer (it was in times where this distinction was meaningless) community with fellow queers, where he learned queer ways, such as dances, becoming part of queer culture as a whole (and should I remind you that back in days drag was mandatory part of such clubs? if we measuring queerness by how close it to cross-dressing apparently). He also collects literature by queer authors, immersing himself in this culture, again. Do I remember correctly that Oscar Wilde gifted him one of his books specifically? So we can safely assume he hangs with queer authors as well? Correct me if it’s not in canon (I’m freely mixing tv and book canon there btw although usually I treat them as two different things)

He also lives in Soho. He specifically chooses to live there, knowing perfectly well what a neighborhood it is (even back in 1600s it already had a Reputation). He knows what it says about him and he aims for it! (Crowley lives in Mayfair because it says something about him too — remember that while Aziraphale constructed himself around being soft and gay, Crowley intentionally made himself look as irrating rich asshole. If this asshole has vibes of sinister gay that would gladly corrupt you if you ask nicely, that’s another story) He is a part of this community! As a word of god, he: speaks Polari freely because he used it… with other queers (as oppose to Crowley that knows «bits» because he hangs out with criminals); he hide incriminating things from fellow Soho residents back when there were police raids (breaking law to help those in need is reacurring theme with him!). He still part of this community, he knows people, people knows him, he literally gives place to lesbian women for free so she can have her dream shop (supporting your local queer business!) (also great call back to Edingurg minisode! Aziraphale, personal saint of broke lesbians!)

I’ll also argue that letting in first Gabriel and next Muriel was a very queer of him. Queers help other queers: he may not like Gabriel, but «he has no other friends» (and he's homeless after being kicked out from heavens after disaster forbidden love affair with other queer being, hmmm? paralleles with reality of being queer much?), so he steps in. And Muriel, while being the same age as those two (we're NOT child-coding Muriel in this house), vibes as queer youth in needs of guidance, and Aziraphale, that had every right to be suspicious and cold to them, immediately lets them into safety of his shop and tries to be nice and supporting in both older queer and older ND cousin way.

So, in conclusion: Aziraphale is a queer being, that likes to make it clear that he’s queer and queer GNC man specifically; he’s part of queer community for at least couple hundred of years, participant in queer culture, and he watches out for other queers, helping his own as much as he can, using his money and other resources and breaking law to do so when needed. What there can make him look straight even as a joke?

Crowley is absolutely a queer being too, in very queer love with other queer being, and I'm sure he has a blast pocking into rules and boundaries of genders, orientations and all kinds of relationships since he loves questioning and testing so much. He also has a cool rebellious aesthetic and «fuck all» attitude, so it’s understandable that he becomes tumblrs queer icon (and being played by David Tennant helps for sure). But if you ask them both where’s local shelter for homeless queers located, one of them will have an answer and it won’t be a Crowley, or he wouldn’t sleep in his car (I'm joking), and this is as much of the part of being queer as having cool aesthetic or being kicked from home (I'm joking again). And it's a shame that some people want to make a competention out of it, because it gives us infinity possibilities to discuss their different experiences and choices, down to what their respective aesthetic choices says about them, and how they can use their strong sides to support each other! But alas.

[crooked-wasteland]

Hazbin Hotel Live Blog: Hello Rosie

I’ve realized that I spent a long time belaboring the accomplishments of other writers, but I don’t think I ever touched on Ariel Ladensohn. Responsible for the episodes Scrambled Eggs and Hello Rosie, she is credited for shows like Solar Opposites and Futurama, however she has only written a single episode for the Futurama reboot that I can find whereas she is a producer for the show otherwise. Meanwhile, she has minor, single episode writing credits for series like My Little Pony Friendship is magic in 2019 (A Horse Shoe-in), and Clifford the Big Red Dog. In fact, the most credit to her name is under Justin Roiland’s Solar Opposites where she started as a consistent script writer and eventually entered middle management as a story editor. She has a family history within show business through her mother Cybill Sheperd, a well-known celebrity and model of the previous generations. Based on Scrambled Eggs, I will say that episode feels like Justin Roiland fare, and I don’t expect much different from this episode.

Even the series seems self aware at times with Angel Dust proclaiming all of Charlie’s ideas thus so far being failures and Husk even pointing out that the more Charlie tries to do, the worse it gets for everyone else. Charlie lives in this place of protection because of Lucifer, supposedly. This idea that Lucifer is trying to protect her and it’s why she is never in danger during the exterminations isn’t one I’ve actually seen confirmed in the show in any way. It’s alluded to, but with how much of the show is unspoken and outright fabricated with deceit being framed in the last episode as “It’s a lie because otherwise nothing makes sense” when the world building as a whole doesn’t make any sense, I don’t trust the show. I don’t trust the show or writers to know what they are talking about and reluctant to give them any grace in that way. Seven episodes into an 8 episode series and all you’ve accomplished is confusing me. Has Charlie ever even been helpful? We still don’t know what progress is supposed to look like. And we are supposed to think Angel Dust in episode 4 sees Charlie as a friend he can protect while she’s still the Princess of Hell for one and, two, here we see him lamenting her meddling entirely. No one has faith in her but Vaggie, and even then, having faith in Charlie is her entire personality.

Side point, but Vaggie adding”In our room” didn’t sound or feel like she was sad. Rather, we just added that line for some reason? Am I supposed to get the vibe that Charlie and her are broken up in some way from the angel reveal? Or is this the dialogue stating out loud that it is their shared room and that they are in fact a couple because otherwise there is massive room for doubt due to how sanitized the lesbian relationship is in this series. I don’t know, I can’t tell, both can be true because there is so much and yet nothing at all in this series on every level.

If only the show actually showed that the Egg Bois were unreliable narrators at some point. Instead the few times we see them it is that they have difficulty following orders. Not that they actually are unreliable in everything.

So going back to this massive plot point of Angels only being harmed by Angelic weapons, like I said last post, this huge reveal fails to land or build any interest for numerous reasons. For one, Carmilla’s whole business is arms dealing with angelic weapons that Angels just leave behind. Like, a cornerstone of the lore of Hazbin is that angelic weapons are just dumped like litter into Hell every extermination, so one would think that if angelic weapons are the only thing capable or harming angels, Sera would have had a very tight rule about making sure all these weapons are returned to Heaven for their own safety. Even if you want to make the argument Adam and Lute don’t know this, Sera definitely would. And her entire hope for keeping Heaven safe is entirely negated because Adam’s goons are just supplying Hell with the only weapons that can kill angels every year. Second, as stated previously, Vaggie was injured by angelic weapons when Lute attacked her and carved out her eye. It makes no sense that she wouldn’t know the power of angelic weapons. Point three, Vaggie’s wings were torn off by Lute’s bare hands. I’m reminded of Dan Olsen’s video essay The Art of Editing and Suicide Squad where he talks about the use of the Unicorn plushy in the film and the way a narrative must reinforce an idea for these sort of plot points to be effective.

“Then, in the tower brawl, Captain Boomerang is wrestling with a tar monster who stabs him right in the heart. And for a second you go ‘oh no!’- but, Being a savvy and attentive viewer, you immediately go ‘ah wait, the unicorn!’ And you pat yourself in the back as Boomerang pulls out the knife stuck in a wad of money.”

This feels like the Suicide Squad Unicorn situation. There is so much going on and no one in the room was able to catch these contradictions in the production. By the narrative denaturing on such a foundational world building level, the weight of every reveal and plot point is about the equivalent of a paper ball. It fails to ground the world, abide by its own rules, and thus never succeeds as a show. It is a concept that never pounded out the impurities and results in a confusing waste of time.

Wait, did Charlie forget about Cannibalism Town? Episode one she made a point to declare it in the song and how everyone was bright and smiling. So it shows an understanding of what foreshadowing is as a concept, but because no one else remembers or knows anything about Cannibal Town, Ariel was forced to reintroduce the setting in such a way that feels like bad writing. My point is, Ariel is doing the best she can here, the issue lies with Medrano and how she drew attention to Cannibal Town when it wasn’t relevant but never reinforced the plot point. Again, the unicorn plush situation pops up. Because she failed to incorporate Cannibal Town throughout the series, we needed this whiplash redo of the setting to actually immerse the audience in a way that makes narrative sense. Ariel is doing the best she can and it should be noted that this was the best way to rush this plot point because Medrano did nothing she needed to do up to this moment. Cannibal Town needed to be explored a little every episode and incorporated in all of the plots for this to work. By just announcing it in the first episode to try and hint this was going to be important, and then go another 2 and a half hours of content with no reminders at all, Ariel’s only hope was making this a plot hole to try and smooth over the train wreck this whole aspect of the show turned into.

In fact, I just remembered Ariel did Scrambled Eggs, which would have been perfect to set up the reminder of Cannibal Town and its importance by focusing on Rosie. Instead, the episode focused on Zestial and having him and Alastor catch up when it very obviously should have been Rosie for this specific purpose. Was Kritzer more expensive than James? Why focus on this character so long when all he serves is as a vessel to Carmella confessing her involvement in the killing when Rosie is far more important a player? I’m not saying they should have cut him out entirely, but that time would have been better suited with giving Rosie more to do.

My nitpick of the episode is that Rosie’s voice and character bothers me and rips me out of any level of immersion I could have. The accent is noticeably fake to the point it is distracting and the dialogue and pacing is so paint by numbers Jewish mother stereotype that is actually feels too slow. If this makes sense, she isn’t delivering the lines fast enough for it not to feel like a blatant caricature. It’s a stereotype that feels like a stereotype because it hits just off the mark ever so slightly that it draws all the more attention to it. For a show with breakneck pacing, these scenes drag and it is due to the delivery entirely. And before someone does attempt to argue the actress, Leslie Kritzer, is in fact Jewish, yes, she is half Jewish on her father’s side with a Puerto Rican mother. Kritzer was raised Catholic and was not privy to the Jewish Mother character growing up, despite being ethnically half Jewish. That does matter.

The terrifying thing is how the whole negotiation scene with Rosie is so rushed. She says she likes Charlie’s moxie when all Charlie has done is have the prelude of a mental breakdown in front of her. She made it clear how everything is her fault, how everyone she cares for is in danger and pretty much doomed. The literal definition of Moxie is “Force of character or determination” when all Rosie has seen is Charlie actively caving under the weight of everything. That is, in fact, the opposite of moxie. Sure, we have seen her stand up to Sera and stand up for her beliefs, but Rosie has not. This is a common issue in Medrano’s writing where she fails to know which characters know what. They are ignorant when it is convenient and just as equally omnipotent when required. And, like I said, they also feel too slow. The delivery is just too slow and the scenes are too fast, too much happens when it makes no sense and everything just feels like a waste of time.

I just realized why this scene feels like such a waste of time: it lacks tension. The sequence where Rosie walks up to Alastor is such a wide shot, her asking about his plan bears no weight. This is genuinely some of the worst scene composition. This is an expensive shot with Charlie, Rosie and Alastor as well as the need to use filler background characters in the corner to make the space feel lived-in. But this whole issue would have been resolved by utilizing he exact scene direction that follows. Have Rosie close the distance between her and Alastor and have it cut to a 1/3rd body shot of the two. Have Charlie cut from the scene as neither are even acknowledging her in this moment and it shows how Alastor and Rosie see her as a child, ignoring her despite being the princess of Hell. Have Rosie’s approach be an over-shoulder closeup from Alastor’s side, and instead of cutting off Rosie’s face, have the characters get closer together as the camera zooms in. Make the connection between Alastor and Rosie stronger so her words feel slightly ominous when she says “Alastor has never done me wrong before”. Where you wonder if you can trust Rosie, or if maybe Rosie doesn’t really trust Alastor and is giving a subtle warning. The utter lack of nonverbal storytelling sucks all depth and nuance out of the episode.

Carmella is a top tier character in a woefully subpar story. She is everything its clear Medrano’s wishes Alastor was. She is intimidating and intelligent. It tips a bit too far into ludicrous levels of knowledge that, if thought about, feels like it is the writer cheating. And it is. This absolutely is cheating, because the characters who should know Vaggie is an angel, for example, don’t. Alastor, Charlie, and Lucifer are either totally ignorant of Vaggie being an angel or are playing stupid. The reason Carmella has made is that it benefits her to not draw attention to herself, but Alastor should be able to make the same level of inference on Vaggie and doesn’t. To say he does but says nothing makes no sense because he could have been playing puppet master this whole time by using Vaggie’s angel status to control her and/or Charlie in any number of ways. And if anyone would know about Vaggie, it should be Lucifer. And Lucifer should be distrusting of Vaggie at the least. So Carmella is a cool character, but if we really think about it, it’s obvious that she’s just OP to serve a purpose in the plot.

I love Carmella’s long hair design, but the hair just is down in a microsecond of a scene. It was a change in a single frame that went by faster than a blink. It needed to have more emphasis for the reason to be understood: Vaggie is making excuses. It doesn’t translate clearly that Carmella is trying to pull the “equal footing” trope because there was no weight to her letting her hair down. It needed to at least be given a second to focus, not even a verbal acknowledgment, but just have Carmella let down her hair and make eye contact for a second before beating Vaggie up further.

I feel the need to have a small personal rant here, I have ballroom experience, I am also a Latino. The scene and song were ideally set to have a partner-based dance influence. I mainly dance waltz, but I feel a tango was ideal for this sort of song. The beat is too slow for a salsa. There are many different types of Latin dances to choose from (cha cha, salsa, tango, samba). The lack of appropriate Latin influences for a Latina coded character who is also heavily inspired by dancers, and yet none of the proper dance influences were taken advantage of. This entire character concept was fumbled hard. On top of it all, by not selecting a coherent dance style, the fight-dance choreography doesn’t make use of each person’s different strengths. Carmella uses her legs as her weapons while Vaggie has her spear in her arms. So Vaggie mirroring Carmella does nothing to improve her understanding of combat.

Steven Universe focused its use of music to individual instruments. Garnet was a synth bass instrument which heavily influenced her entire character design. Synth Basses are the backbone for many contemporary music genres, especially hip-hop. And Garnet’s character design from being black-coded to her dance style being Waacking, a form of street dance associated with the gay disco clubs of 1970s LA, specifically credited to black choreographer Tyrone Proctor. This is how you utilize ethnic coding in an animated musical. Instead, Carmella is Latina-coded with a Spanish guitar as her musical motif, with very specific native latin American motifs to her movements like maracas and a jaguar with a ballet style dance. This is a cacophony of influence with no understanding of any of them being forced together in a Frankenstein amalgamation of disappointment. Especially the minor use of maracas in Carmella’s character as they are very unique and important to Mexican and Latin culture.

Charlie’s feelings about Vaggie comes off extremely selfish. Vaggie was an exorcist which is hinted at to be a human soul, which means her neglecting to tell Charlie she was an exorcist wasn’t a lie. She was a fallen soul by that point, just like any other person in Hell. She has a history like the rest of them, but her time in heaven would be just a relevant as her time alive, which the show has made clear doesn’t matter to anyone in the series. So having Charlie need this sort of pep talk shows why her hotel is a failure more than anything: she doesn’t really believe in anything she is saying. As a concept, sure, but in practice, her sense of redemption has never previously required confession. Only when she feels entitled to another person does it suddenly matter. She doesn’t care about who Angel Dust or Sir Pentious were before coming to the hotel. Them killing other sinners doesn’t affect her at all. It is only when it’s someone she feels personally entitled to, or a sense of ownership over, that suddenly someone’s past matters. And that’s hypocritical. In fact, it goes deeper still in how Charlie is only interested in who Vaggie was before and no one else, but that comes from a sense of owning Vaggie. Everyone else, Charlie rejects on a fundamental value. Angel Dust’s hypersexuality is uncomfortable for her and she wishes he wasn’t that way. Nifty’s sadistic weirdness is uncomfortable for her and she wants that to change too. Husk’s aloof alcoholism is also a problem for her. Even with the Cannibals, she demands them to change (tone it down) to fit her sensibilities even as she is asking them to possibly die for her. I have seen people claim that the whole criticism of Heaven is hypocricy, I’ve said before it isn’t. I’ll assert it again: Heaven isn’t the hypocrite, Charlie is.

The first thing I said upon finishing this episode was “I would have rather seen the episode of Angel, Pent, Nifty, and Husk resolving to stick together despite thinking they had been abandoned. The character drama and the conclusion of them really coming together would have been far more intimate and cathartic than seeing Charlie and Vaggie “make up” by talking with complete strangers.

3/10

[rqgnarok]

catalogue - sam wilson

fandom: marvel, the falcon & the winter soldier

wc: 4,368

warnings: implied smut, mentions of injuries and scars, blood and bruises. neutral pronouns, no use of (y/n).

summary: you and sam don’t get to see each other often, but when you do, there’s a ritual you insist on going through to deal with your time apart. 

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

You’re a sight for Sam’s sore eyes. 

He hasn’t seen you in over six months. It’s an occupational hazard, he knows, but it’s the worst. Being the Falcon made his personal life take a step back in his list of priorities, and becoming Captain America meant setting the list on fire and declaring Sam Wilson’s downtime practically nonexistent. As far as he’s aware, Sarah and the boys are the only exceptions to the rule.

It’s not all on him. You’re an Avenger, too, even if you’re semi-retired. Semi, because the new kids still look for guidance as much as they can and you still keep a room at the Avengers compound because of it, even if scarcely decorated. 

You make your entrance by scaring the shit out of him because of course, you have to. 

“Is this what you call watching your six?”

Sam puffs out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. It’s always an interesting mix of emotions with you, Sam has never felt so safe and yet unbalanced than when he’s in your presence. It creates a sort of vacuum in his belly that has him feeling like a kid with a crush, but he’ll die before he ever admits that to anyone. Especially you.

“You know you don’t have to sneak up on me every time.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, raising your brows and extending a hand that Sam takes to haul himself back on his feet. You click your tongue. “Gotta say, though, it’s a little less charming now that you’re Captain America. Where does that leave national security?”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he’s about to give himself a headache, dusting off his ass and giving you a quick once-over, taking advantage of your sudden closeness to do so freely. “Thank Jesus the world still has you, then.”

“Only half time,” you shrug, unaware that Sam knows you’ve spent more time at the Avengers compound than your own apartment lately. If he has a few eyes that check up on you when you’re there, well. It’s only cause he worries. “You and Barnes playing in the Big Leagues leaves a lot of unfinished business for little guys like us.”

“Says the little guy who’s been to space,” Sam uses the same argument he always does when you try to downplay your importance in the job you do. It’s like a script, these meetings of yours, always under the excuse of responsibility until it’s not– until the conversation flows into what Sam has been aching for since the last time he saw you. 

You roll your eyes like he knew you would. You’ve been an Avenger since before they had the name for it, so if anyone deserves the semi-retirement, Sam concedes, it’s gotta be you. He won’t pretend it won’t be a big hit when you choose to walk away completely, though. Whether that’s to the business or Sam’s life, well. That’s another conversation.

He misses you. It’s hardly a crime. 

“And they’ve still got us doing intel like we’re rookies,” you shrug, lessening your significance anyway. As if you weren’t up there in the cosmos chasing after freaking Thanos, but Sam won’t argue with you about this. You already spend so little time together to waste it building conflicts between you.

“Please,” Sam’s a professional, so he doesn’t make a bitchface and say girl with disbelief coating his tone, but judging from the amusement that glints in your eyes, you read through the lines with ease. “Like we’d let the children anywhere near this.”

“Okay, Dad,” you snort. “How are Torres and Barnes anyway?”

“The kid and his grandpa are fine,” he goes for annoyed but his grin is boyish and unrestrained. “Jealous they weren’t authorized to drop by. This is practically a vacation, you know.”

You shake your head, but all in good fun. “If your bosses have you thinking that then you desperately need some real downtime.”

“This is as close as it gets, these days.” 

Torres had flown him all the way to Switzerland just so Sam could go and spend a few weeks in a rustic, semi-abandoned town on the outskirts of the city where an old SHIELD safehouse still stood against all odds. 

Why he had to go to the other side of the world for some intel, he asked and got no answer. Now it comes to mind how he has no idea where you– his contact– have been stationed lately nor what kind of work you’ve been pulling for whoever it is you answer to these days.

You don’t tell him about it, and he’s quit on trying to ask. Whether it’s because you don’t think he’ll approve of what you’re doing or because it’s strictly classified, Sam doesn’t know. 

“Blink twice if they’re holding you hostage,” you say in all seriousness, and he peels his eyes at you without blinking, getting close to your face. You laugh, pushing him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re one with the nation. Let me show you these files and see what Mr. America makes of ‘em.”

The physical files you actually bring with you are minimal, and most of the data you’ve been ordered to skim through is kept in a USB you hand to Sam as soon as the coffee has kicked in. Neither of you are exactly sure what it is you’re looking for so you’re stuck in the studio of the tiny, look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-crumble safe house for over three whole days before you finally start gathering some worthy intel.

“I was told we’d known when we found it,” you shrug, not visibly bothered by the fact that you’ve most likely been sent on a wild goose chase. “Or if we didn’t. We might go back empty-handed after all.”

It’s not encouraging but it’s what you’ve got, even if Sam isn’t sure he’s able to be out of commission for that long. He’s realized people get antsy when Captain America isn’t seen somewhere in the world after a few days, but despite how hard he tries he’s not able to be in two places at once.

“Yet,” he tells you when you take a food break and you allow him to rant about these troubles. “Haven’t figured it out yet, but Steve kind of managed it after a few years, right?”

“Steve was superhuman,” you remind him helpfully behind your coffee cup. You’d found some old whiskey at the back of a cabinet and doused your drink with it, so you make a face when it goes down. 

“You don’t think I’m super?”

“I think you’re something, alright.”

“Aw. That was almost a compliment.”

“Can’t let it get to your head, hotshot. Ego’s already too big for your body.”

It’s so fucking domestic Sam feels the ache of it in his teeth. You, sitting at the table in your tiny kitchen while he sits on the counter, each drinking your coffee how you like it as the sun sets through the window above the sink. Talking for hours until you realize you’re practically sitting in the dark as the afternoon flew by while you were taken with each other’s company. 

But then you go back to looking at intel until your eyes are burning and you excuse yourself to pass out on the couch. You do it almost half an hour to the dot before Sam gives up himself, and he’s pretty sure you know enough of his tells to know when he’s getting tired and make an early escape so he doesn’t take the couch himself. 

“You take the bed,” he’d offered the first night, having a little trouble not making it sound like an order. By how you’d raised your eyebrow, he’d failed by a mile. “God knows where you’re sleeping these days. It’s the least I can do after dragging you all the way out here.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying he’s on vacation,” you take your bags from his hands and drop them unceremoniously on the coffee table, marking the living room territory as yours. “And I’m sure the US government will kill me if I bring you back with a fucked up back.”

He almost suggested you could share. You have before, both out of necessity and leisure, but Sam’s sure that topic’s on the list of Things Not To Talk To You About. It might be the first one up there, in all caps and underlined with bright red. 

Sam has both held you down to fuck your brains out and held your bleeding body in his hands, pressing against a gunshot wound to keep blood flow to a minimum. It’s a fucked up type of intimacy he doesn’t share with anyone else, but he’s still hesitant to bring it up. Somehow both events keep happening whether he intends for them or not. 

It’s like he’s waiting for the shoe to drop, and it finally does on the fifth day of your assignment. 

You ultimately get a lead from the USB. It guides you to search for a random code you insist it’s on a file you’d read through already. You make a noise of victory under your breath when you spot it across the table and when you shift to reach for it, your breath hitches.

It’s a quiet thing Sam wouldn’t be able to acknowledge if he weren’t good at his job, but he is. 

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert, fingers twitching with the urge to hover over you worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. Whatever shadow of hesitance had fallen over you is pulled back into place, tucked away for Sam to blissfully ignore. 

You both know that shit won’t fly, but Sam thinks it’s cute you try anyway.

He stares at you and you avoid his eye long enough, face buried in the file, to know you know he’s noticed. It’s a silent request to let it pass. 

Tough fucking luck. Sam calls your name, admonishing.

“Sam,” you say right back at him in the same tone, still not looking at him. Sam grinds his teeth in annoyance, jaw tight. 

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. You know how it is.”

It’s not a no. 

“I do know,” Sam agrees, but his mood’s a short fuse. “Are you grounded? Is that why you’re here? Because you’re hurt?”

Fucking jackpot. You exhale through your nose and tighten your jaw at the question but refuse to answer. You’re a couple of feet apart, divided by the desk filled with files and information, but somehow this is the closest he’s felt to you since you got here. 

You’d been hiding something since the beginning; taking the couch when you could’ve been sharing the bed from the start, touching him less than usual so things wouldn’t go further, and moving around the house with rigid, calculated movements.

“Manning the desk,” he says with a little too much bite, and he can physically watch your hackles rise; the annoyance in your eyes when they finally meet his, the biting of your cheek to stop yourself from rising to his sudden passive-aggressive hostility. “Handing me files, giving me intel. You’re flying halfway across the world to keep yourself out of the field.”

“Sam,” you say through gritted teeth. 

“You’re hurt,” he replies, not a question, nodding at your torso. It’s all suddenly painstakingly clear, the past week flashing through his mind like a movie from a different point of view. “And you’re hiding it from me, for some reason.”

“Is that all, Captain?” you ask, creating distance with the use of his new title in a way he despises and you know he does. You’re good at that, finding where it hurts and pressing methodically until the skin gives. Sam’s just not used to the trick being used on him. “Or is there something else about my person that you’ve figured out and have yet to enlighten me about?”

“Let me see,” he ignores you. It's easier than trying to match your level of cruel cleverness.  He stands to cross over to your side of the desk, staring down at you expectantly with arms crossed. “Come on, show me.”

“No,” you deadpan, but the way you wrap your arms carefully around yourself shows the defensiveness underneath your nonchalance. “Sam, come on, what the hell are you doing?”

“If you’re not hurt, then show me,” he insists but doesn’t reach to touch you without your permission. It’s a line he won’t cross. 

“Is that an order, sir?” you snap.

“I’m not your superior,” he replies, even though he is, technically, but not when you’re alone. Not when you’re hurt. “I’m your friend. And right now my friend is in pain, I’d like to be able to do something about it.”

“Like what?” you ask, and it’s as exhausted as it is conflictive. Thunder rumbles outside the house and inside Sam’s chest, two storms coming in. “Huh, Sam? What are you gonna do? It’s part of the damned job. Don’t tell me you’re injury-free right now.”

Sam isn’t. Both old and newer scars put a heaviness on his body he’s not supposed to carry, but he’s not the one hiding right now. 

“I can hold you,” he offers and watches the way you look away, imagining the sting in your eyes as they glisten with sudden tears. You very visibly refuse to shed them, tightening your jaw and passing saliva like it’s gravel. “If you’d let me. Let’s not pretend we haven’t done it before.”

“It’s different now.”

“Why?” he wonders, brow furrowing. He does his best to relax his stance and reaches to touch your tight fists where they lay on your lap. With his fingertips barely there on your skin, the tension bleeds out of them like magic almost against your will. “Because I’m Captain America? Because you won’t tell me where you’re stationed half the time?”

“It’s–”

“Classified,” he finishes for you, unmoved. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. As far as I’m aware, that doesn’t change a damned thing.”

You close your eyes like the words pain you, resolve crumbling right before Sam’s eyes. “I don’t wanna fight with you.”

“Then don’t,” from Sam’s perspective, it’s as simple as that. “Let me see. Let me be with you, please. The last week has been torture.”

You let out a breath of a laugh that’s a little too miserable. “You’re telling me,” you say, and the slope of your shoulders falls from its tense, defensive curve. Sam takes it as the green light it is.   

You stand straighter as he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering over the hem of your shirt. He looks to you for permission and you give him a tight nod, staring at the wall instead of him, gulping down your anxieties.

Sam’s breath catches when he lifts your shirt and sees your torso, skin showered in black, blue, purple, and green bruises. “Jesus.”

“It’s worse than it looks,” you say automatically. Sam can’t see how that’s true. It looks like it hurts to even breathe, it’s unbelievable how you were able to hide it from him for so long. “Nothing’s broken, I swear.”

“What the hell happened?” he asks even if he knows you can’t– or won’t– answer. You sigh, and he watches blemished skin shake with the effort it takes. 

“I’m alright,” you say instead of the answer he wants, but your voice has softened and lost all fight response. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve been with him since you arrived and it has nothing to do with showing your skin. “Hey, I’m okay. That assignment’s over for good. I’m not going back there, I promise.”

The sigh of relief Sam lets out is shaky and doesn’t relinquish all the tension he’s been carrying. The possibilities of what must’ve happened are gonna haunt him long after this mission’s over. 

“I hate it,” he says, and he knows you know what he means. Not knowing where you are, spending more than half the year apart with zero contact, this unease between you that doesn’t let you be honest. 

You say, tired. “I know. Sam–”

Sam isn’t touching you– not yet. He’s careful so there’s no skin-to-skin contact, and you look at him with guarded eyes when he lowers your shirt back into place, standing up and towering over you. 

“What?”

You breathe air out of your nose, frustrated. “You know.”

A beat. “You sure?” he says, as plainly as he can with the tension that’s grown between you pulling him forward.

“Yes.”

He hums.

“Oh. You gonna let me touch you now, then?” he asks, still under the excuse of medical purposes only. But Sam can’t help the way his voice deepens, molten like honey. His eyes trail over skin that isn’t blemished: the curve of your neck, the lines of your arms, the slope of your fingers. 

You shiver under the attention, helpless to hide such a reaction to his voice. “Mmm? Honey?”

“Fuck you,” you say automatically, already opening your legs slightly for Sam to slip in between them, reaching for your jaw. You close your eyes at the touch, sighing away whatever tension remained in you. 

You’re too fucking easy, despite the fight you insisted on going through before letting yourself be touched, and something in Sam’s belly tightens at the idea of it being just for him.

Sam’s hands remain on your jaw and throat as he tilts your head up for a kiss, slow and deep, lingering. It’s not long before you open up for him, his tongue sliding into your mouth like it was always meant to be there, coaxing a whine from you while you search for steadiness and settle your hands on his belt. Not pulling, not searching for more– not yet– but keeping him close. 

The storm comes and goes and the files in the studio remain forgotten. Sam finally gets you on the bed and, better yet, with him in it. 

He’s a little too careful, hands cupping your ribs with extreme caution after finally getting rid of your shirt for good and laying you down against the sheets. You roll your eyes fondly and grab onto his wrists to direct him where you want him. 

He doesn’t complain as he takes your directions. The man will greedily take anything you give him in calloused, expert hands as he does his best to pull sounds out of you that are music to his ears. 

After it’s over, you both lay in bed, naked and breathless. You find a new scar on him and trace the ragged line of skin gently with your fingertip, touch featherlight, almost nonexistent. It’s been over half a year since you last did this, but only a couple of months since he got himself injured and stitched up by Bucky in the Brazilian jungle. “This one’s new.”

It had been a quick job, good enough considering the circumstances, which is to say Sam now has an ugly, uneven scar a couple of inches above his hipbone that saved him from bleeding out on his partner.

The memory holds no gentleness, but your fingers do. The haze of his previous orgasm leaves Sam pliant under your touch, melted against the sheets and uncaring of your scrutiny. “Barnes?”

Sam makes an affirmative noise, a valid enough question since sometimes he’s admitted to doing patchwork on himself for the sake of the mission, uncaring of how bad it hurts as long as it’s quick and efficient.

“Did it hurt?”

“Like hell,” he admits, feeling safe enough to do so in the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves. Sam runs a hand up and down your naked back as if trying to soothe the brunt of the memory. “Did the job, though. Got us out alive.”

At that, you lean to kiss the skin, only slipping a bit of tongue into it. Sam sighs, ignoring the prick of discomfort that’s trying to crawl up his spine and leaning towards the softer, more tender sentiment that takes over him whenever you get like this. It’s not easy for him to accept such gentleness, to let himself be cared for and lay there, unable to give something back.

He will, in a minute. But he knows you like him like this, and that alone pins him down in his place to let you work. It’d be hypocritical of him, he thinks as his hips twitch with renowned interest, to not let you fret after him when his own worry is what got you here in the first place.

After you’re satisfied, you trail the path Sam’s grown accustomed to, the very same you follow every time you sleep together after a terribly long amount of time: 

The knife scar under his pec from when they were chasing after Bucky, still the Winter Solider, superficial enough not to have caused concern at the time. The mark from when he got his appendix out, thinking nothing of the stabbing aches to his belly until he was doubling over in his bed and waking up half his platoon as he retched in the bathroom.

The dot on his finger where Riley accidentally stabbed him with a pencil once, sleep deprived and with two shots of whiskey on him. The wound had healed with ease but the mark made a permanent home on his skin, barely visible unless you leaned in close enough to look for it.

The scab on his knee from falling off his bike when he was six. Sarah had screeched bloody murder until their parents came out of the house to see what all the fuss was about. The scar left behind by a bullet on his right shoulder during his second tour in Afghanistan. 

The cut on his lip he got shaving for the first time is always last on your list. Sam has long stopped calling you out on it, how convenient it was that the cataloging of his scars always ended with a thorough, slow kiss to his mouth that usually bloomed into a second round. 

He found that you got skittish when he did so, pulling back into yourself and laying tensely in bed for a couple more minutes before you started looking around for your clothes, called out.

Now Sam only cups your jaw, tugs a little so it opens your mouth and he can slip in his tongue and steal a taste of your sigh. He wants you like this for as long as possible; vulnerable, unguarded, desperate to touch him and be touched back. Safe enough to know that you never have to ask for something he wants to give you so willingly. 

You always forget. The second you meet again, you have to start the whole dance over. Fish for excuses to meet each other in the middle, hoping for new scars to lengthen your time together. 

Sam isn’t a masochist by any means, and he’s not an adrenaline junkie asshat who chases the danger just to have proof on his skin that he can take all the grievances life throws at him.

But. But–

“We’re alright,” you say against his mouth, body warm and seeking on top of his. He’s mindful of your injuries but can’t help himself, the urge to touch you overrules any other instinct he owns. It makes him weak, on the field, but happy off of it. “Aren’t we? We’re gonna be alright.”

“‘Course we are, honey,” his southern charm pops out and you’re both parts equally pleased and unamused, a funny expression on your face that has him laughing as he cups the back of your neck to bring you in for another kiss. “What? What’s with the face?”

“Nothin’, pumpkin,” you imitate his accent and Sam focuses his ministrations on your jaw and neck, trying to get you to break character. “We’re gonna be just fine, sugar plum. You’re sure lookin’ very pretty tonight, peach fuzz.”

Sam splutters out a laugh. “Peach fuzz?”

“That’s what you sound like!”

“See if I ever call you something nice ever again.”

“You can’t resist me,” you say seriously, though a smile keeps trying to break your facade. “You literally lasted five days before taking me to bed. That’s on being weak, Wilson.”

“Some might say it’s a world record for me, baby,” he says, poking at your face until you show teeth, happy and at ease in his arms. “The six months before that were a little bit of a stretch, too.”

Your mood dampens a little but Sam won’t let it, nudging his nose against yours to catch your attention again. “Hey. What did I just say? We’re gonna be alright. Five days, six months, five years, it’s nothing. They mean shit when I get to see you again.”

The mention of the Snap unguards you further. He’d been gone while you tried to keep your life together, ignoring the Sam-shaped void in your surroundings. The first time you got together after he came back had been tainted by the grief of losing three of the best people you’d ever known, and he’d done his own reconnaissance of your skin as he took in new scars, new hurts that had happened and healed while he was gone.

You smile again, but it’s softer, fonder, a tender tilt of the lips for the man you managed to find in this chaotic line of work that became your whole life.

In another five days, you’ll once more be on opposite ends of the world without any idea of when you’ll see each other again or what new marks you’ll have on your skin that describe your time apart. You haven’t even put a name to this– this relationship that both of you are still too hesitant to define as such, but that’s okay. 

It’s okay. It’s more than enough. The path of scars will be there to take when you meet again, permanent proof that you’ve survived to find the way to each other over and over and over again. The map that leads to you, every goddamn time.

___

hi!!!

hope you like this one! i’ve been putting this fic on the back burner for almost a month now, but i’m so glad to finally have finished it! i hope to put out the tommy miller sequel for dial drunk next week before school starts :)

thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, etc.!

<3

[sl-vega]

✧Xingqiu's victims friends✧

✧Xingqiu✧-member of the literature club and in honors English, he's the second born son of the CEO of Feiyun Corp. He discovered his love and reading and writing at a young age. when he was 10 he wrote a fanfic as a joke but to his surprise it went viral. he forgot the account's password so he never got around to deleting it. comes off as an absolute gentleman, but he's actually a bit of a gremlin, he means well though.

✧Chongyun✧-Not affiliated with any clubs, but is usually dragged along with whatever Xingqiu is interested in. Xingqiu moved into his neighborhood and found chongyun at their local library reading about ghosts when they were six. Since then the two have been inseperable, and Xingqiu's helped Chongyun be more social. Though he never directly states it, he's really grateful for his friend.

✧Xiangling✧-President of the cooking club, her father owns a famous restaurant where she works part time. Her and Xingqiu met in elementary school when she gave him one of her strange original recipes. Her recipes may sound disgusting, but they're actually pretty good (except for the slime smoothies, those are an acquired taste)

✧Hu Tao✧-member of the science club (only attends meetings that involve dissecting things though). Her family owns a funeral parlor that she frequently advertises, she often stops people in the hallway telling them that she can hook them up with a free closet. Xingqiu met her when she offered to help out with his pet fish's funeral when they were kids. She might seem a little eccentric at first (she is) but at the end of the day, she's a true friend.

✧Yanfei✧-member of the debate club. Her father is an attorney, and he taught her about laws and court rules. She knows the law like the back of her hand, and she's also great at finding loopholes within the law. She's helped her friends (only mainly Hu Tao) out of the Principal's office on numerous occasions, but she's also really great at winning arguments. Long story short, don't mess with yanfei

additional notes:

-xingqiu is a wattpad author, fight me

-ao3 > wattpad tbh

-xiangling def has one of those aesthetic food pages

-they're aesthetic until you actually read the ingredients tho

-lowkey considering making hu tao x yanfei a sideship tbh

-yes it's canon that albedo draws the namecards in this au

-chongyun's twitter header is actually a hybrid between his namecard and xingqiu's

-chongyun's twitter header found here

-yanfei pfp found here

-everything else is either an in game-screenshot or from pinterest

✧Sticking to the Script✧

masterlist

<prev ll next>

Pairing: Xingqiu x FEM! Reader

Genre: fake dating, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst (?), high school smau, modern smau

⋆｡°✩-Synopsis: Xingqiu just got entered into a special writing contest, the type that's invite only, the theme this year is love, the only problem is that he has zero romantic experience. but he really wants to prove himself as a writer. meanwhile, you just found out that your boyfriend cheated on you, and you need to show him that you're 100% over him, the only problem is that there's no way you can get an actual boyfriend that quickly. clearly, the solution to both of your issues is to fake date each other. it shouldn't be hard for an actor such as yourself, all you need to do is stick to the script.

(OPEN) Taglist: @freyao7, @thatoneswordgirl, @sn1perz, @latay7, @esmetrees, @nmriki0, @help-whatdoimakemyusername, @httpsrenren, @cupid-spams, @aixaingela, @kaitfae, @luvkvni, @danhenglovebot

[sergeantsporks]

Dadrius Week Day 2: Fashion

“Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” Hunter echoed. Darius held his cake on a plate, fully iced and covered to protect it from the elements. He’d been in the kitchen all morning and afternoon, yelping incomprehensible squawks of indignation and anger at tiny mistakes and blunders. Whatever standard he’d held himself up to, the cake looked perfect to Hunter, icing forming curvy, creamy borders around the edge and delicate script reading Happy Father’s Day.

“Yes. Go. For Father’s Day.”

“I thought you said we weren’t doing anything?” Hunter yelped. The card had probably gotten crunched in his belt pouch, and now Darius had made the food? Hunter might have only heard of the concept last night, but he was relatively certain that wasn’t right.

“I said you didn’t have to do anything,” Darius corrected, “You don’t have to come, you just seemed interested last night, so I thought you might want to.”

Hunter’s heart thumped in his chest, and he scrambled to his feet, tugging his boots on his feet. Darius being fine to go off by himself for father’s day and making a whole cake for it seemed a little strange, but Gus HAD said some dads wanted to be left alone. However, if Darius wanted to celebrate… “Yes! I do! I want to come! Let’s go!”

“Good. Excellent.”

Abomination matter swirled around them, and when it died down, they stood outside an unfamiliar house—a manor, really, big and grand enough to rival even Amity’s house. Darius took a deep breath, patting his hair, straightening his clothes, and then finally, finally, ringing the doorbell.

Hunter glanced around at the perfectly manicured lawn and flowers. “Where are w—”

The door opened, and behind it stood a woman who shared Darius’ height, build and approximate age, but wore bright yellows rather than purple. “Darius?”

“Jasmin?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at him and the cake, and, for long enough that he started to feel a bit like a zoo exhibit, at Hunter. She finally broke off eye contact to turn to the house behind her. “HEY!” she yelled, “Darius is here!” She eyed Hunter again. “And some kid!”

Thud.

Footsteps thumped down the hallway towards them.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Darius muttered.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jasmin said blankly, “It’s Father’s Day. I brought a present. For my father. We’re having dinner.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had something planned?!”

“Because I didn’t think you would come! You always say no when we invite you!”

“Because I was always—”

“Busy with coven head responsibilities,” Jasmin said with him, “Yeah, yeah.”

An older woman appeared in the doorway behind Jasmin. She stood at the same height as Darius and Jasmin, but was thinner, making her look taller. She wore mostly red, and Hunter wondered idly if she and Jasmin’s color choices were from their coven backgrounds, or purely aesthetic. “Darius! Well, hello!”

Darius broke off his argument with Jasmin to turn towards the older woman, his back straightening, and his shoulders pushing back, as if he didn’t already usually have perfect posture. “Hello, Mom.”

“Oh.” The pieces clicked in Hunter’s mind, and he couldn’t help speaking out loud. “Oh! Father’s Day for your father! You have a dad?!” Of course Hunter had known Darius must have had parents at some point, but he’d sort of assumed they must be dead. Darius hadn’t mentioned them once.

Darius gave him a quizzical look. “Yes? I told you we were coming here.”

“No, you didn’t! You just suddenly decided to bake a cake and then said we were going out!”

“I could swear that I told you.”

Jasmin laughed. “Sounds like you to just kidnap the poor kid without telling him what he’s getting into. Who is this, anyway?”

“Ah. Right. Hunter, this is my sister, Jasmin, and my mother, Ariana Deamonne. Jasmin. Mother. This is Hunter. He is my… ward.”

The word fell cold and flat, almost as impersonal as “coworker.” Although, judging the way he seemed to feel about Hunter doing something for him for Father’s Day, maybe that was right.

Darius’ mother smiled warmly at him. “Hello, Hunter. Welcome to our home.”

“Your ward,” Jasmin sighed, “Okay.” Jasmin grabbed the cake out of Darius’ hands. “C’mon in, Hunter. Lets give Darius and our mom a bit to catch up.”

Hunter started to ask Darius if it was alright, but Jasmin took his arm before he could. “Nope, don’t look at him, just come with me.” She tugged him down the hallway into a kitchen, sliding the cake onto the counter. “Ward,” she snorted, “That boy.”

Hunter coughed at the descriptor of Darius as ‘boy.’ “Did we come at a bad time?”

“What? No, no. Actually, you came at a perfect time, we haven’t even started cooking dinner yet.” Jasmin peered at the cake. “How long did he spend obsessing over this being perfect?”

Hunter coughed again. “Half the day.”

“Haha. Of course he did. Well, we’ll see if it passes muster. Of course, she’ll tell him it’s delicious no matter what.” Jasmin must have caught his questioning look, because she shook her head. “Our mother? Ariana Deamonne? Ran a cooking competition? One of the highest rated chefs in the Isles?”

“Oh.” Hunter searched for the right word. “Congratulations?”

Jasmin’s face lit up. “No way,” she breathed, “Please, please, please—how about Pops? Designer? I think the only famous outfit he didn’t design was the emperor’s?”

“I… don’t know a lot about fashion?”

Jasmin leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter, putting her chin in her hands. “Incredible. Question, do you know who it is that adopted you?”

Hunter flushed. “Of course I do. He was the abomination coven head.”

“Oh well, would have been funny. Aw, don’t be embarrassed. I’m not surprised he doesn’t talk about us.” She glanced at the door and leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, Darius is the red ratworm of the family. Went into politics, by titan. For shame.”

Hunter coughed, desperate to change the subject from Darius gossip. “What is it you do?”

Jasmin gave him an amused look. “Large-scale architecture. I designed the remodel of the emperor’s keep after the fire of ’99.” She snickered. “There was a brick in one of the bathrooms with my name carved in it. I put it in the one near the abomination head office so Darius would see it. Kinda tempted to go through the rubble and find it.”

“Oh.”

Jasmin’s face softened. “Don’t feel bad for not knowing. It was before you were born, I’m betting, and I’m not surprised Darius never mentioned it. He always did prefer the way the keep looked when his mentor was still walking through it.” She drummed her perfectly manicured fingers against the countertop, looking Hunter up and down. “Boy, he really must have been in a hurry if he didn’t even make you get changed.”

Hunter tugged on his T-shirt self-consciously. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing!” Jasmin said quickly, “There’s nothing wrong with it! It’s just very… hanging out with your friends and going to the library, you know?” She gestured to her own yellow outfit, a flowy tunic over a set of leggings. “VS Nice Family Dinner.”

Hunter’s ears started to burn again, and his hand hovered over the belt pouch where the father’s day card sat. “I didn’t know—and honestly, I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here, I mean, I’m just sort of living in Darius’ extra room, I’m hardly fam—”

Jasmin smacked her hands down on the counter, cutting him off. “Darius,” she growled. “Hunter, I promise, you would not be here if he did not want you here. He’s just… frazzled. We haven’t seen him in a while. His fault, by the way.”

“And he forgot today was Father’s Day,” Hunter couldn’t help himself from adding.

Jasmin snickered. “Of course he did. Well. Don’t worry, Aunt Jasmin’s gonna find you the perfect party outfit. I wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t going to do something to help you with it, geeze, how mean do you think I am?”

Hunter had stopped processing what she said after “Aunt Jasmin,” but the rest of her statement caught up just as she put a hand on his shoulder. “What?!”

Jasmin steered him up the stairs. “What’s your preferred style?” she pressed, “Form fitting? Loose and flowy? Pants? Skirt? Cape, or no cape?”

“Um—I don’t know?” Hunter tugged on his shirt again. “Loose, I guess?”

“Gotcha.” She eyed him up and down. “I think we still have some of Darius’ clothes from when he was your size. And I know some of mine are floating around.” She ducked into a closet, pulling out hangers of clothes and holding them up, squinting at him. “Hmmm. I think you’d look good in gold.” She gave him a toothy grin. “Match me. Aw, hey, this is one Dad designed for Darius when he was just obsessed with the golden guard. Obviously it’s an ‘inspired by’ design, not real armor, but what do you think?” She held up a soft yellow tunic, embroidered subtly so that it flashed like gold in the light and emulated armor plating. “We can even put your belt over it so you can keep your stuff with you.”

Hunter’s heart beat in his throat as the tunic glistened menacingly. He’d drowned his own armor in a river, watching it sink to the muddy bottom, but now it seemed like the outfit was back to haunt him.

A heavy hand clasped his shoulder. “Hunter prefers blues, blacks, and browns,” Darius rumbled, “Not gold. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kidnap my guest, Jasmin.”

Jasmin gave Darius a cool look, but disappeared back into the closet without a word. Funny. She’d been overly friendly only seconds ago. What was it about Darius that made her so standoffish? Darius sighed. “I’m sorry about her. I thought we would just be meeting with my parents, who are a lot… less.”

A blue tunic sailed out of the closet, fwapping into Darius’ face.

“You are proving my point, Jasmin!”

“And you don’t get to act like you have any sort of moral high ground over me! You show up after years of minimal contact and expect no hard feelings?! I’ve done father’s day and mother’s day on my own for the past twenty years, and now you just pop over with a cake and a kid?” This time, a pair of pants flew out, smacking Darius in the chest. “You missed mother’s day this year, by the way. You better come for her birthday, or she’ll think you’re avoiding her specifically.”

“Jasmine, look, I…” Darius glanced at Hunter. “…I’ve realized some things. About who I want to be, and what is important to me. And I know I’ve been… absent… for the past couple of decades, but I’m trying to reach out. I’m sorry that I left you, and I’m sorry I gave you all the responsibilities for holidays and birthdays and family get togethers. I had my reasons, of course, but that doesn’t make it fair. Not to Mom and Dad. Not to you. But I’m here now, and I want to try the whole… family thing again.”

Jasmin poked her head out of the closet. “So you skipped right to the ‘give mom and dad a grandchild’ thing to make up for twenty years of nothing, huh? For someone who wants to try family again, you sure did an awful job of telling your new kiddo about the rest of us.”

Darius spluttered. “Grandch—that’s not why I—oh, forget that part. You’re right.” He turned to face Hunter. “I didn’t give you much warning, Hunter, and for that, I apologize. I should have let you know what my plans were.” A small, amused smile crept onto his face, and he tilted his head at the closet. “And I certainly should have prepared you for dealing with this one.”

Jasmin crinkled her nose at him.

“A heads up would have been appreciated,” Hunter agreed, “I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He’d thought, what, that they were going to do some father-son bonding? Go play catch in the park or something corny like that? Darius wasn’t the only one who kept skirting around the adoption papers. It seemed like whenever Hunter wanted to sign them, Darius wasn’t ready, and the days when Darius thought it was a good idea, Hunter was having second thoughts. Of course Darius didn’t want him to do anything for Father’s day when he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to be official.

Darius sighed. “I gave up my family to become a coven head; it was a mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my lifetime, and I’m attempting to rectify them now. So. Hunter. Let me start over. It would be an honor to introduce you to my family. If you are willing.”

“Ooo! I’ve got it!” Jasmin backed out of the closet. She held a blue shirt with billowy, loose sleeves, a pair of black pants, a silver belt, and a pleated blue half-cape, designed to be worn at the hip. She eyed Darius, then Hunter, then the outfit. “Hm. Yeah. Purple and blue. Good. Excellent. You two will match next to each other.”

Darius nodded. “It looks wonderful. Thank you, Jasmin.” He faced Hunter, and for just a second, Hunter thought he saw uncertainty and worry behind his usually aloof gaze. “Hunter? What do you want to do? Do you want to stay, or go?”

What did he want to do? He hadn’t had any real plans for father’s day. Just snippets of what Gus was going to do for his dad. He wasn’t even sure if “dad” was a role he wanted Darius to have in his life—or if Darius wanted to take it. But Darius wanted Hunter to meet his family—and surely that had to mean something, right? Besides, if it was father’s day, then didn’t Darius deserve to spend time with his father?

“I want to stay,” he said slowly, “I want to meet them.”

“Are you sure?”

Hunter took the clothes from Jasmin. “Positive.”

[bethanydelleman]

Darcy’s Excuses

This is the most frequent passage cited to prove that Darcy is shy/socially awkward/introverted. I want to break it down.

“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better had I sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Firstly, Darcy is flirting with Elizabeth here. When he says he should have sought an introduction, he’s trying to indicate that he likes Elizabeth and should not have snubbed her. I doubt he cares about the others. However, he does say what some people use to justify the shy/socially awkward argument, he doesn’t recommend himself to strangers.

But then right away, Elizabeth calls him out, he’s well-educated, why the heck not? Because for context, these people are taught how to converse. Their society has far more “scripts” for conduct than ours. Darcy could easily have gotten through the entire Meryton assembly on canned phrases, just like Elizabeth jokes about at the Netherfield Ball:

“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

Now his cousin jumps in, Colonel Fitzwilliam probably gives us the most truthful answer, given what Darcy says about himself later. Darcy doesn’t recommend himself because he doesn’t want to most of the time.

Then we have Darcy again. Now some of this statement does sound a lot like someone who struggles socially, “catch their tone of conversation”, but the second part, “appear interested in their concerns”, that is just basic politeness! “My mom is sick.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Many people are actually concerned about other’s concerns, but Darcy in his radical truth telling phase, HE isn’t going to pretend. 

And then we have this passage, which some people interpret as an extrovert attacking an introvert (just TRY to be less introverted):

“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”

Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”

This is the key! Darcy will not perform. He knows how, he’s perfectly capable. We see him do it multiple times. Why did he not get through the Meryton Ball on canned niceties? Because to him that’s performing to strangers and he doesn’t want to do it. Why is he so rude to Sir William when he says something trite? Because Darcy doesn’t do small talk, he’s not going to perform. The problem is that small talk is what makes the world go round.

So yes, if you cherry pick from the passage, Darcy seems shy and socially awkward, but if you take it as a whole, the truth becomes more apparent. Colonel Fitzwilliam is probably a more reliable witness here, he’s not flirting! And we know many of Darcy’s other thoughts, he know what he says at the end:

“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.

Darcy’s reasons are excuses, when he actually suffers for his behaviour (finally) in the form of Elizabeth’s rejection, he reviews what he has been doing and changes. He doesn’t stop being socially awkward, he just actually puts what he was fully capable of doing into action. Because he has known how to do it all along, he just didn’t bother.

Also, Elizabeth can identify introverts. When she meets Georgiana, she immediately guesses shy and pities her for it. Her beloved sister Jane is modest and reserved. I doubt she’d be shaming someone for having a personality type.

Furthermore, Austen celebrates introverts! Mansfield Park is a whole freaking novel about an introvert who figures out everyone! Fanny Price would have seen through Wickham no problem. Austen knows the values of shy and introverted people. Darcy’s problem therefore is not that he is shy/socially awkward. It’s that he’s a dick about it.

[streaminn]

Clio was, quite frankly, not paid enough for this shit. Being a nurse at Nevermore wasn't always such a bad gig but damn sometimes it really did feel like the universe at large was out to get her. Specifically. She idly wonders if she can find out if a past life had somehow royally screwed her over cause this couldn't just be her own singular bad luck.

She was pretty sure she hadn't done anything to cross any of the more arcane inclined outcasts but honestly one could never be completely sure.

Somehow, some way she is just constantly shadowed by the fucking Addams brood.

Clio was not in the habit of carbon dating herself like Weems so loved to do but she had also attended Nevermore at the same time as Gomez and Morticia. She and Weems would sometimes commiserate about the things they had unintentionally seen and heard during their years as students.

Weems, of course, had it worse than her as she had shared a room with Morticia but Clio hadn't lucked out much better given that she shared a wall with Gomez. Sounded like a damn active construction site.

All that to say that Clio had her fair share of Addams eccentricities and above all else: Addams courting rituals.

If she were still the academic she was as a student she would have loved to study the various steps for the ritual and the origination of said steps. But she wasn't.  Instead, when Weems took over as Headmistress and offered her a job as a nurse, she devoted herself to making sure none of these knuckle-headed idiots got themselves killed during the course of the year.

And damn did these assholes try.

(For all her talk, she took her role seriously. She remembers the names of every child who has passed under her care. Every student she has failed. Every grieving family that entrusted her with their safety. She knows each and every one of them and quietly she grieves for them all.)

Despite having been a nurse for some years now and despite being far too acquainted with the Addams and their "quirks"... she has to admit that the Addams girl standing in front of her is perhaps the most interesting of her ilk.

"So to make sure I'm understanding this correctly, you are asking me to write up what amounts to a 'get out of jail free card' for the use of what is quite literally one of the most lethal poisons we keep on hand?" she asks, though she's pretty sure what answer she's gonna get.

"Correct."

Yeah that's what she thought.

"Not happening." without another word she turns around to at least attempt to focus back in on the paperwork piling up on her desk.

She expects an argument. Something purely logical that befits the scion of such an ancient bloodline. What she gets instead sets off blaring red sirens in her head.

"Please."

She whips around in her seat fast enough to nearly unbalance her. There is no way she heard that correctly. Wednesday Addams does not do "polite". She's willing to entertain this further if only for the sake of her curiosity.

"Alright, I'll bite." she says. The girl goes to speak but she silences her with a raise of her finger. "I'll only write the script and deal with the ensuing hell that will be raised if you tell me why. No bullshit answers, Addams, we both know I'll see right through it."

Clio watches as her words sink into the young girl's head. It's interesting and definitely amusing watching this young one struggle with what she remembers her parents being oh so happy to willingly (and loudly) share.

Yes, Clio is fully aware that Wednesday is asking for wolfs-bane and nightshade extract as some sort of ingredient in her courting of Enid. Yes, she is fully aware that the two have grown extraordinarily close after what happened the semester before. And, yes, she is also aware the Enid is probably very unaware of the fact that the Addams scion is attempting to court her. She is completely aware of all of these things but also her job gets boring and this seems like it'll keep her entertained for at least the semester.

It seems during her musings , Wednesday was finally able to gather her words.

"As I am sure you have already gleaned, I am planning to pursue a courtship with Enid. Part of my family's rituals requires that we take that which could harm both ourselves and our intended and use it in a way that expresses our desire to keep them safe from that harm. Obviously due to her being a werewolf, wolfs-bane would be require for this portion of the courtship." Wednesday explains in the detailed manner that Clio has come to expect from her.

"Fair enough." is all she says as she searches her desk for where she put her script papers.

There is silence between the two as she writes down her permission for the use of both poisons and the amounts she was approving. She hands over the small form but keeps a grip on it, not yet relinquishing.

"A word of advice, Ms. Addams?" she offers.

Wednesday tilts her head slightly in acquiesce.

"Don't overthink things with Enid. I'm not saying you can't make things special or to not go above and beyond for her. I'm saying that sometimes the fastest way between two points is a straight line. Be direct. Too much room to interpret can lead to miscommunication." she says. She hopes she understands what she's telling her.

Wednesday stares at her for a moment and Clio can feel that her words have gotten through. Good. While she looks forward to the entertainment of watching an Addams court a wolf like Enid, she doesn't want either of them to struggle unnecessarily. That would just be cruel.

The young Addams goes to leave and a thought catches her attention.

"Ah, before you go." she calls out.

Wednesday pauses at the threshold of her infirmary.

"I remember your father almost tearing his hair out trying to figure out what to do for his Gift. Wolves have their own history that was often passed down orally through stories. Enid strikes me as the kind of girl who loves a happy ending. Maybe take a stroll through the mythology sections of the library. Worst comes to worst, you could always reach out to her father and see which stories she liked to hear growing up. Take some inspiration from them." she says, feigning nonchalance.

The goth glances back at her before fully taking her leave.

Clio hopes that her nudges work. She feels a certain kinship with the two. Outcasts among outcasts as they are. Wednesday an Addams who as a whole tend to put even fellow Outcasts on edge. Enid a late bloomer and now a Grimwolf. Herself as a clairvoyant, specifically a mind-reader. All three of them mistrusted for one reason or another. She shouldn't have favorites among the students but even she has to admit she tends to let things slide a lot more when it comes to those two.

She thinks to herself that the two would make a cute couple.

(And she's right... for a time.)

I think diving into what Morticia and Gomez were like during Nevermore is so fun. They're so much more open and dramatic with their feelings.

(Lore Dump: Clio is a long-suffering old friend of both Morticia and Gomez. She didn't have much control over her abilities at the start of attending Nevermore so she was constantly bombarded with everyone's thoughts.

She stumbled across Morticia while looking for somewhere quiet to hide. Tish had such control over her thoughts that even Clio couldn't read them and it was like a breath of fresh air being around her.

Clio got to know Gomez cause they were next door to each other and Gomez thinks so loud she could hear him through the walls. It was only ever opera music though which she thought was weird as hell but after a while she kinda developed a taste for it so.)

Okay this is all cute and games but knowing that Wenclair lost contact made me think what Wednesday did backfired badly

I'M HOPING IT DIDN'T BUT I DO LOVE THE WORD BUILDING

Rip to clio bc Gomez is a very full hearted person so you bet so are his thoughts

[clarencethemouse]

I had another idea and I hope you don't mind but Hawk and Detri liking the same girl? After Hawk becomes Hawk I see them butting heads over something like that quite a bit lol

This was odd to figure out where to start with this. But I think things went well :)

(also, if you get the TUA reference, I literally love you)

Y/N always had Hawk’s eyes. Before and after he flipped the script, he always sought her out in the cafeteria before sitting down to spare glances her way without being noticed. He always found a way to sit a subtle two seats away if the class seating wasn’t assigned. 

They spoke several times before, but nothing more than casual passing. It was enough for him. He cherished every stolen glance and every polite wave offered his way. 

There was one problem, though. Demetri. 

He knew Demetri shared his keen liking of the girl of his interests. And he hated it. It violated some bro code to like the same girl. They couldn’t both ask her out. It was an unspoken rule. 

But it had been too long for Hawk. He had waited one too many months. Today would be the day...

Y/N sat at her lunch table, already engaged in joyous conversation with her friends. Hawk struggled to keep track of her through the crowd of the cafeteria. 

He had mapped it all out in his head. He would ditch Demetri and Miguel halfway through lunch period. Slip over to her table with two empty seats and make up some excuse about the guys at his table, something to warrant him needing to move. He would talk them up, mainly Y/N. By the end of the day, he had her number. By the end of the week, he secured a date. 

But now, as he recited it all in his head, he realized it sounded better the first time. 

What was he doing?

“If you keep undressing her with your eyes, she’s gonna catch a cold.”

Hawk narrowly turned his head to give Demetri a cold glare. “You got a problem?”

“No problem. It’s the truth, Eli.” Demetri nudged him in the side with his elbow. 

“As if you’re any better,” Hawk snapped. 

Demetri sucked in a sharp, condescending breath. “But, you see, the difference between you and I is that I know I could never stand a chance with Y/N. Neither of us.”

“Not if we don’t make a move, we don’t.”

“And I’m sure you’ll get to that soon enough.”

“I’m working my way there.” Hawk hit him on the arm. “At least she knows me. I don’t see you talking to her!”

Demetri shrugged thoughtfully. “Not yet, but we’re on the trail to being partners for Chemistry ll. I’ll be getting plenty of alone time with her over the week.”

Miguel chimed in. “Guys, can we not today?”

“I thought you didn’t stand a chance with her,” Hawk snapped, ignoring Miguel. 

“Not at this rate. But I’m about to change that.” Demetri winked. He knew he was borderline ticking his friend off, and it was fun. It was nice to know he could finally get some leverage over the guy. Recently his ego needed a major check. “It’s okay, Eli. You’ll get your shot some other time. I believe in you.”

“Bullshit!”

Hawk pushed his chair away, leaping to his feet. Demetri matched him, his hands held up with innocence. “Easy there, Eli! I’m just stating the facts.”

“Hawk, what the hell?” Miguel shouted, throwing his hands up. 

This got the majority of the cafeteria’s attention. Eyes from all directions turned to them, including those of the particular girl of their conversation. 

“Yeah. Stay away from Y/N,” Hawk warned. 

“Hawk, just calm down-”

Students around them ooh-ed and wolf whistled. A lunch lady shouted at the boys to sit down. Demetri was about to release another smart remark when his focus drifted to catch the startled eyes of their cause of argument. Y/N. 

“Shit...”

“What?”

Demetri turned his friend around by the shoulders, vaguely motioning in Y/N’s direction. Hawk swore under his breath, sitting back down. She had heard it all. What would she think of them, oh him? Just as he was working up the cool guy facade to ask her out...

“You got this one, buddy...” Demetri pat him on the shoulder. 

Hawk rolled his eyes, picking up his tray to leave. “Chicken.”

He didn’t catch it as he turned his back to dump the remaining contents of his tray, but Y/N waited until the audience’s drama simmered out to wave. 

---

(also I totally didn’t start this a month ago and completely forget about its existence)

Robin

[baobhanlore-art]

So Vivzie just tweeted this and I have thoughts that won't fit well into tweets so here I am

For starters, the criticism of fanfiction isn't targeted towards the queer aspects. In fact I've found that some of the most extreme critics of fanfiction culture are also queer people. From the fujoshi fandom that causes an extreme rise in MlM shipping but largely for fem gazey smut, the unrecognised untagged unhealthy relationship tropes, to the misogyny often within these works, stories like these come with many issues.

The criticism of writing feeling like fanfiction, especially towards Helluva Boss, is that the elements of the stories people heavily critique feel unnecessary, tropey, and derailing from consistency.

In The Circus, I do not fault the idea of a queer character having a childhood crush on a same sex friend. The problem is more to do with how it stunts the desperation Blitz has to keep his business alive, since he's no longer just sleeping with some rich guy but an old friend, and the sudden unexpectedness of their situation. It's also a common trope where the live interests actually knew each other as kids so it feels overdone and generic.

In Exes and Oohs, the mafia setting feels completely bizarre considering the intense bigotry and classism within the world. Not only that but the daddy issues, fridged mum, forced marriage and overall unrealistic depiction of the mafia is very common in fanfiction written by teens who do no research and just want the aesthetics.

Secondly, there are plenty of straight works that have a similar label attached to them. ACOTAR and TOH both have writers who originally wrote fanfiction and they didn't develop out of the negative habits within fanfiction writing. Therefore their original work feels like fanfiction. Riverdales "I'm weird, I'm a weirdo" speech was heavily critiqued for sounding like a fanfiction line.

Thirdly, a big reason for being compared to fanfiction is the unfinished feeling of the scripts. I've already pointed out in a previous post that some of the dialogue in Western Energy felt like it needed to be cut down by an editor. And most people agree that the situations and logic aren't often very well thought through, such as how the aging machine could have just been reversed or how DORKS should have been killed off. The scripts feel like loose first drafts that could use additional edits. Fanfiction usually doesn't have an editor or even a beta reader, I've seen more "no beta we die like *insert character*" tags in many of the fandoms I read for than "beta" tags.

If people critiqued the owl house for feeling fanficcy because it had a diverse cast in a highschool setting with a quirky MC, I'd agree it's a bad descriptor because it's directly the queer and neurodivergent stories that are being attacked. Or if Murder Drones was labelled as fanficcy because it has an edgy teen female MC I'd say it's unfair because a lot of girls genuinely act like that and deserve to be represented and have our stories told. But most of the criticism about Helluva Boss to do with its LGBT rep is less to do with its inclusion and more to do with people feeling it's falling into yaoi tropes. Not the fact it includes queer stories.

This is something We Are Not Alive said recently that such with me, but just because it's an indie project doesn't mean we have to settle for subpar writing. There are loads of indie productions you can support! Murder Drones, Lackadaisy, the animated Anne Frank movie, and these are just some of the more popular ones!

And I wish people would stop weaponising every single argument to try and defend issues in Helluva Boss. The fandom says "of course it has issues" then cries when we point that out.

[abnerkrill]

im not tagging this because this isn't a criticism of the show per se (ok maybe a little) but primarily of fans' attitudes........... but the thing that reeaaaally gets my goat (lol!) about the pj&o adaptation (and other book to show/film adaptations of popular fandom material, do NOT @ me about rings of power) is that people assume it's easy and always correct to adapt a book "just like they imagined it" or that it's easy and always correct to be ~faithful~ to the vision of the book in their head because all they have to do is "bring it to life" correctly. (ugh! there's my archnemesis Textual Fidelity again. well, what if i love infidelity! what then!) [like we can all agree there's a spectrum of close and distant adaptations but WHAT IF we also wanted distant adaptations and we valued them for being singular works of art instead of judging purely by fidelity. what then.]

like... as IF there's a Correct and Singular Version and it is, naturally, YOUR interpretation. as if there's a hierarchy of interpretation and it's Good if your interpretation is visualized and Unfathomable if someone else takes their interpretation and runs with it. (does not apply to racist casting like the shyamalan ATLA movie obviously........... this is about making interesting or subversive choices instead of being slavishly devoted to source material as a philosophy, which IS the disney/riordan/fandom philosophy regarding PJO and it's what people WISH was rings of power's philosophy.) anyway a fandom's measure of the success of an adaptation is how closely it cleaves to their memory of their interpretation of the book, which is frankly a huge loss to adaptation as an art form, and a huge win for adaptation as pure commercial entity

because really your act of interpretation and imagination is so singular, so specific to you, and everyone else's is going to be different in a myriad of small and big ways. and a massive creative team working on the economic machine that is a television show are making millions of choices to adapt it, translate it into a new medium, in a way that makes sense as visual & auditory material. and that is pretty much going to fit into thee popular interpretive framework that fans will like (of what's important or what's essential to the text,) because it's a commercial product and Disney wants it to be successful, but like... does it have to be. DOES IT HAVE TO BE. the book is right there if you want the book. why can't a show be its own show. why can't TV be TV and not The Book, But We're Reading It Out Loud Now In Settings Effectively Conjured From The Pages Of The Book. because that's how you end up with characters talking exposition to each other for 7 minutes. text-to-screen translation is supposed to make that textual stuff visual and auditory!! pjo fails in that regard in so many scenes--you just have characters talking at each other! it's fun for fans to see those scenes come to life but it's not good TV scene writing!

anyway. text-to-screen adaptations. a) they're hard work. it's invention and creativity that stands on its own (or ought to stand on its own). it's not second-rate, lower-tier artistry that's somehow worth less than fiction because it has its starting point in a novel. they're not easier than original work [they might, in fact, at least at their best, be harder because of the expectations of existing fanbases.] but if adaptations fall for the "fidelity" argument too much, you wind up with Oh I Just Typed Up The Novel's Dialog And Description Into Screenplay Format, which DOES NOT WORK onscreen

and b) there's no One Version that exists in the ether, it's all choices. it's all choices! a text has one stream of communication—the words themselves are the only stuff of a literary text. meanwhile visual & auditory media has dozens of streams of meaning—the script, yes, the words they say are obviously important, but there's casting, costumes, props, hair, makeup, sound design, editing, all the little things of production design and cinematography and focus and emphasis. that creates new meaning. or it could. maybe it should?? should it???? i want it to!

so it's like. okay guys. you like this show because it meets your threshold for a Faithful Adaptation. what does faithfulness mean to you what does it MEAN that you feel like you will only accept a show that meets YOUR interpretive standards. is it good because it's close to the book? is that the one and only standard? fidelity or bust? is it good that your interpretation is popular enough to become thee reigning fandom interpretation? should there be hierarchies of interpretation based on what the author (or wider fandom) has okayed? don't you ever want interesting, subversive interpretations. don't you ever want directors to go "hey i'm exploring new meanings embedded in this text." because the book exists already the book will always exist. why must the adaptation be a carbon copy always. what's the worth of that if the book is already there waiting for you to reread it. do u ever want to go apeshit do u ever want to shake Disney and go pls fucking make a courageous creative choice??

[the12thnightproject]

Chapter 18: Sight, Sound, Smell, Taste… Touch: de Sousa’s banquet provides a sensory experience on multiple levels.

All Chapters Archived on Ao3 

Logline - With Mai, Hideyoshi, and Aki missing, Mitsuhide and Katsuko reluctantly team up. Disguised as a merchant and his concubine, can they outsmart the man known as the God of Deceit?

That night, when we left for the house de Sousa had been renting, we traveled on horseback. To be specific, we were to share a horse rather than taking a palanquin. I tried to raise one eyebrow in inquiry, since it seemed odd that Mitsuhide would switch transportation modes.

"My goodness, Kaya, is there something wrong with your face? Or are you attempting, for whatever reason, to imitate a rabbit?” Of course he raised one eyebrow as he said it.

The sixth thing I hate about Mitsuhide. He can raise one eyebrow and won’t teach me how.

I sighed and gave up on the nonverbal cue. "No tiny box tonight?"

"On the small chance that we'll need to make a hasty exit, I would prefer not to leave that up to the speed of a palanquin." He gestured to his horse. "Up you go."

My kimono was too narrow for me to hop up with my customary acrobatics, but I managed well enough without ripping anything, although I was left somewhat draped across the horse. “Do you plan to lead me across the city?"

Not dignifying that with a comment, he simply swung up behind me. "I trust you won’t fall off."

Given that I was sitting rather (too) snugly against him, I figured it was an unlikely prospect especially when he reached past me for the reins. Not wanting to think about how his body felt, firm and solid against my back, I instead pulled the conversation back to necessary business. "Is this another sit there and be distracting evening, or will I get to use my new toys?" I patted my hair. At Mitsuhide’s instructions Sho had placed three knots in it, each secured by one of the hairstick/lockpicks.

"Plans may need to be adjusted based upon the evening. de Sousa has promised some form of 'entertainment,' whatever that might mean to him, which may allow us an opportunity to search through his papers." He spoke directly into my ear, his voice pitched to a low purr that I could hear quite clearly under the sound of the horse's hooves on the hard packed dirt of Sakai's streets. "One hopes that you were underplaying your ability to read the Nanban script."

"I can read it. Not quickly though. It depends on how cramped the handwriting is – Westerners often write letters on top of each other to save on paper." I drew a little plus sign in the air to demonstrate their method of ‘crossing pages.’ “But I can at least read their alphabet.” No need to mention that that learning had taken place in modern Japan. But while I'd taken classes in school on the English language and alphabet, I'd never been particularly great student. Even so, the knowledge from that early education had returned when I began taking lessons from Francisco, and motivated by the need to locate my brother, I’d learned far faster as an adult than I ever had as a teenager.

Mitsuhide made a noncommittal sound that indicated he was thinking things through. Likely, he had a plan B, possibly a plan C, and was refining them as we spoke. Aki was much the same. Actually I was as well. Contingencies could make the difference between dead or alive.

I left him to his unspoken plotting. It was interesting how he seemed to be able to lock his thoughts and feelings away and completely focus like this. While I still felt off balance and uncertain after last night's argument, for Mitsuhide, it appeared to be done and over with. He was as ambivalently autocratic to me as he had been on the first day in Sakai. In fact, neither yesterday's argument nor that night last week when it had seemed like we’d accepted overtures of mutual friendship had made any dent at all his this personal armor. Or maybe they had, but he’d simply replaced the armor with something stronger.

While I was glad to leave the fight with dust, I regretted losing those moments of peace and understanding.

de Sousa's townhouse was not very far from Mitsuhide’s (we easily could have walked, were it not for our need to stay in character). Like the one Mitsuhide was using, the building was longer than it was wide, with a storefront that abutted the street. Unfortunately for de Sousa the rear of the house was against the town's moat, and the fragrance that arose from it suggested some of Sakai citizens used it as a toilet.

I didn’t realize I was wrinkling my nose in response to the smell, until Mitsuhide stared at me, and tapped his own nose.

Whoops.

Carefully, I wiped my face of all expression, aware that Mitsuhide was watching as I did so. He nodded approvingly as Kaya’s bland mask slid into place, and then undid all my work by noting, “One would hope we won’t be required to employ the moat as part of that quick exit.”

Oh gross.

He gave me that smirk, and I wondered if his lack of tastebuds also extended to a lack of an olfactory system. Although if that was the case, why did he habitually burn cinnamon and sandalwood?

I was still trying to blank out my face again when a servant appeared. The servant let us inside, escorting us through a semi-exposed courtyard, past the offices and storehouses, and up to de Sousa’s living quarters on the second floor. The narrow rooms weren’t really adequate for any sort of entertaining, so, rumors of a 'banquet' had been greatly exaggerated. No more than dozen other people had been invited, including, to my surprise, Yoshimoto. If I got a free moment later, I would have to ask him how he had managed that. He’d probably just say that an Imagawa does not need to manage.

de Sousa had made an attempt to create a Western style dining atmosphere, by pushing several long, tables into one big rectangle. But without a way to raise the tables to waist level, and without any Western chairs, there wasn’t any other choice but to eat kneeling, the traditional Japanese way.

Mitsuhide was seated next to de Sousa, and across from Shojumaru, who claimed that he would be helping to translate anything, if needed (via some careful eavesdropping, I learned de Sousa's Jesuit translator - a.k.a that murderous priest - had been sent to one of the Southernmost islands). Apparently de Sousa wasn’t certain what to do with me, the only female present, but ‘Kyubei’ got his Yandere on and stated that he refused to let me out of his sight amongst all these other men.

Upon being asked by de Sousa to translate that, Shojumaru told him that Kyubei wanted his whore close to him, because he didn’t trust other men around her.

Ok. Ouch.

Whore.

See if I run interference between you and Sho any more.

The final result of that interaction had me seated between Mitsuhide and Yoshimoto, and across from Shojumaru, ready to pick up on any information spoken in Portuguese. But if Mitsuhide thought that the dinner table discussion would offer him any information on Hideyoshi, or Mai, or the missing weapons, he would be disappointed with what I overheard. While I dutifully tuned in to the conversation for any non-translated threats or other dangers, what I got was a conversation about art (which explained Yoshimoto's presence, as the man enthusiastically took part in a long discussion of Italian masters).

In the meantime, what should be done about the mound of stew in my bowl? It was some heavy meat based thing, smelled somewhat gamey - not off, exactly, but to someone like myself, who prefers a plant based diet whenever possible, it was difficult to choke down. Idly, I noticed that Shojumaru wasn't eating his either. Oh he was going through the motion of lifting his food to his mouth, but eventually it ended up back in a dish. Had someone poisoned the food?

Hm. No one else had any problems with the meal, so maybe Shojumaru was also a vegetarian. It was possible he was a strict buddahist, as some sects did recommend a no-meat diet. Mitsuhide had no difficulty with his serving of glop, but then it probably reminded him of his own cooking.

 "What do you think, Miss Kaya?" Startled, I realized that Shojumaru had addessed me. "Senhor de Sousa wants to know if you are interested in art?"

"Oh. Um. I don't know much about it." Which was true about both myself, and Kaya. While a courtesan likely would be able to intelligently converse about all forms of the arts, I was pretty sure that everyone was aware that Kaya had been a peasant sold into slavery. It would not be surprising for a peasant to be ignorant of art and culture. "But Master Kyubei is teaching me all sorts of interesting things about books and drawings."

Shojumaru translated that accurately to de Sousa, who then responded with something extremely crude. Thankfully, I'm not easy to blush, but my pulse must have jumped, because Mitsuhide gave me a quick glance. Then again, it could be because one of the words de Sousa used was familiar in any language. Even Yoshimoto looked displeased when he heard it.

Once again Shojumaru smoothly erased de Sousa’s crudity, saying diplomatically that no knowledge is wasted.

At this point Mitsuhide-Kyubei entered the conversation. "This one was an ignorant char when I purchased her. I find it far more satisfying to teach someone how to respond to my suggestions, what to think about the world of art, how to behave and to obey my desires. It’s actually faster than retraining a stubborn woman's badly learned habits." He turned and laid a possessive hand on my arm. "She responds to tutelage admirably."

Gee thanks Professor Higgins. Glad to know you're growing accustomed to my face.

He wasn't finished yet. "It is lovely to take a wild thing, domesticate it and know it is your creation."

While Shojumaru rapidly translated this for the Nanban, Yoshimoto chose this moment to rise to Kaya's defense. "I find it more satisfying to meet a woman who can teach me something. Passionate arguments are more exciting than blind obedience."

Which, thank you Yoshimoto for the defense, but your timing sucks. Thanks to him, I hadn’t been able to hear what de Sousa and Shojumaru were saying. Had Yoshimoto forgotten that he was responding to a creature who was just a character Mitsuhide was portraying? Or was he simply behaving as he would normally? I couldn’t even reassure him that everything was fine, not here.

"Passionate arguments are fine, as long as one wins them." Mitsuhide addressed Yoshimoto for the first time. "The greatest victory is to take the sword of defeated opponent as they fall to their knees and swear fealty to you.''

That... apparently had a double meaning for Yoshimoto, who flinched at Mitsuhide's sudden intense stare. Shojumaru now sent a rather inscrutable look our way as well, and the increased tension in the air felt choking. If I had not been disguised, I would have tried to change the subject, or defuse things somehow - but Kaya wasn't the forthright type. In character, I could only stare at my bowl while the gamey smell of meat added to an overall feeling of illness.

Finally de Sousa, who must have simply wanted to be the center of attention, clapped his hands, and announced he had hired a theatrical troupe to perform dances for the evening. Within moments, a house servant had silently cleared the table, and rearranged the room with a mocked up performance space at the far end.

A group of musicians and dancers emerged from the top floor – had they been sitting up there waiting all night? Hopefully someone had managed to get them some food… but I doubted de Sousa would have thought of it. Then again, given what we’d just been fed, the entertainers were probably better off.

Though the musicians weren't loud enough to be distracting, the dancers were beautiful, and wore exquisite jewel toned dresses with even brighter embroidery that sparkled in the lantern light. Their movements were slow, but hypnotic, and after that heavy meal, no one seemed inclined to do anything by sit and watch.

During the great rearrangement, Mitsuhide and I had positioned ourselves near the stairs to the ground floor, and while the rest of the guests were enthralled by the dancers, we slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the steps.

As we skirted around the edge of the courtyard, something splashed my sleeve. I glanced up to the exposed sky, just as Mitsuhide said, "Good. Rain. That is auspicious." He sounded like he was talking to himself, so I didn’t ask why he thought that was so. Maybe the sound of the rain on the tile roof would cover up any noise we made.

I followed him into the room de Sousa had set up as an office, or, well a private study of sorts. The only difference between de Sousa's office and the one that Mitsuhide was using in our own dwelling, was that he, like Francisco, (and, for that matter Aki) had somehow managed to lug a Western style desk into the room – then again, maybe Aki and Francisco had transported theirs in via the wormhole or something. Or maybe there was some ship that only carried furniture from one county to another so that their merchants could have some place familiar to sit.

Surprisingly, de Sousa's desk was not kept locked, which was a disappointing because I wanted to try out my new toys. Either he had nothing to hide or, more likely, he didn’t believe anyone here would be sophisticated enough to investigate him. Mitsuhide opened a drawer and removed a small stack of scrolls and letters written on the heavier western parchment. "One hopes that you’ll find these readable."

It was an intimidating pile. "What are the odds that we can bring some of these home? Er, back to the town house." It was not home.

"I have no knowledge of how he has these categorized or whether he would notice something  missing, but it’s best to cause as little disturbance as possible. Keep everything in the same order.” At his borderline mansplain, I considered pointing out that I had searched his room without disturbing anything, but since that would probably prompt another argument, I held my tongue. “I suggest you scan each one for key words until you can confirm whether it is business or personal. I will stand guard." He moved to the doorway stayed there like a sentinel.

As that seemed like a workable plan, I quickly settled into a rhythm for the project. The letters on western parchment were all written on a feminine hand, and proved to be from his 'dearest Paloma.' I flipped through those with only a cursory glance. Mixed in with the personal letters were inventory lists, shipping records, even a few papers that looked like invoices, which potentially could pinpoint a time period and date the weapons were due to arrive. "Do you know about when de Sousa pulled back the shipment? Most of these are dated."

He gave me an approving nod – my question must have merit. "Mid to late seventh month. At least that was when we learned of it. However things might have been moving behind the scenes prior to that." He spoke quietly, the majority of his attention was on the door.

Just to be safe, I skipped past any correspondence prior to ‘Iunius.’ I couldn’t remember what year the Portuguese had switched from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian, but neither one corresponded to the Japanese lunar cycle anyway. Once I found the correspondence in the likeliest window of time, I read the letters more carefully. One shipping document referenced “Nofunga” Oda -- that must be the initial order, or at least a confirmation of sale. At that point in time, it seemed that de Sousa still intended to fulfill the request. Another letter, also mentioned Oda, but only in passing - speculating on whether or not he would contend to allow self-governance of Sakai, and if not, would it be useful to send a party to negotiate with him directly.

Interesting, but not what I was looking for.

And then I found it.

Correspondence from Shojumaru, offering to broker a deal for weapons, to be supplied to Motonari Mouri in exchange for silver provided by Kanamori Iekane.

The page blurred in front of my eyes.

Iekane.

Iekane. Even though the last name was different – he was no longer using Aki’s – it had to be the same man. Of course he was in this. Maybe he'd been so since that day five years ago when he locked me in a crate among one of Motonari’s weapon shipments.

"What is it, brat? You're staring at that letter as if it’s going to eat you.'' Mitsuhide's voice broke into my reverie /panic. Same difference at this point.

"It's confirmation that-"

A loud squeak interrupted me. The sound a staircase makes as it protests the weight of travel. This was followed by the clatter of footsteps, and voices. de Sousa, talking about some ceramics he wanted to show off.

In one smooth motion, Mitsuhide slid shut the door to the office and was across the room while I was registering the noise… and the implication. He swept the stack of correspondence back into the drawer, then lifted me up and plopped me on top of the desk. "This is not the time to protest my next action, as we are about to become extremely visible to the rest of tonight’s guests."

"Huh? Shouldn’t we just hid-”

That was all I got out before Mitsuhide kissed me.

While my brain was still processing the sudden liplock, Mitsuhide pulled me closer, until his leg was between mine (or as between as my narrow kimono would allow). I swallowed a protest, knowing that this was a performance, part of our agreement to show public affection. Not real.

How does one fake act a kiss? Should I close my eyes? Ok, yes, probably, Kaya would have her eyes closed. Commencing eye closure.

It wasn’t a terrible kiss, as sudden, barely warned kisses go. Not that I would know. But he could have made things unpleasant for me, especially given the character he had established as Kyubei. It could have been overly intrusive, or painful, or oppressive, or gross, or-

He broke away and slid his mouth toward my ear. "This would go much better, if you could at least pretend to participate. With enthusiasm, if at all possible.”

Director’s notes? Now?

Although he did have a point. I took a deep breath, prepared to channel my inner Meryl Streep. "You surprised me.  Give me a moment to catch up, all right?"

The clatter of footsteps and murmur of voices grew closer.

After a split second in which Mitsuhide was either praying for patience, or counting to ten (he just had a sort of 'give me strength’ look in his eyes), he placed his hand on my cheek, and slowly dipped in for another kiss.

This new kiss, he took his time. His lips gently glided across mine, his embrace keeping me easily balanced on the desk. The gentleness did what the surprise could not, and a previous unknown voice inside me went, ‘more!’ and before I knew it, it stopped feeling like an act of theatricality, and started feeling like an act of mutal desire.

His body was all lean muscle and kinetic strength – I wanted to feel that strength on my skin, to slip my hand under his clothing and savor the texture of his flesh, to savor the vibration of his heartbeat beneath my palm, a vibration that echoed in my ears. I pressed myself closer before any logic could overrule action, grinding my hips against his, opening my mouth to his tongue.

Someone moaned… was that him? 

Please don’t let that have been me.

Then annoyed voices from the corridor intruded and Mitsuhide finally ended the kiss, though he did not let me go. He turned to face de Sousa, Shojumaru, Yoshimoto, and a Japanese merchant whose name I had not caught. They were all staring at us from the now open doorway. I hid my face in his shoulder in not entirely feigned embarrassment.

Cinnamon and sandalwood.

"What the hell are you doing in my private office?" The words were in Portuguese but there was no mistaking the intent behind them.

Mitsuhide didn’t bother to wait for someone to translate, he simply proclaimed, "My toy was looking so lovely tonight, I simply had to be alone with her. But the rain chased us out of the garden."

Toy. It was as if the wall to the courtyard opened up and the cold rain had splashed all over me. Right. Acting.

I knew he did not truly consider me a toy. I also knew that the kiss had simply been part of the performance, one that had needed us to at least look like we could not keep our hands off each other. So that’s… what method acting is. I guess I do have an inner Meryl Streep after all. Acting. I had been acting too.

Without switching from that conversational tone, Mitsuhide patted the desk. "This furniture is perfectly stable. Can someone procure one for me?"

de Sousa waited for Shojumaru to translate that, but even with the benefit of the translation, he still looked irate. His response was something along the lines of if Kyubei wanted to turn his house into a brothel then he ought to have brought more women, or at least offered to share.

I wondered if Shojumaru was going to translate that back into Japanese, but whether or not he would have done so was destined to remain a mystery, for Yoshimoto stepped forward to play diplomat. "Senhor de Sousa, perhaps you could show us those ceramics from China now."

After one final look of envy, de Sousa shepherded the group toward the storehouses, but Shojumaru continued to eye us. He didn’t say anything, and that overly friendly smile stayed on his face, but there was a hardness in his eyes now.

As Mitsuhide helped me off the desk, Shojumaru's gaze went to its surface. Scanning for incriminating papers maybe? Thank the Gods that Mitsuhide had managed to get de Sousa’s correspondence back into the drawer before initiating that ‘seven minutes in heaven’ act.

"I take it it’s too much to hope that de Sousa will allow us to use his bedroom?" Without waiting for a response, Mitsuhide bowed to them. "In that case, we shall return home, as I am hungry for a different sort of meal. Kaya, you may let go of me.''

Trust him to point out that my hand was clinging to the front of his kimono.

Right.

Disengage grappling hook.

I let go, and followed him out the door, aware that this was probably one of those fast exits he had warned me about.

Hopefully… not through the moat.

My senses had already been through enough this night.

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