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alinaastarkov · 4 years

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Are there any specific Jonrya Quotes that doesn't mean sibling love? If so which ones?

Yes! Loads! Thanks for this ask.

She [Ygritte] is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't? - Jon VI ACOK

I don’t know about you guys, but it’s not often I’m romantically attracted to someone who immediately reminds me of my sibling. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he'd thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya. - Jon VI ACOK

Once again, I tend not to imagine my (future) romantic partner’s naked body and think of my sibling. I’m starting to sense a pattern 🤔

"NO!" Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. Hot Pie quailed a little. Arya gave Gendry a sideways look. He said it with me, like Jon used to do, back in Winterfell. She missed Jon Snow the most of all her brothers. - Arya I ASOS

Even Arya is comparing her (future potential) love interest to Jon. It’s an epidemic!

She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. - Jon II ASOS

Yet another instance of Jon thinking of Ygritte’s body beneath her clothes and thinking of Arya. Hmm, suspicious 👀

"If you kill a man, and never mean t', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly. Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? - Jon III ASOS

Kind of strange to question his relationship to Arya, especially after all of those inappropriate thoughts regarding Ygritte. And to question only Arya? Seems like someone really wishes they weren’t blood related so it wouldn’t feel wrong to think of her that way...

"It wasn't Longspear, then?" Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways. She punched him. "That's vile. Would you bed your sister?" "Longspear's not your brother." - Jon III ASOS

Real smooth, Jon. Real smooth. Notice how he totally dodges the question? How we never get an answer on if he would bed his sister? Perhaps because the answer is yes?? Notice how this sounds a lot like it might tie in to “their passion will continue to torment them until the secret of Jon’s parentage is revealed in the last book”? Very suspicious.

"He's with the Night's Watch on the Wall." Maybe I should go to the Wall instead of Riverrun. Jon wouldn't care who I killed or whether I brushed my hair . . . "Jon looks like me, even though he's bastard-born. He used to muss my hair and call me 'little sister.'" Arya missed Jon most of all. Just saying his name made her sad. - Arya VIII ASOS

“I know where we could go," Arya said. She still had one brother left. Jon will want me, even if no one else does. He'll call me "little sister" and muss my hair. - Arya XII ASOS

Maybe not explicitly romantic per se, but it is telling that she genuinely believes her own mother and brother would not want her for superficial reasons and because of the people she killed in self-defense, but her belief in Jon doesn’t waver for a single second.

Jon has a mother. Wylla, her name is Wylla. She would need to remember so she could tell him, the next time she saw him. She wondered if he would still call her "little sister." I'm not so little anymore. He'd have to call me something else. - Arya VIII ASOS

Arya’s questioning her relationship with him too?! To distance herself from him and subconsciously make it easier to deal with romantic feelings in the future?! Will it ever end?!

"It's just a sword," she said, aloud this time . . . . . . but it wasn't. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. - Arya II AFFC

This is so sweet and the specificity of his smile over the more general descriptions of the rest of her family mark it out as different in some way.

She had never cared if she was pretty, even when she was stupid Arya Stark. Only her father had ever called her that. Him, and Jon Snow, sometimes. Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would just wash and brush her hair and take more care with her dress, the way her sister did. To her sister and sister's friends and all the rest, she had just been Arya Horseface. But they were all dead now, even Arya, everyone but her half-brother, Jon. Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns and brothels of the Ragman's Harbor. The Black Bastard of the Wall, one man had called him. Even Jon would never know Blind Beth, I bet. That made her sad. - The Blind Girl ADWD

Arya loves Jon so much she wishes he could meet her alter-egos too. Ugh, the romantic angst is too much.

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily. - Jon VI ADWD

Once again, Jon thinks of Arya in a way that a brother really shouldn’t think of a sister. Funny how he specifically says “Ramsay Bolton’s bed”, and not just any man’s bed? Maybe because he can imagine her in someone’s (his)? Either way, weird thing to think about, Jon. And a very violent reaction to your sister’s marriage. Way more than his reaction to another sister’s marriage. Definitely intense feeling that goes beyond sibling bond.

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" - Jon VI ADWD

Need I say more?

Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. - Jon IX ADWD

This is not so big in terms of non-sibling feelings but it is a very intense reaction and also I love Jon being such an emo little shit here cause... Jon, bby, you’re sixteen. Calm down.

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. "Winter's lady." Jon squeezed her hand. - Jon X ADWD

This is such a romanticised scene and the fact that it mentions Arya at the same time, and Jon’s intense feeling again, gives me pause and made me put it on this list.

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. - Jon XI ADWD

Again, veeeerrry intense feelings, the mention of her wedding night again, and the fact that he once more questions his relationship with her. It’s too repetitive and obvious not to mean something.

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said. - Jon XIII ADWD

So, Jon thinks of his former lover and Arya right after, repeats the phrase “I want my bride back” specifically in reference to Arya, and imo “bride” is not what you call someone you have only platonic/ familial feelings for. That would be very weird. Then he abandons all his vows, something he had the opportunity to do and didn’t at least 3 separate times, for and only for Arya, and if that ain’t just the most romantic shit you ever heard. And then of course he literally dies with her as his last thought. Romantic. As. Fuck!

There is more than this, but you asked for things that don’t also mean sibling love, so here you go! 🤗

#asoiaf #jonrya #jon snow #arya stark #jon x arya #jonarya #my meta #sort of #shut up neve #Anonymous #neve has mail

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ikeservant · 4 years

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Hey if your still doing requests I'd like to hear your headcanons for nobunaga Shingen and Mitsuhide, with MC who practices witchcraft, if that's alright. Like "get the Palo Santo imma evict this ghost" modern witch. 98% certain Mitsuhide is of the Fae (won't give him her full name never makes any sort of deal and never directly says "thank you" but is very polite). And puts little bottles of weird things on the windowsills. May or may not have threatened hex a rude guest.

Yay I finally finished, @casually-fantastic-nug !:D I love looking up modern witchcraft and Wiccan things and think it’s pretty cool and I LOVE folklore and reading about cultural rituals and beliefs in general so this is an awesome prompt.

Nobunaga: When Nobunaga was disrespectful and touch mc’s face, she was pissed. However, she noticed how admired he was and how he was a powerful leader. So before she would decide whether to stay and help or leave, she decided to use her Wiccan teachings to determine whether he was trustworthy. Knocking and opening his door, she walked inside with tea leaves and candles. “Ah, here to be my nightly entertainment?”. “No. You are under my judgement. Sit still and let me read your aura.” Lighting the lavender scented candles to relax her mind and hone her focus, she stared at him intently, making him feel like she was reading his soul. “Your aura is strong and seemingly dark, but holds a strong, light inner layer. Before I leave you be, I will read my tea leaves to look into my future if I do stay and help.” Intrigued, Nobu watched with interest. “A good outcome might come my way, so I’ll stay here. But don’t try anything funny or else you’ll regret it.” As she worked alongside Nobunaga, he asked her a lot about her traditions and practices like what certain herb mixtures in her bottles did and how it could help, genuinely intrigued by her beliefs and knowledge. Before they go off to battle, he sees mc writing symbols over the doorways. “What are you doing, fireball?” “Putting protective seals around the castle to protect it from bad energies while we’re away. This place is like my home and I want to protect it any way I can. Oh before I forget, I need to give you this.” Fumbling around her sash, she pulls out a small wooden charm with a ribbon tied around it. “It’s a talisman for good fortune. I care about you a lot and want this to protect you.” “I will treasure this, although I’m already fortunate enough to have you be my lucky charm I will cherish as long as I can.”

Shingen: Mc was mad when Shingen kidnapped her, but something in her intuition and inner spirit told her that she is needed here for some reason. She woke up in the middle of the night, sensing something was wrong. Walking around, she heard a coughing fit from Shingen’s room. Cracking open the door, she saw him hunched over, wheezing. Walking right up to him, she tried examining him to get a clear idea of what herbal remedies could help. “I wish you could check me out when I’m in a better state. I’m in no condition to be looked at by a goddess.” His feeling of insecurity and weakness was put out when she dismissed his statement and not looking down on him “I’m just trying to see how I can help.” “You must be an angel for aiding your captor.” “No. I’m just a good witch doing her job.” Before he could ask any more questions, she rushed out of the room, returning with her satchel with jars of different herbs and ground up lavender. “I’ll heat up some tea to put these herbs in to help clear your air passages and put the ground lavender in a fabric pouch to lay next to you so the aroma can relax you and help you sleep.” “I am grateful for your help, but if I may ask, how do you know all this stuff?” Mc explained witches and witchcraft and the different ways to use it. Is on board with it and will try anything she offers to him. Protective door seals to drive out bad spirits? Yes. Healing crystals? He carries them everywhere with a smile on his face, feeling much lighter and in better spirits but doesn’t know if its because the crystals are working or if it’s because mc gave them to him but either way it works wonders. Treasures everything mc gives him, feeling her hope for him reach his heart, making him feel like the rest of his years won’t be painful and lonely. He decides in return to carve a small wooden heart and make a necklace out of it, putting his feelings for mc into it. “You have given me many talisman from your heart and I decided to try my hand at it.” Mc, tearing up, puts it on so that his love for her can protect her like her nurturing witchcraft aided him.

Mitsuhide: Mc was immediately suspicious when Mitsuhide was reading her like a book, looking like a trickster. ‘He’s gotta be a fae folk, I’ll need to be on my guard.’ Since he was still suspicious about her, he decided to ask her questions. “I’m afraid I only know your first name, mc. Would you please give me your full name?” In Mitsu’s mind he’s just trying to make connections if she is tied to any family clans that oppose the Oda, but in her mind he’s trying to steal her name and hold power over her. “I apologize, but I cannot give you my full name. Just call me mc.” He found this suspicious, causing him to sneak into her room and try to find anything that might clue in where she is from. Instead, he found jars of oils, herbs, crystals, candles, and various items. “Please do not touch my stuff, fae!” mc frantically ran over. She had to explain where she came from and what witchcraft is. “I really mean no harm but if the others find out I’m from the future I will be in serious trouble.” He could tell that she was not a threat to the Oda so he decided “I will not tell the others, mostly because of the ruckus it would cause.” “Oh than-“mc was about to say thank you but remembered him maybe being a Fae. “One more thing. Please put this ring on.” She handed him an iron ring, checking to see if it did any damage on him. Checking his hand, she saw no marks and decided to lessen her suspicions on him being a Fae. “If you just wanted to hold my hand you should’ve said so.” “I’m just checking to see if you’re a Fae with bad intentions.” “I think you should know that humans can be far scarier than the creatures and spirits.” He said, sending an eerie chill up her spine. However, as time went by, they got along and grew closer. He thought the spells and rituals were unrealistic since he’s a very cynical person, but he enjoyed the thought she put into them and her enthusiasm itself brought positive energy that if ghosts and bad spirits did exist, she’d expel them with her spirit alone. When he treated mc to the tea shop, he bumped into one of his spies and had to step out for a minute. When he returned, he overheard some guards talking smack about him. He was just going to walk on by, but mc came to his defense, telling them off. “How dare you talk back, woman.” The guard raising his hand and Mitsu about to step in, mc made them both pause with a menacing smirk. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” “What? Why is that?” the guard said, now nervous with her sudden expression change. Pulling out a small doll, a hammer, and nails, she laid the doll down and placed a nail on its arm. “If you make one bad move, I will use my cursed doll to hurt you. Whatever I do to the doll, the same happens to you.” “That’s impossible. You can’t do that.” He said, now sweating. “Oh really? Try me.” She pressed the nail into the doll’s arm a little more, and Mitsuhide wanting to play along, grabbed a pin and poked the man’s arm, making him scream and run off. “You must adore me so much to threaten a man with physical torture for my honor.” “Nah I couldn’t really do that doll stuff. I only use my witchcraft for good. I just do that to scare people like him away. Plus, I see the good spiritual energy in you and want to ward off anybody who can’t see that. That’s why I got you this!” She gave him a necklace with a little pouch. “Wear this to keep your good spiritual energy and bring fortune.” This became the most valued possession he ever owned and felt that he was already brought fortune when mc came into his life, but this symbolized her hopes for him and boi was officially in love.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen nobunaga #ikesen shingen #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen headcanon #ikesen hc

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firelord-frowny · 3 years

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I’ve talked a little bit about how at least one ~negative aspect~ of white supremacy/racism that impacts white people is that it can be SO DIFFICULT to avoid being Accidentally Racist over something that really shouldn’t have been that deep, and WOULDN’T have been that deep if not for the pervasiveness of white supremacy in america, and this bit about the lil country band Lady Antebellum and the controversy surrounding their name illustrates that pretty well, I think:

The band members have always said that the band's name was chosen arbitrarily, complaining about the difficulty of choosing a name. Inspired by the "country" style nostalgia of a photo shoot at a mansion from the Antebellum South, they said, "one of us said the word and we all kind of stopped and said, man, that could be a name"[40] and "Man that's a beautiful Antebellum house, and that's cool, maybe there's a haunted ghost or something in there like Lady Antebellum."[41] Haywood concluded, "[We] had a lady in the group, obviously, and threw Lady in the front of it for no reason. I wish we had a great resounding story to remember for the name, but it stuck ever since."[40] The name was always controversial, with a critic in Ms. Magazine writing in 2011 that the band's name "seems to me an example of the way we still — nearly 150 years after the end of the Civil War, nearly 50 years after the Civil Rights Act; and in a supposedly post-racial country led by a biracial president — glorify a culture that was based on the violent oppression of people of color".[41][42]

On June 11, 2020, joining widespread commercial response to the George Floyd protests,[41] the band announced it would abbreviate its name to its existing nickname "Lady A"[43] in an attempt to blunt the name's racist connotations.[1] The band members stated on social media that, never having previously sought the dictionary definition of the word "antebellum", they now consulted their "closest black friends and colleagues" so that their "eyes opened wide to the injustices, inequality and biases black women and men have always faced and continue to face every day. Now, blind spots we didn't even know existed have been revealed."[44] Fan response was mixed, with many decrying virtue signaling or even disparaging the protests.[41]American Songwriter said, "Given that the world knows what that A stands for, to many this change does little more than add extra insult to this ongoing injury."[45]

The next day, it was widely reported that the name "Lady A" had already been in use for more than 20 years by Seattle-based African American activist and blues, soul, funk, and gospel singer Anita White. The band again admitted ignorance of any prior use, which White called "pure privilege". Interviewed by Rolling Stone, White described the band's token acknowledgement of racism while blithely appropriating an African American artist's name: "They're using the name because of a Black Lives Matter incident that, for them, is just a moment in time. If it mattered, it would have mattered to them before. It shouldn't have taken George Floyd to die for them to realize that their name had a slave reference to it. It's an opportunity for them to pretend they're not racist". A veteran music industry lawyer observed that such name clashes are uncommon due to the existence of the Internet.[46][47] The band members contacted White the next week to apologize for having inadvertently co-opted and dominated her name,[48] saying that the Black Lives Matter movement had inspired them to a collaborative attitude. They nonetheless required retaining the same name, though she believed dual-naming is inherently impossible.[49]She said "We talked about attempting to co-exist but didn't discuss what that would look like"[48] because the band members would not directly respond to that explicit question three times during the conversation or in two contract drafts. She soon submitted a counteroffer that either the band would be renamed, or that her act would be renamed for a $5 million fee plus a $5 million donation to be split between Seattle charities, a nationwide legal defense fund for independent artists, and Black Lives Matter.[49]

On July 8, 2020, the band filed a lawsuit against White, asking a Nashville court to affirm its longstanding trademark of the name. The press release read: "Today we are sad to share that our sincere hope to join together with Anita White in unity and common purpose has ended. She and her team have demanded a $10 million payment, so reluctantly we have come to the conclusion that we need to ask a court to affirm our right to continue to use the name Lady A, a trademark we have held for many years."[50]

On September 15, 2020, White filed a counter-suit asserting her claim to the Lady A trademark and rejecting the notion that both artists could operate in the same industry under the same brand identity. She is seeking damages for lost sales and a weakened brand, along with royalties from any income the band receives under the Lady A moniker.[51][52]

Like????????? this REALLY didn’t need to be a thing.

And one thing I think black folks and other poc need to chill out with is dismissing any white person’s attempt at Being Better in how they move through a white supremacist world in a way that seeks to undo or at least not exacerbate white supremacy. I can TOTALLY believe that, in their white ignorant bliss, this band really did choose their name without realizing for a moment that it might leave a fucked up taste in some people’s mouths. Honestly like... antebellum IS a cool sounding word lmfao and if it wasn’t so heavily associated with slavery-era america, i’d wanna name something antebellum, too!

And like, yes, it’s true that it ~shouldn’t have taken george floyd’s death~ for anyone at all to suddenly decide that they want to go a little bit out of their way to denounce or at least not seem to promote racism in some small way. But it did. And it does. And every fucking time there’s a gross act of violence and injustice acted out on a person of color in front of the world, there’s always going to be a brand new white person out there who Sees The Light for the very first time. That doesn’t mean their new perspective isn’t genuine, and it doesn’t mean it happened All Of A Sudden. If anything, it was something they’d been thinking about for a long time, but didn’t know how to address it, or what to say, or who to say it to, or how to talk about it in their own community. OBVIOUSLY that problem is WAY LESS BAD than, ya know, actually experiencing racism, but it’s still a real thing that some white folks go through, and being mad about it isn’t going to make it NOT a real thing. it shouldn’t have taken george floyd’s death. it shouldn’t have taken trayvon martin’s death. it shouldn’t have taken the instatement of one of the most vile human beings to ever assault the face of the earth for This Person or That Person to finally want to make a positive and public change, BUT IT DID. It always does. That, unfortunately, is How It Works.

And so, this band adjusts it’s name in an effort to not seem hostile. OBVIOUSLY it’s not a grand show of solidarity. OBVIOUSLY it’s not meant to convince anyone that they’re Super Amazing White People Who Will Stop At Nothing For Racial Equality. It was literally just a small, simple gesture. They’re just modifying their image, because they were no longer comfortable with knowing how that word makes a lot of people feel. Bc like... let’s be real: probably a solid ZERO of their fanbase would have given a shit if they’d just left the name as it was. Nobody who’s going to a Lady Antebellum concert was pouting about the name. And if anything, they prolly stood a better chance of LOSING fans for ~being politically correct~ than gaining fans for changing their name to something less annoying.

And it JUST SO HAPPENS that the slight lil adjustment they made to their name steps on the toes of an existing artist, and it JUST SO HAPPENS that this artist is black, and is also an ACTIVIST in social and racial justice.

Oops.��

And so, obviously people don’t interpret it as an honest mistake. Instead, it’s a result of white privilege. And I mean like??? ok, maybe it is. But I ALSO had never heard of Anita White until I read this fucking wiki page lmfao. So like... my ignorance isn’t due to no white privilege on my part. Maybe it’s a consequence of a white supremacist culture that wouldn’t glorify her and celebrate her and put her name everywhere... but that’s a different thing from privilege.

So now not only are the bands efforts to adjust to a world that’s becoming more aware of racial injustice being dismissed as disingenuous or too-little-too-late, but now they’re ALSO being accused of Using Their White Privilege to trample all over an artist they’d never heard of.

i DO think that after finding out the name was already taken, and after talking with her about it and determining that she wasn’t interested in sharing - as is her right - they should have just said “ok, sorry, thanks for talking with us about it” and picked something different. i think it’s kinda ridiculous that they think they should sue her and i think she’s HELLA right for suing their asses right back, and I hope she gets her damn money.

But I’m also cognizant of how emotionally/psychologically upsetting it can feel to have to just Change Your Name after so many years of living with it. It makes sense that despite their desire to adapt and choose a new name that doesn’t make people cringe, they still want to try to hold on to the feeling that THEY associated with their own name. “Lady A” seemed like a happy medium: They can remain Who They Are while also showing that Who They Are is someone who’s not trying to glorify a disgusting era of history. But if “Lady A” isn’t an option... what’s left? What else could they call themselves that wouldn’t feel like a totally new, alien identity??

So, I understand how, on an emotional level, they want to fight to keep it.

But uh. They really need to just Be Sad about it and let it go. Just consider it one of the small, upsetting sacrifices that white folks may sometimes have to make as we ALL struggle and stumble through this fuckin long-ass road of Making The World Less Terrible For People Of Color, and move on.

But yeah, like.

It’s fucking ridiculous that this was even an issue, and it was only an issue because of racism!!!!! If white supremacists didn’t manufacture a culture that oppresses people of color and glorifies the pre-civil-war era SPECIFICALLY for the good ol slavery, then perhaps people could wax poetic about the artistic and environmental aesthetic of that era without it being assumed that they Must Be Racist. Bc like??? idk if yall know this lmfao but i LOVE????? colonial american music. like, the kind of stuff with that Ashokan Farewell vibe. I think it sounds beautiful. And i really fuckin love the black spiritual music that was developed in that time. and i think so much of the architecture and fashion was so???? Nice. Just pleasant! But I can’t even get myself to fully enjoy it because of all the fuckin connotations that have been stuck to it.

A band should be able to name theirself a name without it being such a goddamn fucking cultural crisis.

But they can’t! And it is!

Thanks, White Supremacy!

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agirlunderarock · 4 years

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How I accidentally wrote 20 page paper on Boromir for one of my Final Ever University Papers PART 3

Okay folks so I think we’re a little more than halfway through? I think??? I don’t freaking know this is the exact same feeling I had while writing the paper-

Will I ever come to an end?

We just don’t know

If you missed Part 1 and Part 2 just click the text and it’ll take you to the link

So where did we leave off last time?

I told you exactly how academics where taking a crap on the goodest boi and so this time I’m going to explain why Faramir is the better character foil. Because instead of using Boromir as foil for say Aragorn or Sam, I say they should be using Faramir. I think specifically I left you guys with this lovely little picture I made myself of their character arcs:

If you can’t read it, I’m sorry its pixilated, thats just how the program gets when you try to make an image that compact to fit on a large presentation poster with an already large image. But anyway the important thing in this image isn’t whether or not you can read the damn thing, no, its that Boromir and Faramir’s character arcs are nearly exactly the same.Boromir and Faramir face political, and familial pressures, and faced with the question of what to do about Frodo and the ring. Both brothers are introduced in places that are supposedly out of their element. Boromir is seemingly described as more prepared for battle and fighting, yet we meet him in a council meeting of all things, and Faramir who is supposed to be #intellectual we meet after he and his men have just conducted a raid on an enemy patrol. They’re later both faced with questions of doubt and what they feel they need to do to protect their people. Denethor asks a lot of them and it takes a toll in some way shape and form. but the main points of their character arc ultimately come down to the conflict of family, country, and the fellowship.

like okay I’m not gonna lie, I really just want to put this picture in here and I have a funny story about how this picture made it in the research project but basically even the movie backs up that Boromir’s real foil is Faramir.

shit what was I saying?

Oh yeah

so basically in this flashback from the two towers we get a good side by side comparison between the brothers. Clearly they look alike, but look at how they’re dressed. Boromir’s in full armor my dudes, sword looks like its partially out of the scabbard- but really the main thing you need to focus on is the costuming in this shot, because the costuming here is, of course a reflection of their roles as military leaders, but also a major reflection of their personalities and really how their character arcs play out as a whole. Boromir is usually on the defensive (note I say defensive not ready to throw down) not just in battle because Mordor is like constantly like “Knock Knock can we come in?” but when he gets the Rivendell too, he’s being defensive because it almost sounds like these people half way across the world are going to forsake his home and the people he loves. So yes, I’d say my boi gets to be a little abrasive and wear emotional armor. He’s got a lot of feelings and he doesn’t get to talk about them because either 1. he’s with his troops or 2 he’s surrounded by people he doesn’t know that well i.e. the fellowship early in the story.

Faramir on the other hand is wearing some pretty light armor. He’s more open than Boromir, and if I remember correctly its said in the book that Faramir had taken to talking with Gandalf often when he was young and stuff- I don’t remember tbh I’m at that point where I haven’t read a book in a year cause I’m so damn tired, and I get canon and fanon mashed up sometimes. But what I’m trying to get at is, Faramir lets himself be open to more ideas, to more people, he’s more trusting of people’s intentions probably that numorian thing that he and Denethor have tbh. So basically what I’m trying to say is the main difference between the two brothers is how they deal with fear and anxiety.

Again Boromir tries to hide and swallow his fear and anxiety- he has to as a military leader shit happens. Faramir, looks for as many plans as he can to relieve some of his fear and anxiety- he’s also a leader shit happens.

So remember back when I said that Aristotle said some bullshit about how betraying your father is like the shittiest thing a person could ever do ever? Or when I said the heroism through obedience is absolute bullshit? If not too bad that was your reminder, though I genuinely don’t remember if I talked about the latter.

Denethor becomes the focal point of how these characters are compared. I say this because there is never a moment in the books were we actually have a conversation with all three of them present, but we know that he makes the same demand of both of his sons, that being find out what Isildure’s Bane is and then find a way to protect Gondor by any means. Not necessarily a bad request, its just HEAVY and the way its delivered in Return of the King is heavy and hurtful. I sir I know your mad stressed but also

YOUR SONS ARE MAD STRESSED SO CAN YOU PLEASE NOT HAVE CONVERSATIONS LIKE THIS:

“‘Your bearing is lowly in my presence, yet it is too long now since you turned from your own way at my counsel. See, you have spoken skillfully, as ever; but I, have I not seen your eye fixed on Mithrandir seeking whether you said well or too much? He has long had your heart in his keeping.

‘My son, your father is old but not yet dotard […]

‘If what I have done displease you, my father,’ said Faramir quietly, ‘I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weight a judgement was thrust on me.’

‘Would that have availed to change your judgement?’ said Denethor. ‘You would still have done just so, I deem. I know you well. […]But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death.’

‘So be it,’ said Faramir.

‘So be it!’ cried Denethor. ‘But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone.’

‘Do you with then,’ said Faramir, ‘that our places had been exchanged?’

‘Yes, I wish that indeed,’ said Denethor. “For Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard’s pupil.” (Return of the King 794-795).

Like thats a big load for two dudes to carry man

Like I get it but thats heavy and I cri for both my bois having to deal with this war their whole life

But you see what I’m getting at here. Theres a lot of expectations for these boys, and really they just need hugs, and I need a hug rewriting this part into non academic language because it makes me BIG SAD

But whats interesting about the expectation that his sons only be loyal to him, is that in attempting to obey their father, THEY GET FUCKING WRECKED. Boromir ends up scaring Frodo to the point the Fellowship breaks up, and Faramir ends up like almost dying and gets his men wrecked. Now I’m not saying Aristotle is full of bullshit, but he’s full of shit, and I’m gonna learn you why.

So before I say which critic actually puts everyone else to shame by praising two hobbit bois, let me make this clear: Boromir does not die trying to obey his father, he dies actively disobeying him. Instead of trying to find Frodo and still get the ring like Denethor would have wanted, Boromir goes dies defending Merry and Pippin. HE COULD HAVE LEFT THEM IN FAVOR OF GOING AFTER THE RING BUT HE’S A GOOD MAN WHO WANTED HIS HOBBIT CHILDREN WHO ARE TECHNICALLY JUST AS OLD AS HIM TO GET AWAY AND BE SAFE AND HE DIED. Faramir on the other hand nearly dies while trying to carry out his father’s orders and thats tragic but again- shit happens.

According to no braincells Aristotle, one of these is right, even with the tragic outcome and one is wrong and deserved to die.

WRONG

In Ian Romuald Lakowski’s, "Types of Heroism in The Lord of the Rings," he acknowledges that through Merry and Pippin there is heroism in DISOBEDIENCE. For Boromir and Faramir this means obedience or disobedience is not a simple right or wrong choice, and in both of them being disobedient to their father is a more sure sign of their heroism.

I mean think about it, the very action every critic characterizes Boromir for is based off of his obedience to his father. He’s villainized for trying to take the ring from Frodo, when the reality is, the man was struggling with trying to figure out what the right course of action was. ITS THE SAME REASON FARAMIR TAKES SO DAMN LONG TO FIGURE OUT WHAT TO DO WITH FRODO AND SAM. THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

So what ends up happening? Faramir is praised a good guy for disobeying, and really in the end the real Boromir comes back when he disobeys Denethor too.

But we’ll come back to some of that in a bit,

Because STRESS is not enough to bind these two as better foils than other comparison that can be made. Because again, critics like to praise Faramir and elevate him and I’m not about to put them against each other.

Like despite their differences Boromir and Faramir’s relationship with one another isn’t characterized by fear or power or even that #stress but genuine love for one another. And this is important, because though no critics ever sighted a page for their reading of Boromir as a greedy little shit, I believe their interpretation comes from second hand accounts of his character. Instead of actually looking at what he says and does to be his true self. They characterize Boromir by his single action of trying to take the ring from Frodo instead of looking at him as a whole.

Boromir’s relationship with his brother is incredibly important because given the circumstances and everything that they’ve been through and even though they have very different thought processes, they should have a rocky relationship, but they don’t. They have a very good relationship.The appendices give a nice description of the things we never got to see happen in the book

“…there was great love, and had been since childhood, when Boromir was the helper and protector of Faramir. No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father’s favour or for the praise of men. It did not seem possible to Faramir that any one in Gondor could rival Boromir, her of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower; and of like mind was Boromir” (1032).

Actually

I take it back

Never say never get to see because in the council of Elrond, Boromir literally shows us his relationship with his brother and what kind of person he is.

“ Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imadris; but since the way was fully of doubts and danger, I took the journey upon myself,” showing that he willingly put himself in danger to protect his little brother (The Fellowship of the Ring 239).

The reason I bring this up is because I don’t think critics look at what Boromir actually says and does through out the book. I literally don’t understand where or how they would even perceive this as an ulterior motive or that he does anything with ill intent. AT THIS POINT THERE IS NOTHING THAT SUGGEST HE MIGHT BE. BECAUSE LITERALLY EVERY ACTION BOROMIR TAKES IS TO PROTECT SOMEONE ELSE

Like maybe they take the first description of Boromir to be negative:

“a tall man fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance,”

But none of these are inherently negative. Proud and stern aren’t negative words. Proud doesn’t become negative until you pair it with the action of taking the ring from Frodo and THATS ASSUMING that he’s taking it for himself to use and that he himself wants power.

BUT HE DOESN’T- and we’ll get to why later

OR maybe they’re trying to take what Faramir has to say about his brother to the extreme end:

“‘And this I remember of Boromir as a boy, when we together learned the tale of our sires and the history of our city, that always it displeased him that his father was not king. “How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?” he asked. […] Alas poor Boromir. Does that tell you something of him?’

‘It does,’ said Frodo. ‘Yet always he treated Aragorn with honour.’

‘I doubt it not,’ said Faramir. ‘If he were satisfied of Aragron’s claim, as you say, he would greatly reverence him. But the pinch had not yet come. They had not yet reached Minas Tirith or become rivals in her wars” (The Two Towers 655 ).

Which I’m gonna be honest is fair assessment. But like Boromir’s asking these questions 1. as a kid, and as I myself was a child who hated incompetency, ITS CONFUSING AND FRUSTRATING TO BE DOING ALL THE WORK AND NOT GET THE CREDIT? (RIGHT NOW I’M LOOKING AT PEOPLE WHO REPOST FAN ART WITHOUT THE CREDIT- I WILL FIND YOU AND SMITE YOU)

but anyway, yeah you know what that question about kingship tells me- HE WANTS TO KNOW WHERE THE FUCKING KING IS???? Like thats not inherently a greed thing- Only if you’re looking at it from like a religious standpoint and blah blah blah Catholic teachings about- but again

Then good boy Frodo looking out for him, I’m gonna cry, points out the obvious- that Boromir respected Aragorn, and Faramir has the nerve to say- yeah but wait until the group project falls apart- then see what happens

and let me just say

Faramir

sir

my boi

YOU CLEARLY HAVE BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE A GOOD TEAM FOR YOUR GROUP PROJECT BECAUSE LET ME TELL YOU. IF ARAGORN WENT IN THERE AND THINGS STARTED GOING WRONG AND PEOPLE STARTED DYING OF COURSE BOROMIR WAS GOING TO BE PISSED- LIKE THEY WAITED HOW LONG FOR WHAT????

It’d be like if someone you didin’t know came over to your house told you not to make dinner in your own house, that they knew their way around the kitchen- WHEN THEY DON’T KNOW YOUR’RE ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS, proceed to start a fire while trying to fry up some chicken, and then saying they’ve got it under control, but the fire dept can’t put out your oven. I mean thats worst case scenario.

I’m sorry but just the thought of someone I know/am related to coming into my room and touches my goddamn light switch gives me anxiety- BOROMIR HAD TO TRUST THIS STRANGER WITH HIS COUNTRY

But like the movie tries to get you to agree with the line of thinking, that Boromir is about himself and doing it to glorify himself. take THIS SCENE

You know the one, that shot in Rivendell and Boromir is exploring on his own and casually picks up the sword, you know THE SWORD and kinda low key plays with it for a hot minute- you know, the way you walk by the nerf swords at a walmart and you pick one up to wack your bro with it, but then you remember you’re 23 and he’s 18 and taller than you now so he’ll beat the shit out of you if you start shit. But anyways, Boromir picks up the sword and cuts his finger, is amazed that its still sharp, and then puts it back only to have it teeter off and he walks away quickly like nothing happened. If you’re a small brain critic you’ll see this scene and say “Ah yes, in picking up Narsil Boromir displays a desire for power for himself, and in cutting his finger it shows that this desire is his ultimate demise. He might think he’s ready for power and deserves more, but by walking away he shows that he’s actually irresponsible guffaw” I demand you go back and read that in your guadiest accent. But hear me out. Remember that nerf sword you picked up in the toy aisle, instead of being the grimlin you know you are deep in your soul, you take a few practice swings for your audition fantasy and put it back and start walking away just to realize that the walmart employee had been watching you the whole time and the whole bin of plastic and foam swords comes tumbling down bring with it a Hot Wheels track and collectible cars, and you just look at the employee, and they just look at you, and then you brain just short circuits and so you keep walking down the aisle away and laugh cry across the store because you don’t know what the fuck just happened. And thtas the energy that scene gives to me.

But I’m getting away from it all because the real arguement against the way this scene is framed is one question he poses right before he attacks Frodo:

“What could not Aragorn do?” ( The Fellowship of the Ring 389).

He makes a big speech here about Frodo giving up the ring, but he doesn’t talk about him using it himself, instead he wonders, What would Aragorn be capable of?

Does that sound like a question someone crazed with a drive for power would ask?

I don’t think so

Why even mention Aragorn if he wanted it for himself right?

We’re dissect the fuck out it in the next part don’t you worry.

I think I’m almost done

#Boromir #The Lord of the Rings #character analysis #character development #Character Study #Sierra vs the Academics #I just really love Boromir guys #This one took forever to write and its not the best #Can you tell when I finally hit my beats #I had to stop though because I was about to introduce another major idea but we'll get to it later

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jjr1971 · 3 years

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Measuring ASD folks with NT yardsticks is always bad (for us).

Another sleepless night (I have semi-frequent bouts of insomnia, more common for a lot of ASD people, for a host of reasons). But with all that time to think, a revelation of sorts as well. Recalling a comment made on a content creator's Patreon read aloud for YouTube, the commenter noted that if a character had taken action X, it would be "a real asshole move". I also noted that the described hypothetical reminded me of how I met and got together with my (ex-)wife. I recall also in our divorce how it caused a real falling out between myself and my former best friend from High School who had been our Best Man at our wedding. I'd just assumed she told him vicious lies about me while I remained silent, and perhaps that indeed still happened. I recalled what my former best friend would say about his disapproval of me, and realized in hindsight he was judging me as having made said "asshole move" outlined in the fictional story above. But the "asshole move" in question assumes NT parameters and a level of cunning guile that is simply absent in me. And I could even see how, with said cunning guile, it would be an asshole move...but in its absence---it's just not. It's way more complicated. But measure an ASD person by an NT yardstick....you do real damage that way and it's grossly unfair. My wife might've been better off had we never met or only remained casual friends. That's a counter-factual no one can know. Our relationship didn't stand the test of time but I can say we fell for each other HARD and our love was genuine and intense. We really did try hard to make it work. But in the end, our worldviews and values were just too different and irreconcilable...most prominently my confident atheism and her need for religious belief. She had a mean streak in her she got from her father and at long last I could no longer take the emotional abuse and I quite literally fled. By the end it felt like escaping a cult. Even her own mother admitted she was surprised I'd held on as long as I did. Her own friends were astonished we'd ever became a couple since she had such a reputation for being a merciless "ball buster" to any guy who tried to hit on her...they'd borne witness to so many guys getting shot down in flames and looked at me like a magical unicorn, someone who had evaded my ex-wife's formidable defenses and won her heart. Even my then-wife marveled at it sometimes, that she had a boyfriend and later husband. She's a single parent in another state now (the child is by someone else) and we live separate lives with nothing to do with each other, which is for the best. Maybe she wasn't ready for a serious relationship at 20. Maybe it would've been better for her to wait and maybe I should've given her space and not pushed things in a romantic direction. But I had fallen in love and couldn't help it. And some man some time later would've had to have helped her the way I tried...so why not me? As flawed a relationship as it was, it was the closest thing I've ever had to a normal adult sexual relationship of any duration and I still treasure my memories of the good times we had. Before her all I'd ever had were random hook-ups, just being at the right place with the right girl who just wanted it that particular night. All one night stands, very few & far between. I had one more serious relationship of 6 months about a year after my divorce was finalized but since then it's been a LONG dry spell....and nearly nobody gettin' newly laid during COVID-19, so...yeah. I clung to my ex-wife despite the withering emotional abuse because I desperately wanted things to work between us. I held on as long as I was able. I'm sad that it failed, profoundly so. But I ultimately had to get away from a relationship that had turned irredeemably toxic. These ruminations and memories still haunt me on long, sleepless nights...these memories and regrets for roads & chances not taken, etc. Had I had my ASD DX back then and understood my Executive Function deficits, that they were a permanent part of my neurology and

not something I would eventually "grow out of", I wouldn't have denied myself so many relationship opportunities and maybe would not have been so desperate by the time I met my first wife. If I'd had more girlfriends and experiences before meeting her instead of just rando hookups, my whole mindset might've been different. I generally sucked in my 20s and 30s at the whole flirting/dating thing, to be sure, but I also denied myself relationship opportunities out of anxiety, out of fear of needing to have my shit together before I could be in a relationship, not knowing that Executive Function deficits mean I'll never not feel like I don't have my shit together. That and my amazing ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, relationship-wise. I do not know if I'll ever remarry, but I do think I'd still like to date some again once the pandemic is behind us. One silver lining, my best friend from High School has forgiven me enough to be on speaking terms with me again, and we play D&D together regularly with the rest of our High School buds over Zoom and Fantasy Grounds. I'm so grateful for this.

#ASD thoughts #insomnia #exes #relationships #memories

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nextwarden · 4 years

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Archenemies - Part I

Disclaimer: partially inspired by Supercorp and the very enjoyable facets of their dynamic. Hope you enjoy.

Commotions are always a good indicator of such happenings.

The first eyes on the scene are of course those of curious and surprised bystanders. Rarely does such an event be broadcast in advance. It's happened before, of course. Only a handful of times, however. It means the evildoers are confident in their plan and seek attention, two very bad news for any respectable super. The last time it's been the case, panic managed to erupt, only quelled by the competent authorities with some effort. Some joker tried to replicate the one before last, he's apprehended after barely an hour of shenanigans and threats, each more unbelievable than the last. What he tried to emulate, however, remains scarred deep in the minds of many. Blood and ashes flowing on the grass of the Magnus Arena in the city center on a crisp summer day, and the center itself drowned in cries of pain and terror. On that tragic day, SkullB makes the decision to invest in the services of both Mister Mind and LaValette, two of the most intelligent and cunning cons out there. One hundred and eighty six people die, each one in a slow and far too well documented way. Three pros are amongst them; experienced supers, yet they fall prey to SkullB's devious plans. Dame Seven, Verustoski, husband and wife in the business since the late 70s, and Sunny Sin, a young yet very capable teenage wiz, give their lives in exchange for SkullB's.

Mind and LaValette are, of course, smart enough to see themselves out once it turns in their disfavour, almost as if they see it coming. The former is caught a few days later, splurging on an online casino in his own underground mansion, while the latter still eludes the authorities to this day, taunting both pros and cons in an odd twist of fate. They realize the whole affair is getting far too out of hand, and some even speculate one of them (or both) to consort with the authorities to create the distraction that allows to bring out most of the hostages and to take down SkullB. That stems from irregularities in the chronology of the event and the fact that LaValette apparently decides to own up to her actions after that day. Not completely mind you, but enough to make a difference with a surprisingly efficient foil to many a plan, good or bad. Over the next few years it's apparent she's taken upon herself to remove supers altogether. Not in a definitively violent way, shockingly, but using her agile mind to dismantle actions undertaken to a significant risk to the city and its people. Dynopolis grows less weary and more peaceful due to that. It lasts a sufficient while for her to gain a strange and ambivalent status of anti-hero - chaotic good, as many surmise, in similar leagues to that of the legendary Crime Man himself, some add.

That changes over time as more and more supers, heroes and villains alike, manage either in their smarts, numbers, or luck, to pull and tug at the seams and reveal the cracks in her masterplan. What it loses in her ability, however, the city gains in balance. Many new pro upstarts join the ranks of a newly reformed agency, trying to attain both glory and riches, and to "do the people of this city some good". It's obviously been mirrored by the rise in organized and supercharged crime. That tendency is there from the beginning, structured even before the pros are themselves. It naturally evolves with the times and the influence of one changes the other. Not that they necessarily know - she doesn't care much for one or the other - but she naturally leans into that tendency. If one wants to make a difference by playing the game, one has to remove themself sufficiently from the board, and that she does in a surreptitiously efficient manner.

The second factor which sees to an apparent decline in her efficiency had been more subtle and more specific (although she would argue that it's not so much a decline rather than a shift of focus). It baffles a number and is the joyous guilty pleasure of some others, more observant or perhaps more versed in theorizing. It's fairly unnoticeable at first, by the audience as well as by those involved. The powerful blonde enters the scene unnamed and unknown, and almost by coincidence - officially "on a whim". A small incident takes place in the southern branch of Nat·Bank, devolving into a chaotic chase over land and sea. A simple passerby at the time, the greenhorn not-hero (yet) jumps to action, pursuing the robbers onto the beach and into the coastal waters once they reach their means of escape. Perhaps it's her gallant effort in taking them down despite their ion guns and reinforced armours, bringing the boat back to shore single handedly. Quite literally at that: she emerges on the warm sand pulling the swift vessel behind her, dragging it to the middle of the beach for the authorities to arrest the now baffled culprits. Many onlookers capture and immortalize this moment, making her drenched fit form into an object of many speculations for weeks to come. Her identity somehow remains unknown behind a hasty yet well-placed mask of cloth and nothing is made of it despite extensive research and avid requests on all fronts.

...

Dantra reveals herself almost two months later, to the day, new protegee of sorceress Saralis and a fresh recruit of the H.E.R.O. program - revamped by a retired Dynaman and funded by the Ministry of Defense to raise and promote fresh blood to the side of justice. She's expected to tour the studios and is breathed to be the new mascot of the agency; yet, despite all her efficiency and achievements on the field, she remains as elusive as on the day of her appearance on the chaotic stage. Her speculated concealed beauty adds to her engaging demeanor during her interventions, on top of her flashy yet efficient use of her power. Her flawless track record, only highlighted by her immediate appeal following her first and only late night show appearance, made her an almost instantaneous star, rising fast into the pantheon of revered supers. Some wait for her eventual demise, criticizing her close interactions with fans during downtime and her refusal at revealing too much about herself, theorizing many reasons, each stranger and more somber than the last. Yet it does not happen. She assimilates into the lifestyle flawlessly and durably, it seems. Perhaps too flawlessly for some. Not exactly dwindling, her popularity somewhat reaches a peak over the first year and a half during which she becomes active.

If she's anything, Dantra is not discontent. She takes it in stride, making the most of her situation, to the greatest pleasure of her enduring fans. If she's to plummet, she will, not that it will stop her from doing what was right as long as she was able to. Or so she tells the young reporter who manages to get the first interview in months. And she does, standing as a proud beacon of righteousness and letting life take its course as she does all that is possible to protect and help. This despite the insistence by the agency that she capitalize on her success. She does not yield, however, and accepts that interview on their recommendation only to clear some misconceptions that seem to have arisen over time. No she does not wear a cape and does not plan to as it would hinder her movements. Yes, that piece of white cloth she wears over her face is a replica of the original one, it's been retailored and enchanted by Saralis herself to not be easily removed. Oh she doesn't know if one could say 'superstar', she is proud to make a difference however. Definitely M'Persent, she's been amazed at their display of precision in the way they used their telekinetic powers, since her youngest age. That's excluding Saralis, of course! *laugh* Boreastre, perhaps, on one of his bad days and on her good, then again she has to respect the old man's resilience so, who knew… he is the only con to ever elude the great Dame Seven in his hayday, so that has to count for something. None of the above; the money is enough, the benefits are great, and the ability to use her powers as she does is compensation enough. Because it's right, that's why, and perhaps also a bit in honor of her grandfather, a war hero who she's always admired. Oh…! Uh, yeah, many. So many. Too many. *laugh* But no, never, actually. Sadly. She never has the time or the space, she guesses, or perhaps she's not been looking well enough. One day, perhaps, in her old age, in one of those quiet suburbs, with a dog and a small garden with flowers… That's a new one, never been asked that before, yeah, uhm, if she had to say, perhaps no sea, not that she doesn't like it, she loves the sea, but forests always seem more beautiful, intriguing, and without any tree how is anyone to breathe? *laugh* No, thank you for inviting me, it was great! Oh, yeah! Uh, stay safe and do good, folks. Until next time. *wink*

Some questions she does not answer or shifts the subject, but all in good sport. The interviewer doesn't seem too annoyed by it, more understanding than anything. They're even genuinely excited when she offers a quick demonstration, squealing when she does her trick with the water. Neither do the executives at the agency, they even congratulate her on its good value. She feels good after that, can't say no to fun. She returns to her usual routine without barely missing a beat, if only slightly more discreetly, satisfied for days and unwilling to engage in too much outgoingness at once. That seems to be her prefered rhythm: appearing sparsely on occasions unrelated to crime fighting yet always with panashe and with good reason. Time passes and finally she knows: her secret is safe. Tucked away behind the thin layers of her mask and her gentle charm. There are a number of reasons why Dantra refuses to unveil too much of herself, be it to her fans, enemies, or even her colleagues. She is young but has enough knowledge of the ways of the world, especially online, to wish to be careful about what she exposes of herself. She enjoys the attention yet wants nothing of it once the mask is down, relishing the quiet moments in her cozy house near the waterfront and the edge of the city. The most important reason, the vital one, is not because of a loved one - she's been alone for as long as she could remember - nor because of her job - the agency pays well enough, and a side gig as a commission photographer allows her to pass the time. No, her deepest, darkest secret is entirely other: she does not trust herself to look quite right, to pass well enough among them. She never has. Not before, nor since her arrival and her… change of style. Her face has always felt too angular, too sharp and harsh, underlying the softness that sugar-coats it. Okay, maybe it is stupid to hide such a thing, what with aliens and wizards and so many kinds of secret and supernatural entities buzzing about. Especially considering she is in fact time-displaced herself. But she's a private person and her doubts never quite leave her, neither with nor without the mask. Especially not without. And that's something she wants to keep to herself as long as possible, if not mostly because it would show the cracks in her heroic persona.

One second she's living her perfectly normal if only slightly different life in the wilderness, and the next she finds herself surrounded by stone and metal and sound. So much noise. She fled the great fortified city of her birth for that exact reason, the smells and bustling activity making her prefer the quiet of nature. It's scary, so very scary, at first. Frustrating too, new words to assimilate, new people to remember. Many people. Too many. Tastes and colours as vibrant and foreign as they were interesting. It should be more difficult, more off-putting, it should be a lot weirder and far slower to adapt to this new life that she's quite literally thrown into. She knows that. But somehow, either she's better at adapting than she believes, or the strange shrieking and smelly hole she's been dragged through - she later learns it's all that ozone - has been kind enough to gift her with an augmentation in her abilities. She can't say. Assimilating information has always been easy for her, computing it, on the other hand, takes a bit more time, but she manages well enough and that's a start.

No one knows any of that, not the agency, not her colleagues, not even her best friend Zelda knew of it, and if she has any say in the matter, none would ever know.

…

Later on she realizes their first meeting is not their first. It's not even the first time they actually interact, simply exchanging a look as she disappears into her surroundings while the hero goes the other way in hot pursuit of her own target. They cross paths before, at least twice, always en passant and never out in the open, none recognizing the other. How Valerie Vonazzio misses and is missed so thoroughly becomes one of the many subjects of scoffs and giggles, somehow playing the absolute opposite of their actual first interaction.

How it goes from a simple meddling in a high stakes robbery to a double hostage situation with innocent people in the crossfire she would say is entirely the annoyingly boot-straight bulldozer of a newcomer's fault. He's the one who barges into her delicately masterminded play's fault. They simply have to open the safe, take the money - in truth a pile of fake yet highly realistic 'the artist formerly known as Prince' bills she planted there earlier - and attempt a getaway. No violence needed, no casualties, and she can pocket the money for herself. Not that those to whom it belongs would miss it, even if the amount were to be doubled. And everything seems to work perfectly at first, that is until that idiot of a C-list super Faramour and his disgustingly felty suit gets stuck in one of her countermeasures and calls for backup. The channels should be jammed, they are jammed, and yet, somehow, she hears. Dantra enters all guns blazing - not literally though, she bears no weapons. Praised be that fact or things would go downhill much earlier for the great LaValette. She has no guns, none made of metal at least. It does not prevent her from bursting in, plowing half the group against the wall and intimidating the others sufficiently for them to lose their cool. Having taken two hostages, threatening to do some actual damage if 'superblondie' refuses to cooperate. She doesn't, to Valerie's relief, but she's the smarter of the two, after all. By far. Faramour, on the other hand, does not do the smart thing. Barely liberated from his restraints, he takes one of the robbers in return and immediately escalates the situation. How it hasn't gone to shit quicker with that horrid perfume of his, Valerie will never understand. Deadly weapons are pointed in every direction and a single movement might set the whole thing on fire.

That minty, hair-waxed bumblefuck of a super doesn't even try to use his lonely brain cell, it seems, choosing to ignore Dantra's warnings AND the robbers' threats, yelling louder than either for everybody to shut up, get on the ground and put their weapons down. Despite the fun she'd had recording his disheveled meltdown and against all her principles, she intervenes then. Showing herself in broad daylight for the first time in months, perhaps years. Well, as best as one can through a thick field of smoke and behind a specialized retailored special ops suit. While they're all distracted, she takes Faramour out, stunning him into oblivion and then twice more for good measure with simple yet efficient darts of a sleep agent of her own personal concoction. The robbers are easy too: make them think they have a way out and leave the appeal of the money, and the next second they're running. Dantra is another story. She thinks of lacing the smoke with a sleeping agent but doesn't want to hurt innocent bystanders - she has principles, or at least she's tried to grow some - and instead deploys a simple spot-sonic. The small device works as a grenade and is used to stun anybody of above average physique - group which she instantly guesses Dantra is a part of - and gives her an opening of a few seconds to make a getaway. Hers has been ready for hours now, but as she rounds the building and her car she hears the voice behind her, ordering her to stop.

Dantra is coming around the corner too, armed with a surprising two unconscious robbers, one in each hand. Fortunately she's decided to go stealthy this time, wearing unmarked gear and a simple black gas mask. The lack of recognition she gets from the super means that either she does not know her face, which for the agency's poster girl is highly unlikely as the agency must have drilled her on the many cons they were tracking, LaValette still being high priority. Or that she has no way of seeing through her mask, past her eyes, which is lucky as it has definitely not been designed with x-ray vision in mind. She looks at the blonde for a second too long, perhaps, and her mind is made: she has to play this one well.

"Why? You gonna arrest me?"

"As a matter of fact no, but the police will once they get here."

"Ha. Apologies darlin', I have no time to wait for them. Things to do, places to be," she replies, her tone as cocky as possible.

"You have nowhere to go. I'll catch you if you try to run…"

"Maybe. But I don't intend to run," she jiggles the keys in her hands.

She sees the frown form on Dantra's face through the cloth, a cute set of lines creasing around and above her brow. The super lets the robbers fall to the ground and takes a step forward, then another. Good, just a few more seconds.

"I'm fast."

"Strong too, I guess."

That stops her.

"You're too confident."

"Mayhaps. But so are you, I believe."

"I have the means to back my words up, do you?"

If the very slight flex of her hands and her taut muscles is any indication, the hero does indeed, and she's ready to show it at any moment. Perfect.

"I don't doubt that. But see," and she takes a small step to the left, Dantra mirrors it to the right, "my ride is waiting and they don't have a policy of canceling last minute, so I'm afraid I won't be able to take you up on that."

"The choice isn't really offered."

"It is though, and I'm certainly not letting a muscle-brained blondie tell me what to do."

That gets her a frown. Good. Let her stew a bit.

"You're not part of them."

Oh, surprising. Not all brawns, then.

"You noticed."

"I'm more than just muscles."

"I can appreciate that."

And she winks for good measure. The slight abashed surprise which momentarily coats the frown is worth it.

"You'll be happy to know I'm not all ass either, darlin'."

And with the image of a vague incomprehension mixed with outrage, she presses the ignition button. The car beside her roars to life and then everything is gone, swallowed in the bright neon light of the headlights and the piercing shriek of the alarm. That's enough to make Dantra recoil; by the time the super focuses again, she's long gone. Not very far away, but out of reach.

…

The second time they cross paths it's more official and perhaps she isn't as prepared for it as she's like to make them all think. There's a joint operation by the newly formed Hexagon, a trio of wrongdoers comprised of Miss Spell, Shore Thing, and Sasz, who apparently decide to carry out plans as horrid as their individual designation. How people, supers mostly, come up with such ridiculous names for themselves is something she'll never quite understand. It does help motivate her to foil their plan without pulling any punches, however. Which is a good thing, she thinks. They try to steal one of the prototypes in development at Atomic Delaware Industries, some sort of energy cell that could either be sold to competitors or foreign powers for quite a pile of cash, or be used in not so nice ways by someone smart enough. She certainly would find a few uses for it, she has, actually, without trying too much, even. But that's not the plan, it hasn't been for quite a while. They've been on her radar for the last month and, unfortunately for them, a whole month is entirely superfluous if one were to want to rig the whole operation. Which she does.

The traps fly and spring, doors jam, electric circuits fry and, strangely, the alarm resounds the minute they're deep in the vault despite all their attempts at quelling its shrill signal to the whole of the city police force before they break in. The panic but not so much as would other newer and less competent cons. The prototype is loaded in a rush as they manage to evade the first wave of security. It's jostles a bit - quite a bit - as they come out into the night. Whether it'll still work after that is anyone's guess, although she has an inkling as to the answer. It's but almost entirely confirmed when the crack resounds a few meters in front of them and Dantra appears, making them drop the cart onto the ground and letting the round object roll away. The trio tenses slightly, knowing they have the advantage, but Dantra shows no sign of faltering. The fight that ensues is what makes Valerie act upon her growing frustration: had she let them exit the perimeter they'd have been caught in her electromagnetic web until the police arrived. But of course the hero has to meddle in her affairs. She almost doesn't swarm all four of them with slime ice, a new project she's been working on for a while, trapping anything it touches almost instantaneously (super or not) and with enough efficacy it would work on Dynamos and his high speed vibrating or Saralis and her plane shifting. At least long enough for her to escape. Almost, because as she's about to think better of it, something barely misses the prototype. It's either a hex or an exploding scale, she can't really tell, but she knows that if it hits, they might not be there to argue whodunnit afterwards. To hell with being subtle, she doesn't want to die yet, and there are people in danger of being fried by the foursome's stupidity.

"Oy, nitwits!", she exclaims, stepping out of the dark black sedan she'd taken shop in.

They seem surprised to see her, enough to almost all freeze on the spot. Only Sasz seems not to lose any of his countenance - his cerebral implant must help, she thinks - which is a good thing because they don't immediately notice the small flattened cones that thud in the middle of them.

"What the fu-", she can hear Miss Spell attempt.

"Stop clonking so close to the prototype. Or do you want to raze this whole area to below sea level?!", she adds, seeing Dantra's eyes narrow.

"LaValette," Sasz simply says, still unperturbed. Not that he seems quite anything in the recent months since his upgrade. "How very pleasant." Well at least he's kept his tongue.

Miss Spell opens her mouth again but stays silent, still she can see her violet eyes widen slightly; Shore Thing doesn't react, simply getting ready to fight her too. She sees the flicker of recognition on Dantra's face, however. She wonders for an instant if she should have worn a mask but finds she is almost glad - a small prickle of pride even runs through her spine at the validation of her still very-well known status.

"Stop where you are," she hears the blonde's voice command.

"Oh don't worry, I don't plan on joining in the fight," she smirks, "I'm not made for that."

She lets a beat pass and sees them stew in their uncertainty. No more than a beat, however, or they'll have time to react.

"Plus I don't need to," her smirk widdens as she nods to the ground at their feet.

They look. Sasz and Dantra are the first to react but it's still too late. The cones explode into a storm of white and suddenly all four of them are covered in a thick layer of foamy substance. She has to give props to Dantra for attempting to jump away, but the slime ice hardens too quickly and she's frozen on one foot, her body angled back. They almost instantly begin to slump too, even Shore Thing's weird biology doesn't stop him from feeling the effects of the sedative. It won't take them out, she knows it, but it'll do for a while. She can already hear Miss Spell mumble curses under her breath, it would be cute if it weren't literal curses on top of her insults. She hurries her step, not wanting to overextend her advantage.

"Not that I don't find this fun but I can't trust you people with this," she grabs the prototype, "so I'll be removing your new toy from the playground until you learn how to share properly."

Without further ado she walks back to her car.

"Wait," she hears Dantra's slurred voice.

But she doesn't no matter the slight desire to play with them a bit longer. She knows if she does she'll lose her advantage quickly.

"Sorry darlin', can't stay. Have a nice night!", she smiles as she passes by them before rolling her window up and driving away.

Her exit goes unchallenged, none of the police notice the black vehicule hidden behind the bushes as they quickly drive by a few seconds later. The next day she confirms her slime ice was indeed efficient, more than she had banked on even, as she sees Sasz and Shore Thing still partially trapped in by the time the news channels are on the scene. Apparently Miss Spell managed to phase herself away in the nick of time, escaping right as the authorities arrived, Dantra taking only a few moments longer. She can't help the amused smile at the sight of the fit blonde going away as quickly as she can once the situation has been explained to the police, surely in search of her. The super doesn't succeed of course, as her being in her penthouse at that precise moment indicates. The morning is nice, warm with blue skies. She contemplates letting Dynopolis and its officials sweat it a few days more under the threat of her possessing the prototype, but decides against it. She's a tease, not an actual madwoman. The stolen property is found two days later in Hubway Park, in a glass box with a cute little ribbon on top of it and a card that says "Love, LV" in elegant cursive. And if the city's pockets are slightly lighter after that, well, it's not her secret to tell.

...

They meet again twice before it truly becomes a sort of routine between them. Not that she actively makes it that way. It just seems they can't stop themselves from running into each other. Maybe it's because LaValette's officially made an appearance after all this time, in front of no less than four supers, three of them being cons is of no consequence. Maybe she can't quite stop herself from being on high alert every time she goes on patrol, looking for the lithe dark woman in every corner each time she's called onto a scene or she is made aware of some nefarious happenings. The fact that Dantra is seen a lot more than usual out there does not go by unnoticed and many speculate as to why. The answer is simple: she's been bested thrice and she can't quite let it go. The smirk and the confidently teasing tone of a superior mind still ring in her ears. She's never been one to be very competitive, not seriously so to the point of letting it consume her rather laidback nature. But the villain has a way of getting under her skin. The con times her quips like the beats of a good song, like strums of chords during a guitar solo, settles her silver eyes so steadily that she can't help the shiver of anticipation at the challenge she knows is coming. The first time it's just a fluke, she doesn't realize she's facing the great LaValette herself, not even that she 's in the same realm as her for a while. The second time she gets the message but slightly too late. The result is positive in the end, not satisfactory however. It does have the unintended effect of giving her a purpose. She knows she can't force destiny, doesn't quite believe in it either, but it feels like something the third time they meet. She wants to be there because she knows what's coming. Or at least she knows LaValette will grace them with her presence. She loses her after a frustratingly slow chase amongst corridors and stairs in the tall building where the villain comes to meddle with an intervention the squad puts in place to nip the bud of a growing cult.

The thing doesn't go as well as planned. The cult is too prepared, as if they know what's coming. They manage to get them taken down before any blood is shed, however, which is a good thing. Until she realizes the ease with which it has been done and the glaring disappearance of a number of useless but golden artifacts the cultists had been in the process of using for their sacrifice. She realizes immediately what's afoot, perhaps a bit too quickly if she trusts the bewildered looks she gets from her partners. She spots the suit far too quickly too. She's nothing if not thorough and she's made her research on the older villain turned chaotic vigilante. Her style has changed slightly, moving on from spandex and leather to a more comfortable fabric oriented design. Still black, still badass and cool - she can't help but admire - and still kicking ass without actually doing any of the kicking herself. But as she's about to reach her, LaValette lets her know she's noticed her with a small turn of the head and a wink as she moves to the staircase. The resulting chase happens in a place too constricting for her, which she hates, and amongst a crowd of people who have no business being as productive as they are on a Monday. Still she follows as best as she can, careful not to damage anything. Unfortunately it's not enough and she knows it when the villain slips away one last time, dropping in an elevator shaft this time, and she's unable to follow. Not that she'd fear the fall or hurting herself (her body can withstand much more and quite literally fly, after all) but because she realizes she's been tricked when the shaft turns out to be a screen and she finds herself flailing not to walk off the seventeenth story. How the frustratingly smart woman managed to do that she doesn't know but she knows she's lost her. Despite it all, and while she does a round of the floor just to be sure, she can't help but be impressed. LaValette has never shown any other sign of outstanding abilities than her impressive intellect and for once she's glad it's the case, just imagining that coupled with any supernatural ability almost makes her shiver.

Their fourth meeting is the one in which she feels her work finally begin to pay off. She's been scouring every file, report and analysis she can find, all the footage available for clues as to what counter-measures she could try to put in place against LaValette for weeks. The incident at Magnus Arena makes her both angry, wanting to catch the woman as soon as possible and make her answer for her crimes, but also realize how much the villain has actually shifted her line of conduct since then. She doesn't quite know how others have not measured the impact of her actions since then, both to annoy supers of the program and to mitigate the destructive power of cons. There's no proof, no evidence, but she can read between the lines, feel the depression in the landscape of her crimes, and see the shadow the villain leaves behind her in each misdeed that goes a little bit too smoothly for the heroes or which seems to fail or combust in the air for the cons. How nobody has never noticed that is beyond her. Perhaps the long arms of LaValette extend even within the agency? Or perhaps someone else has been trying to keep the status quo?

It's a bit of a paradox. She gains newfound respect for the woman but at the same time the neverending list of accomplishments - which she seems to silently gloat about every time - makes her blood boil and gives her renewed determination to catch her.

So when she manages to corner her in the back alley of the store as she's about to flee on an unmarked bike, and she sees the brow quirk up in surprise as she halts mid climb, well she can't help herself and smirks.

"Well good evening to you," LaValette says, resuming her action and strapping the large duffel bag containing various pricy items to her bike, pricy items that the organized but not very professional group of masked individuals attempted to rob - are robbing? have robbed? - and will realize are missing from their own possession the next day.

"I would return the greeting but you're coming with me this time, and it will unfortunately not be 'good'," she quips back, hand on her hip.

LaValette has been calmly setting up her gear, putting on a pair of gloves and a scarf, zipping up her jacket, action following which she seemed to notice the quick glance, her smile widening ever so slightly.

"Not that the offer is not tempting, I'd love to stay but-"

"Stuff to do, places to be?", she cuts in.

The villain smiles wider still, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Exactly."

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble but I can't let you do that. You being a criminal and me being a hero, and all."

That earns her a chuckle. There's a pause, the woman makes a grab for her helmet, still showing no sign of a rush or any kind of panic at all. This is what makes Dantra start to question her standing in this exchange. She has a way of getting her nerves to flare. It seems the woman notices, her head shifts slightly to the side. Could she read minds? Or was she just that smart? Dantra realizes she might just be that smart

"Oh I know. And I can assure you I'm very flattered by your attention, but should you really be leaving those idiots alone?"

She follows the finger, it points at the store and suddenly, as if on cue she hears an explosion and sees bright flames erupt from the roof. The door she'd passed through moments earlier flies off its hinges and crashes against her, denting itself around her shape.

"What the-" she begins when she hears the engine rev.

Suddenly she's jumping to action, she lets her flight boom her through the alley and can feel the fleeing motorcycle revving its gears enter the grasp of her outstretched hand. Yet before she can do anything she hears a bump and her legs are once again cast in that annoying white substance, not only does it harden, it also latches onto the ground and she's faceplanting before she knows it. That much isn't enough to slow her down too much, and she's up the next second, grunting as she breaks through the foam - the countermeasure is one of raw power but it works, so, who's to judge. But as she's about to engage in pursuit again, masked individuals come pouring through the now destroyed exit and for a moment she's stunned. Why weren't they- It's then that she hears the shrill voice she's learned to dislike with every fiber of her body. Freaking Faramour…!

Only later, as they've rounded up the criminals that tried their best to escape and the police are there to take them into custody does she register the memory. It's seemingly jogged by none other than the felty cretin himself.

"Nice work, blondie!", he exclaims with a thumbs up.

Perhaps it's genuine, perhaps it's just playing it up for the cameras, she doesn't know, doesn't care much for it either. She's let her target escape once again. By the time she'd taken care of the robbers, barely a minute, and was soaring in the sky to try to locate the motorcycle, it had vanished once again. The criminals had given her restraints - a good measure of fence wire - a run for its money, already almost escaping by the time she came back down and she'd had to secure them once more. Then she'd taken measure of the whole situation: a blown up store, a bumbling super idiot trying to take over the situation and a disappeared LaValette. Then the police arrive, then the journalists, almost in sync. Then there's the report, which Faramour takes into stride despite his less than useful participation, and nobody seems to have noticed LaValette's presence. She'd been this close, so close… She tries to wallow a bit in her corner but even that is made difficult when Faramour comes all smiles to congratulate her. She had to at least nod and smile, she may be one of the most prominent faces of the agency - and miles more efficient than him - he had anteriority and some form of mind-boggling respect in the city. But his words trigger the flash of memory.

"Nice try, blondie!"

Almost the same words but a much, much different tone. Sultry and smooth, teasing as usual. With a smile and a wave of the hand as she rounded the corner, spoken in a voice loud enough for her to hear. The frustration is so much that she almost lets out a huff before she takes off to do her report at headquarters. It's only when she's done and gone home that she realizes she was close, much closer than usual. Next time. Definitely next time.

And next time comes. Much sooner than she'd expected. Barely a week later, in the middle of the afternoon. This time it's utter chaos. Three events strike at the same time. Havenleaf institute, the prison that houses many cons, is taken by Miss Spell and what can only be described as strawmen goons which she surel animated. Apparently an attempt to break out Shore Thing and Sasz. Nat·Bank is in the middle of a robbery orchestrated by the BronzeBronze cartel. And the head office of the Police is being hacked. The bank and the prison are already taken care of, Grace Solace and Mesmeride are on the case with their respective sidekicks she hears in the coms, and the police should be able to deal with whatever genius has decided to try his hand. She's met the ITeam and they know what they're doing. Still, she can't help but feel something is off. The coincidence is great, almost too great. So she goes anyway.

Everything is hectic. Power is going out repeatedly, the whole electrical infrastructure seems to be under attack. Which is weird, Rajan and Sam explain. They've made sure the whole network was secure and entirely closed off. She knows it is, she's seen Sasz try his hand at it and groaning in frustration. So whatever whoever is here wants, it's not in the database. The chaos feels too orchestrated. Like a danger looming around the corner and forcing you into panic mode but never making an appearance. She knows this feeling and that's what propels her into the stairs, down to the third basement and the writ archives. She struggles in the dark silence for a while, only nearly jumping when she hears clattering towards the deep end. The ever-knowing smile that usually welcomes her is only ever so slightly assured this time, only ever so slightly weaker, and she knows she's struck a chord.

"Wasn't expecting you so soon, darlin'", the voice drawls as the woman has the gal to look away, back to the files she's been searching through.

"Were you even expecting me?"

Her tone is light but it seems to land once again, from the slight tensing of the shoulders.

"Honestly? Not really. I hoped to have at least an hour uninterrupted, but it seems I got unlucky…"

She can't help the small satisfied scoff. She can't help the spark of curiosity either.

"What are you looking for, LaValette?"

The dark woman looks up, surprise passing through her steel eyes.

"Nothing much. Compromising pictures from college, maybe?", she chuckles. "What tipped your off, Dantra?", she returns.

Dantra knows she's curious but fakes disinterest. Somehow she knows. So she plays on it. She also can't help but lose some focus to the way her name rolls out of LaValette's mouth, soft and playful.

"I got lucky I guess. I had a hunch."

"A hunch?", a quirk of the eyebrow.

Now she was looking at her.

"Three at a time is a bit much."

"Ah," a shake of the head. "Maybe so… might have been a bit over enthusiastic on this one."

"You made all this happen?"

She should know better, she's seen the famed LaValette at work more than once, read and watched everything there was about her, but she still feels the wave of surprise at the revelation.

"No, I'm not omnipotent, you know. I may have… pushed the right buttons, however."

The smirk is back.

"Well you're certainly not getting out of this one," she quips back, hands on her hips.

"Are you sure about that?"

And there's that quirk of the eyebrow again. It's assured and confident.

"No."

But she is. And she jumps. As if she was expecting that the dark-haired woman throws the file at her and starts doubling down an alley of files, reaching for something in her bag. Dantra doesn't know what tips the scales in her favour this time. Perhaps she's gotten better with confined spaces, perhaps she's well and truly surprised LaValette, perhaps LaValette fumbles despite (surely) the many plans she has to escape. In any case, she has her pinned against a wall, any tools she might have discarded and her hands trapped within her own barely a minute later, near the emergency exit. They lock eyes and there's a surprised look in the steel discs, something else too, fear maybe? Something etched deeper than she expects, at least. But she doesn't have time to explore that before the other woman sighs and smirks.

"Well, seems it's my loss this time."

And it is. She doesn't resist. Lets herself be taken into custody without as much as an attempt to resist or protest. She takes an espresso when offered and answers each and every question the officers have for her once they begin processing her case. Dantra stays and watches, still unconvinced she's done it. She doesn't know if she believes everything LaValette says, still mulling over what she could have been searching for in the basement of the central police department. They only find a few files pertaining to an old cold case, one of an old woman found dead in her apartment. Nothing special about it, nothing linked to LaValette. Not that they could actually link anything to her. They don't even know who she is, she doesn't register in any database, no history, public or private, no facial recognition pings when they try. She's an anomaly, a dark and mysterious anomaly that keeps on slipping between your fingers even when you've got her. And have her they do. They have her face, her prints, her blood and saliva, hair samples, her voice and her story. Still, much good it does them. They resign themselves to keep her in custody until due process begins again. Dantra is on the go then, ready to leave when they have her secured. The day has been long and the thrill enough to wear her down. She'd been thinned by the last few weeks, her entire focus being on trying to solve the puzzle of the infamous LaValette. And now that it's done she can't quite believe it. They cross paths as the woman is taken to a cell, her usual black suit swapped for a standard grey uniform. It still fits her, she notes. The woman smiles as she notices her.

"Well played, Dantra."

She doesn't know what to do, what to respond to that. The amused twinkle in the woman's eyes another mystery she can't quite solve.

"Until next time?"

It's a question, she registers, as well as a statement. Nobody can keep her in for long, she seems to say, we'll play again soon.

"You're not getting out of this, this time," she manages to reply, throwing in a smile of her own, as confident as she manages.

That owns her a laugh. The sound is throaty and very amused. The wink that follows should unnerve her, so should the unfading smile. It adds fuel to the fire, that's undeniable, though what that fire supplies in turn, she has no idea. She doesn't sleep very well that night, exhaustion and excitement waging an intense battle. Exhaustion wins out in the end and she's rested enough the next morning when she wakes. It takes her the whole of the day to truly recuperate, however. She takes it off, she knows she needs it. Knows that she deserves it a bit too. No one at work is expecting her anyway. Not the bad weather nor Spyro, her cat, defecating on the coffee table manage to bring her mood down, however. The following night is the same as the previous one, a battle of nerves, she manages to go to sleep slightly earlier though. That Sunday morning she is well and truly rested as she wakes up. The weather is nice, Spyro is lounging on the coffee table, no poop in sight, and even the new seem to be good: the robbery has been foiled thanks to Mesmeride, and despite struggling a bit more and not catching Miss Spell, Grace Solace managed to prevent any escapes from the prison. She's coffee in hand, standing on her small terrace, Spyro resting on her shoulders, when she hears her name. It's faint but as she focuses the words become more clear.

"...and this morning, when Officer Wallace came to check on her she was gone. No traces of escape, no footage, nothing. The detectives are hard on the case but admit being somewhat at a loss as to how this was possible."

This definitely piques her interest and she steps inside. There's a still image of the cell with a few words splayed against it in elegant cursive. That's when she understands. Somehow, despite all the security measures in place, LaValette has made good on her words.

Till next time, Darlin', the writing reads.

She knows she should be appalled, she knows she should be stressed, she should be on high alert and perhaps already on route to rectify the situation but she finds herself excited and giddy. A smile plastered on her face when the screen turns black as power is ripped away from it. She's excited because finally, after so long, after so much hard work and dedication, it undeniably feels like she's managed to get her first arch-enemy. Her own personal nemesis.

To be continued.

---

More of what I write, if you’re interested.

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yeet-or-be-hawed · 5 years

Text

“Attempts For Attention” Arthur Morgan x Reader

A request from @notursdutch!

Arthur is trying to throw hints your way that he has feelings for you, but he’s a little shy and you’re a lot oblivious.

“Whatcha drawin’?” You were pulled from your concentration and looked up to find Arthur standing over you. You handed him the journal as sat down in the grass beside you.

You were sat under a shady oak tree overlooking camp; it had the perfect view, you could see everything from up there, plus the shade was welcome on the hot summer day.

Arthur smiled as he looked down at the drawing. The sketch took up two pages. It was Clemen’s Point, complete with undetailed little drawings of the inhabitants and the horses at the edge of camp. “This looks great, Y/N.” Arthur’s finger pointed down at the small figure with the horses. “Kieran?”

You nodded and smiled as you pointed out all the people. Lenny was just below Kieran, brushing his own horse. Tilly, Karen, and Mary-Beth were by the laundry bucket, and you had captured Charles mid swing of his axe. Arthur smiled down at his own figure, leaned against the back end of his caravan, his own journal in hand. Arthur loved your art style, your lines were softer and your shading was a little more defined. “I don’t know how you do it.” He said, eyes still focused on your drawing.

You laughed, “Sure you do, you could put me to shame with your drawing skills any day!”

He shook his head, “Nah, I’m too heavy handed, I can’t quite get my shading just right.”

You smiled. “What were you workin’ on down there?” You asked as you pointed to the small Arthur you had drawn.

“Just doin’ some writin’. Its been a few days since I had enough time to actually open my journal.” He flipped the page and frowned. “Looks like those were your last pages.”

You sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been checkin’ every town we’ve hit since we left Blackwater tryin’ to find somethin’ new but I guess the folks this far east ain’t as refined as we thought.”

Arthur laughed. “I’ll see what I can do next time I’m out.”

You beamed up at him, “You would do that for me?”

He smiled down at you. “Course I will.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly. “Oh thank you Arthur, you’re the best friend a girl a can have!”

This took his by surprise, but he slowly wrapped his arms around you, returning your hug. You felt so warm and soft in his arms he felt his heart lurch when you pulled away. Your face was towards the ground, but Arthur caught the slight shade of pink in your cheeks. “I should probably go before Grimshaw finds me.” You stood and looked down at Arthur, “If you ever want to practice with me, I can show you some techniques to keep your wrist loose, that should help you with your shading.”

Arthur’s eyes followed you as you went down the hill and joined the other girls at the laundry station. Your smile was contagious as you reached the other girls they greeted you happily. You seemed to have that effect on everyone, but Arthur seemed to fall prey to your charm worse than anyone else around camp, the trouble was you had no idea.

He had been crazy for you since you first arrived, it took him damn near a month and a half to even say hello to you, every time your eyes shifted his way and you gave him a smile he would turn redder than a tomato. Hosea eventually had to be the one to introduce the two of you, and he still gives Arthur hell to this day for turning to a nervous blundering mess when you first stuck out your hand and said, “Nice to meet you Arthur, my name is Y/N.”

Arthur was lucky you were just as outgoing as you were oblivious because he never had the nerve to talk to you, but you had no problem with joining him beside the fire or barging into his tent for conversation, but you never noticed how flustered you made him. At first it was a relief, but now Arthur wasn’t quite sure. He wanted to tell you how he felt, he wanted to grab you by the waist and sweep you off your feet, but that required a level of confidence he just didn’t have. He looked down and noticed you had left your journal beside him. He grabbed it and headed down towards you.

“So,” Tilly began mischievously. “What were you and Arthur talkin’ about up on that hill?”

You rolled your eyes. “Nothin’, Tilly. He just wanted to see what I was drawin’ that’s all.”

“And you showed him?” Karen asked with a raised brow. “Why is it Arthur is the only one allowed to see inside that journal of yours?”

You tried to hide the blush forming in your cheeks. “He’s an artist, so I like his opinion, okay?” You tried to sound assertive, but your voice came out meeker than a barn mouse.

“Mhmm, I’m sure that’s what it is.” Mary-Beth said sarcastically.

“It is!” You shot back, a little more defensively than you meant.

“Oh please,” Snorted Karen. “You’ve had eyes for him since you got here, you can’t deny that.”

You looked down into the suddy water. “Yeah so?”

“Yeah so, he’s definitely had eyes for you too!” Karen rolled her eyes. “I mean it’s so obvious!”

“He gets all fidgety when he talks to you,” Said Tilly.

“And he turns bright red.” Added Mary-Beth.

“That’s not true.” You pouted into your laundry bucket. “He just-”

You looked up to see Arthur coming down the hill towards you. “Shut up the lot of you.” You hissed quickly.

“Wha-”

You cut off Karen. “Hey Arthur!”

The women looked in the direction you were facing and each one shot you a look, and you tried to ignore it.

“Hey Y/N, you forgot this.” He handed you your journal. “Thought I’d bring it back to ya.” He rubbed his neck and wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Thank you, Arthur. You’re too kind.” You tried not to look at the women around you.

He tipped his hat to you and turned towards his tent. “No problem.”

You turned back towards your water bucket, “Not a goddamn word.” You said as Karen opened her mouth.

The four of you finished the laundry in silence.

Arthur’s eyes scanned the camp and they landed on just the man he was looking for. Hosea was sitting at the small table in the middle of camp. Arthur took the seat across from him. “Hosea.”

He looked up at Arthur, “Ah, hello my boy. How are ya today?”

“I’m fine, I got a question for ya. You know this area pretty well right?” Arthur fiddled nervously with his thumbs.

Hosea raised an eyebrow towards him. “Guess you could say that, I spent a good bit a time down here with Bessie years ago.”

Arthur nodded. “You know anywhere I could get a new journal?”

Hosea tilted his head, confused. “You already filled that journal you got in Blackwater?”

Hosea was sharp as a tack, “No, I...its for someone else.”

A sly smile curled on Hosea’s lips. “I see. It wouldn’t happen to be for a certain young lady would it?”

Arthur’s eyes shot up to meet Hosea’s and his face went hot. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

“Don’t play coy with me Arthur.” Hosea said flatly as he crossed his arms. He lowered his voice. “You think I don’t see how you look at her?”

Arthur huffed, he knew there was no point in lying to Hosea. “Okay yeah it’s for her. I ain’t tryin’ to pull a move on her or anything, she just used up the last page in hers and I offered to pick her up a new one if I found one.”

Hosea leaned back in his chair. “I see. But why aren’t ya makin’ a move then?”

This caught Arthur off guard. He sputtered and tripped over his words. “I-I can’t...I don’t know.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t think she’d have me. She’s too good for me anyways.”

Hosea stood. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. When ya think like that you’ll be alone forever.” He turned to leave but threw a final glance at Arthur over his shoulder. “Saint Denis. It’s a big city not far from here. If I remember correctly they have an art supply store down there. It’s been years since I’ve been, but it’s worth takin’ a look into.”

Arthur nodded. “Thanks Hosea.”

Hosea threw up his hand in a wave and wandered off. Arthur took one final glance at you, your face was straight and focused as you did your work quietly. Even with Hosea’s words replaying in his mind, he still couldn’t seem to find himself worthy of you. You were breathtaking, and the kindest soul he had ever met. No one made him want to be good, not even Eliza or Isaac. Not even Mary made him want to be better, but when your kind eyes meet his, he wanted to feel like he deserved the genuine kindness behind your eyes. He nodded to himself and headed towards his horse.

You wiped the sweat from your brow as you stood. You waved to the other women as you left, finished with your work for the day. As your eyes searched the camp, you felt a little disappointment as you noticed both Arthur and his horse were gone. You sighed and joined Abigail beside the fire. “You see where Arthur went?” You asked, trying to seen as nonchalant as possible.

“I didn’t,” She responded, she took a sip of her coffee. “He rode out not too long ago after talking to Hosea. Probably got a tip off or somethin’.”

You nodded, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Why ya ask?” You could tell by the look in her eye she knew exactly why you were asking.

“No reason,” You said quickly.

“Mhmm.” Abigail had a sarcastic tone.

before you could respond, Micah and Dutch approached you. “Good afternoon, ladies.” Dutch said smoothly. “Either of you in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned stage coach robbin’?”

“Sure!” You responded quickly and stood. “Who all’s goin’?”

“Micah and Lenny.”

You nodded and followed behind the two men. “I’ve been itchin’ to get outta here.”

“I thought you would be up for the job.” Dutch smiled down at you. “Go grab your pistol and meet the boys at the hitching post.”

“Yes sir.”

It was early evening when Arthur got back to camp. He hitched his horse quickly and pulled his satchel from his horse. His eyes searched the camp for you, he didn’t even see Dutch until he walked right into him.

“Oof! Watch where you’re goin’, son.”

“Sorry Dutch, have you seen Y/N? She asked me to pick somethin’ up for her in town.” His eyes were still searching as he spoke.

Dutch had to stop himself from picking on Arthur, just like everyone else in camp, he knew Arthur had it bad for you. “I sent her with Micah and Lenny on a stagecoach job.” He said easily.

Arthur’s eye shot up to Dutch. “Micah? Why the hell did you send her with Micah?”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “She’s the one who wanted to go, I didn’t make her go. Besides, it’s not like they’re alone. Lenny will keep him in line.”

Arthur huffed in frustration. “Ya know, I coulda gone instead of Micah.”

Dutch barked a short laugh. “I know.” He turned and walked back to his tent.

Arthur tried to push away the jealousy creeping into his stomach. He saw the way Micah looked at you and it made his stomach churn. He wouldn’t trust Micah with a wet sock, let alone you. But Dutch was right, Lenny would keep him in line from touching you and in turn your company would keep Micah from harassing Lenny over the color of his skin. It was a good trade off, but it still made Arthur uneasy. He pulled the journal he bought for you from his satchel and headed towards your tent. It was simple just like your old one, but it was a little bigger and the paper was a better quality. He spent a pretty penny on it, but it was worth it. You were worth more than all the money in the world to him, and he wanted to let you know. He gently laid the journal down on your neatly made bed. He also pulled out the candies he grabbed on his way out of Saint Denis. He remembered you telling him they were your favorite one day when he shared a bag with you.

When he exited your tent, Abigail was standing there waiting for him with her arms crossed, looking suspicious. “Whatcha doin’ there Arthur?”

“N-nothin’. Nothin’ at all to concern yourself with.” He stuttered.

“So, I shouldn’t be concerned that yer just sneakin’ around in some girl’s tent, huh?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He groaned. “Come on Abigail, you know it ain’t like that.” “Do I?” She challenged. She peeked behind his shoulder before he could move to block her vision. A knowing smile crossed her lips. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Arthur responded, moving his body with hers as she tried to peek behind him again.

“What’s that layin’ on Y/N’s bed?”

“It’s nothin’!” Arthur groaned.

Abigail turned away. “Fine then, keep your secrets.”

Arthur sighed in relief and just as he took a step away from your tent, Abigail turned back around quickly and made a beeline for the tent. Arthur couldn’t react fast enough to stop her.

“Oh Arthur, this is beautiful!” She said as she picked up the journal.

“Yeah, I know.” He said sheepishly as he rubbed his neck. “Don’t go tellin’ her about it when she gets back, I want it to be a surprise.”

Abigail gave him a look when she walked out of the tent. “When are you gonna make a move Arthur?” His whole face turned beet red. “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.” She responded sarcastically as she walked away.

Arthur yawned as he made his way back to his own tent. He laid down on his cot and began doodling in his journal. His eyes grew heavy and he didn’t even feel himself fall asleep.

You pulled into camp riding between Lenny and Micah, the lot of you were still excited from the rush of adrenaline of a successful job. As you unmounted your horse, you turned to the two men you were with. “You boys did great today, let me know next time you wanna do this again and I’ll gladly ride with you.”

Micah turned and headed off towards Dutch’s tent, but not before you caught the rose color blooming on his cheeks. Lenny gave you his classic smile. “Anytime, Y/N. You did good today too.”

You smiled, “I appreciate the compliment, but stoppin’ a wagon and playin’ the damsel in distress don’t take much effort.”

Lenny looked at the ground, “Yeah, well it sure does help when you gotta a pretty lady playin’ the damsel.”

You laughed and patted Lenny on the back as you passed him, “Thanks Lenny.”

You spied Arthur asleep on his cot, journal still in his loose hands. It made you giggle, he looked so cute. You decided not to wake him as you headed towards your tent. When you looked down at your cot, you noticed the brown leather journal and the bag of candies laying there. Your heart skipped a beat as you picked up the journal and opened it. On the first page there was a message in Arthur’s hand writing.

To: Y/N

I hope you like it, I thought of you when I saw it and had to grab it.

Yours, Arthur

Your fingers lightly brushed the scrolling words on the page and you could feel your cheeks getting warm. Your fingers traced the words, ‘Yours, Arthur.’ It made you feel warm inside and your stomach fluttered. You grabbed the journal and the candy and headed out of the tent quickly.

When Arthur woke, the day had fully transitioned into night. He stretched as he stood and noticed a folded piece of paper and a small pile of candies on his night stand. He smiled as he unfolded it. The paper was from the journal he had bought you and on it was a beautiful sketch of him, sleeping peacefully on his cot with his journal slack in his hands. He pinned the drawing up with the pictures above his bed. He grabbed the hand full of candies and headed towards your tent. When he looked inside, you were already curled up asleep, the new journal on the nightstand beside your bed. He found himself with a pang of disappointment, he was hoping he would get to see your reaction when you saw the journal, but he could ask you about it tomorrow, and he turned back to his tent.

You woke early the next morning and made your way to the coffee kettle. You looked around confused when Arthur wasn’t there preparing the morning coffee. You looked over to his tent and he was still fast asleep. You rolled your eyes and headed his direction. As you entered his tent, you noticed the sketch you made him yesterday pinned up with his photos. You couldn’t help but smile. You gently put your hand down on his and shook him gently. “Arthur, it’s time to get up.” You cooed to him softly. “Come on Arthur, I’m ready for some coffee.”

His breathing hitched as he slowly opened his eyes. “Alright, alright I’m up.” He said groggily.

You squeezed his hand and turned to leave. “Good, now come get the coffee goin’.”

He yawned as he pulled on his boots. “Don’t you know how to make coffee?”

You stood just outside his tent with your arms crossed, “Yeah, but I like the way you make it better.”

As he stepped out of the tent, he put a hand on your lower back. “Yer right, you never make it strong enough.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned into his hand. “I know.” You looked up at him, “Thank you, for the journal by the way. It’s so pretty! How much was it? I’ll pay you back.”

Arthur scoffed. “It was a gift, I don’t want yer money.”

You pouted, Arthur found it devastatingly cute. “Are you sure? I feel bad, you spendin’ yer hard earned money on me.”

He smiled down at you sweetly. “I tell ya what, you can just pay me back with those drawin’s like the one ya left me last night.”

You beamed at him, “It’s a deal.”

Arthur began buying you more gifts over time, it started small as candies and pencils and other little things he found on his journeys. In return, he would find a folded piece of paper on his night stand, always a lovely drawing usually of him or his horse. His caravan was slowly becoming covered in your sketches and he admired them often. His favorite was payment for the explosive ammo he crafted for your pistol. It was one of the most detailed one you had done. It was a picture of him, brushing his horse. You had caught the expression of his face perfectly, and the detail stunned him. It was one of your best works, he wondered how long you had been working on it.

With time, Arthur gained the courage to give you the softest of touches. A hand on the small of your back here, an arm around your shoulders there, he even began complimenting you more, determined to show you how he felt, but to his disappointment, it seemed as if you were oblivious to his advances.

He huffed in frustration as he watched you walk away from him. He had handed you a bag of your favorite candies and a new brush for your horse. His heart jumped in excitement when you hugged him tightly, but the excitement was short lived when you said, “How sweet! How did I get so lucky to have such a great friend?” And with that you turned and walked away. Friend? He was tired of being just friends. He thought he was being obvious about that and you weren’t picking it up. He sat down at the table in front of Hosea. “What’s eatin’ ya boy?”

Arthur rested his chin in his hands as he watched you walk up to your drawing spot under the oak tree. “I’ve tried everything, Hosea. What am I doin’ wrong?”

Hosea looked in the direction Arthur was gazing and he turned back. “Ah, I see. So have you told her how you feel?”

“God no,” Arthur grunted.

“Well then how have you tried everything?” Hosea raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve given her gifts, I compliment her just about every time I see her, I don’t know what else to do.” He said in a gloomy tone.

Hosea scoffed, “Listen, you ain’t gonna get anywhere beatin’ around the bush, just tell her how you feel.”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah what if I do? What if I tell her and she laughs in my face. I don’t think I could live with the rejection. Plus I don’t want to ruin what we have now.”’

Hosea stood. “Well you’re never gonna know until you try. And between you and me, I think you got a pretty good chance with that one.” He winked and walked away, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. He looked up at you again, your nose was buried in your journal and your head tilted up, you squinted, and then it went back down.With a gulp, Arthur steeled his nerves and stood.

You were so focused on your picture that you didn’t hear Arthur approach. You about jumped out of your skin when he cleared his throat. “Jesus!” Your hand came up to your chest. “Damn it Arthur, you know better than to sneak up on me like that.”

He laughed as he took a seat beside you. “What are you workin’ on today?”

You pointed down to Dutch, sitting on a crate puffing a cigar. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy. He looked down at the drawing, “Wow, this may be your best one yet.”

You had captured Dutch’s likeness perfectly. The way he slumped on the crate looked so natural, but the puff of smoke coming from his mouth was what really impressed him. “This looks so realistic, how did you get this talented?”

You smiled, “My ma really enjoyed painting. I guess I got my base talent from her, but I guess it’s just practice.” You looked up at him. “Give yourself some credit though, you’re just as good as me, if not better.”

He pulled out his journal and flipped through his various sketches. “I don’t know about that.”

“Wait, what was that?” Your finger caught the page before he could flip passed it. He turned blood red as you opened the journal to the page your finger had caught. “Oh Arthur,” You whispered as your looked down at the drawing in awe. It was a drawing of you, slumped against the tree asleep.”This is beautiful.”

He gulped, “Well, it helps when the subject matter is beautiful.”

You looked up at him and he quickly averted his gaze. He cleared his throat, “Can you show me how you do your shading?”

“Sure.” You whispered as you handed his journal back to him. You scooted close to him, your shoulders were touching. You explained your process as you sketched Cain, moving your pencil slowly so he could see every move you made. When you finished you looked up at him, “Think you can do that?”

He smiled as he flipped to an empty page. “Think so. Didn’t look too hard.”

As he begun, you leaned your head against his shoulder. This sent chills down his spine. He didn’t look at you, but he did lean his head down against yours. He held his wrist like you taught him, and as his own sketch of Cain came to life, his markings were lighter, allowing his shading to look more realistic. He held it out to you when he finished. “Whatya think?”

You lifted your head and smiled. “Wonderful!” Your eyes met his and it seemed like time stood still. Your face was inches from his, and he felt your thumb gently graze his hand. This was it, this was his chance. You, looking up at him in awe, the golden rays of sunlight poking through the trees made you look angelic. He found himself beginning to lean into you, but then a voice came from the back of his head, she doesn’t want you like that. The voice whispered. Go on, kiss her. After you do she’ll go running and she’ll never come back. A girl like her could never love a degenerate like you.

Arthur sighed and stood. He put his hand out towards you, “Pearson should be done with supper soon. Let’s head back.”

Your eyes had a strange glint to them, something Arthur had never seen in them before. You looked back down into your journal. “You go ahead, I’ll meet you down there.”

Arthur kicked himself as he went down the hill. He chickened out, and found himself hating himself. Hating himself for not having the guts to tell you how he feels, hating himself because he knew you deserved better than him, hating himself for letting himself fall so hard for you.

You watched Arthur as he left, was it just your imagination, or was he about to kiss you? You shook the thought, Arthur was your friend, as much as you wish he did, you knew he didn’t have feelings for you. You were a plain girl, not a single special thing about you, and he was...well he was Arthur. The most handsome man you had ever seen, and by far the most interesting man you had ever met. He had such a tough exterior, a badass gunslinging hunk of a man, but he also had a more sensitive side. The side that loves to draw and write, the side that sings silly songs when he’s drunk and always makes time for you. He made your heart throb and most days it seemed like he was all you could think about. You sighed as you immersed yourself back into your journal.

You had become so focused on your journal, you didn’t realize night had began to fall until you were squinting down at your journal. You looked up, and the next thing you noticed was the rowdy amount of noise coming from the camp. As you walked down the hill, Ms. Grimshaw greeted you and handed you a bottle of moonshine. “Courtesy of the Braithwaites, drink up, my dear!”

You nodded and smiled as she walked away, you brought the bottle to your lips as you walked to the campfire. Most of the men were already quite drunk. even Arthur to your amusement. You could hear him loudly singing as you approached the campfire. When he looked up to you, he gave you the biggest grin you had ever seen. “Y/N!” He called drunkenly. He stumbled from his spot over to you and you laughed as he tripped over his own feet. You caught him before he could fall. “My hero!” He slurred.

You laughed as you wrapped an arm around him. His arm looped around your waist and it felt so natural to hold him like this as he led you to the fire. “Found ma lady!” He announced as you joined the group at the fire. He sat back down and before you could move to sit on the ground beside you, he pulled you down on his lap. Your face was bright red and you hoped the fire wasn’t bright enough for anyone to see. “This okay?” He whispered.

All you could do was nod your head yes and he wrapped his big arms around you tightly. Your head was swimming at his touch and as more liquor entered both of your systems, the nervousness melted from your bodies. By the end of the night, the pair of you were drunk as skunks. Arthur got a bit more handsier, his big palms slowly moved down your waist and by the end of the night his hand was cupping your ass. You were so drunk you didn’t care. You had one arm looped around his neck, playing with his hair. After awhile, it was just the two of you, Javier, and Charles at the fire. Javier strummed his guitar as Charles played the harmonica. Arthur took your hand and stood. Neither of you noticed Javier and Charles exchange glances as you walked away together holding hands.

You swung the arm that had his hand, as you laughed and stumbled through camp. You found yourself on the hill under the shady oak tree.

Arthur’s vision was blurry, but he could still see the look of desire in your eye as you looked up at him. “I gotta tell ya somethin’ but you can’t get mad.” He blurted.

You laughed, giddy with alcohol. “No promises.”

Arthur let out a shaky breath and took your other hand in his. Before you could process what was happening, Arthur’s lips came down on yours. His lips were soft and he tasted like alcohol. As he pulled back, you loooped your arms around his neck and brought his lips back down to yours. You could feel his smile against your lips as you kissed him hard. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him tightly. When you broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours and let out a breathy laugh.

“What?” You asked self consciously. “Am I a bad kisser or somethin’?”

He put a hand on your cheek, “Not at all, just laughin’ at myself for how long it took me to do that.”

You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”

“Okay” He whispered, and his lips came back down on yours.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #arthur x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #reader insert #Van Der Linde Gang #rdr fanfiction

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phantomwarrior12 · 5 years

Text

A Lonely World

Prompt: Broken by lovelytheband

Word Count: 2,394

Warnings: Mild swearing, Gabriel trying to be an innocent little shit, fluff

Summary: The Winchesters tend to get laid, you somehow end up with something more exciting.

A/N: Hi folks!

This fic has been in the works for the better part of year, but, at last, I emerge victorious and I finished it!

Please leave a like/comment and let me know your thoughts!

~ Phantom

A Timely Rescue

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I like that you're broken, broken like me

Maybe that makes me a fool

I like that you're lonely, lonely like me

I could be lonely with you

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Fingers drumming aimlessly against cool brown glass, y/e/c locked on the couple swaying to and fro in the back corner.

Another bar, another night of the Winchesters trying to persuade you to let them play wingman. Another night of you declining their offer and electing to drink alone after they leave.

Different town, same story. That is, until he appears in the chair beside you.

You hadn't heard him approach, let alone noticed the shift of people around you. There's a Hunter's instinct kicking in somewhere in the back of your mind, but no alarms. Whatever it is, it won't hurt you.

You feel his finger tips along the small of your back before you see him. There's subtle buzz entwined in a tenderness you've never known within the depths of his touch, every inch of skin tingling from a single brush, a warmth flourishing beneath flannel.

When your eyes find themselves facing warm honey and you could swear you felt your heart skip a beat.

"Come here often, sugar?"

It takes a moment, but you grasp the fleeting sense of reality and steady yourself, turning towards the charismatic stranger, fully aware of the arm now slung across the back of your chair.

"That line work on all the ladies?" You query with a delicate arch of an eyebrow.

"Depends. It work on you?" The corner of his lips tug upwards into a mischievous smirk.

"No."

He allows a quiet chuckle, settling a little closer to you, "Really? I think we both know that that's not true."

You let out a quiet snort, readjusting your body to face the bar more so than him, hand already curled around the beer bottle as you study its contents, "I wouldn't be so sure if I were you."

He arches an eyebrow but pulls away and leans on the bar, "Alright, I'll play along," cocky shift of the shoulders, "let's start over."

He outstretches his hand, smiling at you with such an expectant look, you decide to indulge him, if for no other reason than to entertain yourself for the remainder of the evening.

"Y/N." You accept his hand, soft meeting calloused, gentle meeting firm. There's almost a current running through his veins, a subtle jolt when palms meet and fingers lock.

And there's a twinkle in his eyes when his thumb brushes across yours as he shakes your hand, "They call me Gabriel."

"Pleasure," you can't help the warmth that crawls into the smile you offer.

"So, and forgive the how cliche this line is, what's a girl like you doing in a dump like this...alone?"

"Just passing through," it slips out easily, a forewarning before things go too far, "how about you?"

He shrugs and finally relinquishes his hold on your hand, leaving it empty and nearly forlorn at the loss of his touch.

"Same as you, quick stop in a little town," he glances around the bar before settling back on you.

You nod slowly, noting the intentional break in eye contact to study their surroundings, "Running , huh?"

He seems as surprised by your boldness as you are, gauging the expectant look etched into your features.

"I'm that easy to read, huh?"

"Like a book." You set the empty bottle off to the side and direct your full attention to Gabriel.

"Takes one to know one."

"Except I'm not running," you correct him, "got nothing to run from."

He leans a little closer and his expression grows solemn, "Everyone's running from something."

"I don't run, tough guy." You counter, leaning a little closer, studying every inch of his features. "Something pushes you down, gets in your way, you stand up and make it move."

Gabriel scoffs, "You make it sound easy."

"Task's only impossible if you deem it so," you return proudly, y/e/c drifting from his eyes to his lips and back again.

He flashes another cocky grin, "Mind if I buy you a drink?"

You gesture towards the empty bottle beside you and a slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he orders another round. He waits until the bottles rest between the two of you before he speaks.

"So, if you're not running, what're you doing out here?"

"Road trip with my brothers." You nod to the Winchesters huddled in the corner, two women fawning over them. There may not be any blood relation, but they're the closest thing to family you have.

"And they left you to drink on your own?" He arches an eyebrow, disapproval evident in golden hues.

"I get some peace and quiet, they get laid, we all win." You chuckle lightly, taking a sip of your beer.

"Weird, but whatever works, I guess." Gabriel shrugs, turning his full attention back to you.

"And what are you running from?" You level an expectant look on the man beside you.

"Family drama," he shrugs, avoiding your gaze.

"You really aren't good at this lying thing, are you?"

"Oh, but I'm telling the truth. I got brothers, too, they're just a lot bigger and meaner." He offers an amused smile, "It's good to get away from family now and again."

"I can understand that." You nod, taking another sip of your beer.

"Enough about that, care to dance?"

"I don't dance."

"Really? Who shoved the stick up your ass?"

You snort indelicately, "Apathy."

"Well, let's see if we can't have it removed." He takes your hand, pulling you to your feet and out onto the dance floor.

"Gabriel--"

"Have some fun, Y/N." He twirls you to arms length and then back against his chest.

Your shoulders sag but there's a smile etched into your features, allowing him to guide you across the hardwood. You can feel ths Winchesters' gaze, but soon, he's the only thing you can see, the only thing you can feel as the two of you glide across the floor.

His hands are everywhere, molding with every curve as you move in sync. His presence floods your senses like a rush of ecstasy that you never thought possible, a feather-light embrace that you can't see, but every nerve can feel. You brush off the nagging hunter's alarm, attributing the paranoia and distrust to the alcohol coursing through your veins and the traumatic memories that haunt your thoughts--memories that often banish any hopes of genuine happiness.

Just once, you want those thoughts to be wrong. Just once, you want the mysterious man whose arms are wound around you, to be real and not a danger when you turn your back. Just once, you pray he feels the same way.

So, when the Winchesters leave with their catches for the night, when the bar's inhabitants dwindle and it's only the two of you swaying to a slow song, you allow your defenses to fall, if only for a moment.

You lay your head on his shoulder, your eyes sliding shut as you commit every touch, every detail to memory--something to cling to when hell grips hold and you need a safe haven.

You're lost in the newfound sensations, the alcohol singing through your system, a perfect concoction of endorphins and ecstasy until that cool wisp flickers along your spine. It dances over marred ridges and, for a moment, you're convinced you're imagining it; the chill as nothing more than an unfortunate result of beer and sleep-deprivation.

That is, until you meet his gaze, your breath catching in your throat when you notice the faint glint of blue flaring against whiskey, "Gabriel, your eyes--"

"What about them?" He questions innocently.

"Either I'm much drunker than I thought, or they're glowing."

"How many rounds have you had, sugar?"

"All night? Five or six?"

"You're drunk, sweetcheeks. My eyes aren't glowing," he assures you smile.

"You sure? Because I'm pretty sure there's something trailing along my spine, too."

"Drunk. How about we get you back to your motel? You should probably try to sleep this off," he teases gently.

"You're probably right," you relent as the wisp disappears and the alarms in your mind silence themselves.

You're positive you blacked out, convincing yourself the whoosh of air you'd felt was the wind during a brief moment of consciousness on the way to the motel. It couldn't be the ruffle of feathers you hear when Castiel flies you somewhere. The next time you open your eyes, something that felt as if it had only been a moment, you're both standing in the middle of your motel room, "How long was I out--?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take," Gabriel shrugs, helping you over to the bed.

"I probably snored--"

"Not at all," he waves you off, tucking the blankets around you.

"Thanks for the ride," you murmur, settling in to sleep.

"No problem, sugar. Sweet dreams."

The snap of his fingers is the last thing your exhausted mind can register before you drift off, a content smile spread across your lips.

-------------------

"Rise and shine, Y/N!" Dean knocks on your door and you groan against the light filtering through the curtains, burying your face in the pillow.

"Go away!"

You hear Dean swipe his spare card and step inside, "Up and at 'em."

"You tell me to get up one more time and I'm coming at you." You bite back, reluctantly kicking the blankets off, swinging your feet onto the floor.

"You sleep okay?" He props himself against the doorframe after he closes the door.

"Like a baby," you stand, moving to grab a change of clothes from your bag.

"So, spotty and you cried a lot?"

"Fuck off, Winchester."

"Must be one hell of a hangover if you're this cranky. How'd it go with thar guy last night?"

"What guy?" you deflect, stifling a yawn as you shuffle towards the bathroom to change.

"The one you spent most of the night drinking with?"

"Didn't go anywhere, good dancer though." You call through the door.

"That sucks," he glances around the room, "Maybe next time."

You step out of the bathroom, "Not holding my breath."

"Oh, come on--" Dean's cut short by a knock at the door, "There's Sam," he pulls the door open, "and Cas?" He arches an eyebrow, glancing back at you.

"Don't be a dork, let them inside." You don't look up as you throw your clothes into the duffel.

"Hello, Dean. Y/N." Castiel greets, stepping inside the room.

"What brings you by, feathers?" You glance up from your bag with a smile.

"Sam called about a case, I thought I'd--" he looks over at you for the first time, cutting himself short.

"Cas?" Dean glances between you and the angel.

Castiel strides across the room, brows knit together in confusion, his eyes beginning to glow a brilliant blue as he reaches for you.

"Whoa, easy," Dean steps between you and Castiel.

"Something wrong?" You frown, y/e/c darting between his outstretched hand and his eyes.

"You have residual grace."

"I have what now?"

Dean steps aside, allowing Castiel to step closer, offering his hand to you, "May I?"

Confusion emerges victorious in the whirlwind of emotion and you tentatively hold your hand out. You hold your breath as Castiel's fingers ghost over your forearm, a cool whisper beneath his touch as small wisps of blue trail along your skin.

"I've felt that before--" you murmur, eyes trained on the swirling light.

"When?" His gaze darts to your face, concern evident.

"Last night. This drifter sat and talked to me, I thought it was just the beer, but, it felt like this. My hunter alarm was going nuts at first, but he was fine by the end of the night."

Castiel nods slightly before he turns his attention back to your arm, squinting slightly at the Enochian letters glowing bright against your wrist.

"What the hell?!" You jerk your arm back, staring at the lettering as it fades, "What was that?"

Castiel takes your hand again, waving his hand over your wrist to reveal the letters, "It's Enochian and it's a warning."

"A warning for what?" Dean steps closer, concern glinting in apple green orbs.

"Y/N's been placed under the protection of," he hesitates, staring at the letters for a long moment in wonder.

"Of who?" You press, the anxiety building in your chest.

He meets your gaze solemnly, "The archangel, Gabriel."

You open your mouth to speak, but clamp it shut as you sink onto the bed, holding your wrist.

"So, you don't get laid, but you somehow draw the attention of an archangel and get yourself on his no-smite list." Dean shakes his head, scrubbing at his face, "Must be Tuesday."

"He's not just any archangel. He's the only one of the archangels to flee heaven. He's been missing for thousands of years."

"He said he was running from family drama," you interject, brushing your thumb over your wrist absently.

"Y/N, did he say where he was going?" Castiel kneels beside you, searching your features desperately.

"No. We talked, drank and I somehow ended up here. Looking back, I guess it felt like when you fly us places, Cas." You look up at him slowly.

Castiel's features fall but he nods, standing back to his full height, "Then he's moved on."

"But why place me under his protection?"

"What did you talk about?" Dean asks.

"How annoying brothers are."

Sam snorts lightly, "Maybe be thought of you as a kindred spirit, fed up with your brothers?"

"That's entirely possible." Castiel glances towards Sam, "Mankind has done much less to earn the protection of God himself, perhaps something Y/N said resonated with Gabriel."

"In any case, you've now got an archangel in your corner, Y/N. Not a lot of people can say that." Dean pats your shoulder before he moves towards the door, "Let's head home, I promised Bobby we'd pick up some supplies on the way home."

"Right," you find your way to your feet, "I'll meet you outside, just need to grab a few more things."

Dean nods, corralling Sam and Castiel out the door to finish packing up Baby. Within twenty minutes, you're on the road, following Baby down the street. You cast one final glance in your rearview mirror, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you see the archangel's watchful form in the distance.

"See you around, Gabriel."

--------------------

A Timely Rescue (Ch. 2)

Taglists are open!

Gabriel Squad: @thewhiterabbit42 @erisunderthemoon @stuckoutsideofthebox @nuvoleincielo @lyselkatz @high-church-of-the-holy-dick @fand0maniac @lovelyhexbag Forevers: @heaven-hell-imagines @a-mess-of-many-fandoms @currentlyfangirling99 @bofa-deans-nuts @emiwrites3reads

#gabriel x reader #gabriel spn #gabriel #spn #supernatural #phantom writes

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tiredelia · 5 years

Text

An Ode to the Irondick

First things first.... this is in no way an ode, I just liked the way that title sounds. Second, I lost a bet so now I gotta do this & it’s based on this lovely post by @incorrect-ironstrange. Third, this is unbeta’d cus who the hell wants to suffer through this. So with that in mind here we go:

*~*~*~*~*~*~* Prologue

“How come Tony Stark gets to fight villains naked all the time in the comics but not in the movies? I am being denied my rights!”

A sentence and a question.

That’s all it took to start this madness.

A sentence and a question led to the encampments on his doorstep.

A sentence..

No not a sentence, an exclamation.

An exclamation and a question uttered by one person snowballed into a problem he’d never thought he would have to face.

Shrill voices danced in the air as he observed the mayhem from the safety of his office.

“IRONDICK, IRONDICK, IRONDICK,”

“GIVE US THE IRONDICK OR GIVE US DEATH”

and his personal favourite

“IT’S OUR STAN LEE GRANTED RIGHTS.”

The sea of nudely clad bodies moved as one in what can only be described as synchronised discord. For the past few months they had taken to standing outside the office, insisting that their demands be met and refusing to be deterred. On the days they felt extra determined, much like today, they would strip as they hurled their demands towards his office. They were a persistent bunch and for some ungodly reason their numbers grew by the day.

“Staring at them through the window isn’t going to make them leave any faster.”

Kevin Feige’s eyes lifted from the pandemonium, finding the voice’s owner leaning against his doorway. When he locked eyes with Christopher’s, the man took it as a sign to completely enter his office and make himself comfortable. Silenced settled between the two as Kevin’s eyes were once again drawn to the window, where the protester’s voices rang out. and sliced the office’s air. He ignored the feeling clawing at his chest as he observed the security detail grappling with the people below; some even attempting to force their unwanted guests into some clothing.

There was something to be said about the current circumstance if forcing naked protestors into clothes was a common occurrence.

Christopher was right, he glanced back at the man who helped himself to one of the reports resting on Kevin’s desk, staring at them wasn’t going to fix this mess but what else could he do, they’ve withstood all he’d thrown at them so far.

Sighing, he drew the curtains and walked towards the table, the incessant “IRONDICK” soaring through the air as a not so helpful reminder of one of his biggest problems. As he sat, one thought weaseled its way through and settled at the forefront of his mind.

‘I should have silenced them a year ago.’

Approximately one year ago

“The people want to see Stark’s penis Fiege.”

“What?”

“The people. AKA Our fans. Want. Their. Eyeballs. Graced. By. One. Anthony Edward Stark aka Ironman’s. Schlong manhood.”

Kevin finally looked up from his paperwork, “Did you just say schlong?”

The man before him stood with his arms akimbo, disbelief colouring his voice, “With all due respect sir, I just told you the fans want to see Ironman’s cock and your issue is my utterance of the word schlong?”

In his defense, Marvel fans have been known to come up with worse and with much less. At least this round they were using an established,well known character and not someone like Angar the Screaming Hippie. They could use the comics to quench their thirst. Christopher however was not one to utilise words like schlong, at least not within the work environment.

Nonetheless, he planned to tackle this the same way he tackled every other random demand from his fanbase.

Ignoring them.

Soon enough, it’ll die down or they’ll supply themselves with their own content. Thus leaving him and by extension Marvel Studios alone. “Leave it alone Christopher, come help me finalise these estimations.”

And just like that, he pushed the situation away.

Out of sight, out of mind.

*-*-*-*-*

”Kevin... they have a name.”

“Oh? But Jennifer just found out she was pregnant, how could she have a name?”

“Not Jennifer jackass, the fans”

“Of course they have names Christopher, do you think their mothers call them Thing 1 and 2?”

There was a frustrated sigh before his book was violently removed from his hands. Christopher stood above him, looking rather displeased. To be fair, Christopher was always displeased these days, so it wasn’t that unique of a look on him. Still it was safer to address whatever was upsetting him.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Which fans are you talking about and why should I care?”

“The Ironman fans I told you about a while back and warned you that might get rowdy.”

Ironman fans...

Iron-

Those fans, the ones who were lusting after his genitals, He vaguely remembered Christopher mentioning them several times and each time he shifted the conversation to something else. Honestly, what could some persons on the internet do. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to hear a name.

“What’s their name?”

“Le Revoldicktion.”

Kevin didn’t even realise when he fell off his chair laughing.

*-*-*-*-*

The third mention of ‘Le Revoldicktion’ was simply a letter. It seemed to be handwritten and the envelope had a wax seal. He had just returned from lunch when he noticed it. A red envelope lined with gold trim and it was addressed to him.

Amused, he opened and read.

Dear Mr. Feige,

I genuinely hope this letter finds you well because I for one am not. This is simply a warning letter. We as Tony stans deserve naked Tony and the undersuit within the MCU. Use your powers as the head of Marvel studios and give us the Irondick. The only other option is death.

You seem like a reasonable man but I just want you to know that we will never leave, never rest, not until you we’ve been granted our Stan Lee granted RIGHTS.

This is your only warning.

Viva Le Revoldicktion.

_______________________________________________________________

that’s all folks. Mostly cus this is longer than I thought it would be and tbh I don’t wanna write anymore. there will be a next part as I intend to see this bet through. God, this is what my good podcast bog has turned into.

More chapters: To be written

#ironstrange #incorrect-ironstrange #tony stark #stephen strange #iron man #dr strange #viva la revoldiction #iron dick #what am i doing #I will fight & win just you wait alliyah

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thanksjro · 5 years

Text

Everyday Is Like Sunday: Everyone Hates Huffer

This is technically a Christmas story, modeled after A Christmas Carol, but I’m covering it now because time is an illusion, god has abandoned his creations to chaos, and I’m on the downswing of a depressive episode so nothing actually matters!

I’m kidding. It’s mainly because some of this stuff is very difficult to find, and trying to save this thing for a later date isn’t going to work with how the lineup’s currently looking. In that I don’t have anything prior to Roberts’ stint with IDW available to me at the moment that hasn’t already been gone over.

This isn’t even the only Christmassy story Roberts did back in the TMUK days- there’s a comic out there that he worked on with Jack Lawrence that’s meant to be another sort of holiday special starring Optimus Prime. He just really likes Christmas, I guess.

Anyway, let’s get into Everyday is Like Sunday!

Oof, that font. My inner graphic design nerd is screaming.

It’s the return of Matt Dallas! Dallas was the artist Roberts worked with for Liars, A-to-D, the prequel comic to Eugenesis. Having looked into the guy a bit since I covered that, I found that he was everywhere during the TMUK days, and even headed the Transtrip publications. His credits are impressive, to say the least.

Our story begins with Kup fighting Unicron.

Would you look at all that detail! Check out that six pack, dude’s ripped. It’s a good thing this is the only time we’ll see the Chaos Bringer, because that must have taken ages.

Yep, this Unicron is an illusion, and not even one that’s diegetic to the characters. Well, except Kup. Huffer, the resident stick-in-the-mud, glass-half-empty, complete-and-total grump, has taken it upon himself to mess around with Kup while he’s passed out in his easy chair after a few too many, because what the hell else his there to do on this starship? That cord in Huffer’s hand is plugged into the side of Sup’s head, so he’s just pouring this dream narrative straight into his brain. Hot Rod is, understandably, a little weirded out by this, and invites Huffer to instead enjoy the day, because it’s Christmas!

He does have a bit of a point- Christmas isn’t exactly a thing on Cybertron, and just because they have it on Earth, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily stuck with everyone as much as it has with you, Hot Rod. I doubt Huffer would care, even if it was a Cybertronian holiday.

If that last little line reads a bit oddly, that would be because it’s actually a song lyric that’s wormed its way into the dialogue. This comic is named after a song by Morrissey called- what else?- Everyday is Like Sunday. It’s a pretty good listen, I recommend you take a listen. It really matches the tone for Huffer’s whole situation.

The situation that is his personality.

Huffer’s in a mood. He’s always in a mood, but he’s particularly incensed now, because they’ve been scooting around in space for almost a year and haven’t actually done anything. Arcee listed off all the things they’ve accomplished, because she wants him to either lighten up or shut up, but he brushes all that off, because he can’t stand to be wrong, either. And then Bluestreak has to go and open his mouth, having the audacity to suggest that Huffer might actually have an emotion other than general displeasure and perhaps even- gasp!- MISS Earth.

This sets Huffer off, and he goes on a brief tirade on how he doesn’t give two hoots about the Earth. The only reason the tirade is brief is because Ebony decides that enough is enough and outright attacks him.

You probably don’t know Ebony, and that’s okay. From what I can gather, she’s someone’s OC. Not sure who, but she’s got to belong to someone. She looks like she turns either into a wolf or some sort of big cat, and she’s had enough of Huffer’s bad attitude. She says what everyone’s been thinking, and offers to kill him in a sort of roundabout way if life is really that fucking terrible.

Huffer decides he’s had enough, and asks where the escape pod is. This ship doesn’t have an escape pod, but Hot Rod offers to drop him off at the first planet they pass. Bumblebee suggests they just go ahead and let him off here. Everyone’s about had it with Huffer, and trust me when I say the feeling seems to be mutual. There’s literally an entire page devoted to him just insulting everyone and listing off all the reasons he can’t stand them.

Bluestreak looks genuinely offended, like he can’t believe Huffer would even go there.

Huffer fights dirty, too. He goes after things people have zero control over, like their age and how they’re built. Just flat-out rude. He attacks folks who aren’t even present, calling Prowl uptight and Nightbeat a lackey.

We cut over to the two of them having a discussion about the order of the shuttle they’re on, and how things are going to have to change, then it’s back to Huffer acting like a jackass.

You’re just saying that to be hurtful and ridiculous.

Huffer storms off into the darkened hallway, wishing a sarcastic Merry Christmas to everyone. The door shuts behind him, and then everything promptly explodes.

There’s a lot going on here, but let’s try to break this down a bit. We’ve got some full-stasis off in the corner, with Eric Cartman and He-Man’s Oracle featured as pieces, the vacuum from Teletubbies, what might be a porno mag in the lower right corner, and a TI-83 calculator. Damn, guess Huffer got what he wanted.

No, what’s really happened is that the shuttle’s been hit by an asteroid. Considering I haven’t seen anyone actually manning this rig, I suppose it was only a matter of time before they floated into something big enough to hurt. Prowl intercoms for everyone to head for the bridge and pull up the defense shielding.

Off in the hall, Huffer’s face down on the ground. He tries to get up, but the shuttle keeps hitting things, even with Bluestreak at the wheel now.

That’s what I want to know! Look at our detective, asking all the right questions! However, we don’t have time to answer that, because, unfortunately, Nightbeat isn’t our main character this go around.

Huffer is.

Our little bastard man is looking a bit crispy, but seems otherwise okay. He certainly isn’t feeling bad enough to not make a stink when someone has the utter gall to try and help him to his feet. His tune changes though, when he sees just who this kind samaritan is.

Fusion’s a dude who’s only claim to fame is biting it. I suppose that it’s fitting he be our Ghost of Christmas Time-Is-A-Perception-Based-Concept.

Fun little detail about Dallas’ work- he makes everyone outrageously shiny. These sons of guns have been at war for millions of years, and should probably be scuffed all to hell, but Dallas is just like “haha, nope! Break out the polish!” and everyone is glossy enough to apply lipstick with. It doesn’t even stop at characters; in Liars, A-to-D, Mirage fires a missile that you can see Sixshot’s reflection in as it flies towards him.

Fusion, when asked if he’s a hallucination, simply says that he’s as solid as Huffer, and when their hands touch, THIS happens:

Which I suppose means they’re embarking on a journey of the spiritual variety. That, or Huffer’s FINALLY proposing.

The pair materialize on Cybertron, 50,000 vorns in the past, which is well over 4 million years. A vorn is equal to 83 years, which is oddly specific if you ask me, but now you know! Huffer, of course, wants to know how all this nonsense is possible, and just what the hell Fusion’s deal is.

Huffer’s not one for mystical bullshit.

Being a bit short on time, Fusion has Huffer look through a window at a meeting with all the bigwigs. They’re discussing Huffer’s Ark designs, and just who exactly is going to man this thing once it’s ready. Emirate Xaaron suggests that Huffer come along, and strikes just the cutest little pose while he does.

Seriously, look at this, he’s precious, even with his funky grate mouth.

Nobody can mistake Huffer as being inexperienced or stupid, but the problem is nobody friggin’ likes him. Huffer, of course, takes issue with that, grumbling to himself and completely missing Fusion’s departure. When he finally takes notice, his new guide is already in place: Grimlock. The star wipe makes a return, and they’re off to the next scene.

Meanwhile, back on the shuttle, Bluestreak’s having some trouble with maneuvering around all these asteroids. Hopefully they’ll be okay until Huffer’s done with his Christmas special shenanigans.

Huffer and Grimlock arrive at Earthbase in the present day, in the middle of a rip-roaring good party.

Dammit, who let Cosmos into the booze? You know he can’t hold his liquor.

Everyone hates Huffer so fucking much, and I honestly can’t fault them for that. He’s kind of a festering wound of a person.

Grimlock disappears while Huffer’s busy watching everyone’s testament to their dislike for him. Huffer star-wipes out onto the next scene, interrupting him before he can say the fuck-word.

Back with Bluestreak, he’s nearly gotten them out of the asteroid field.

Huffer appears on what might be a moon, and meets his final guide.

Fuck, he’s become aware of the narrative! Shut the comic down, quick, before another Swearth happens!

Our ghost reveals himself to be Huffer, roughly 200 years in the future, and he’s looking ROUGH.

Oh no, he’s dehydrated.

Because he never learned to act like a decent person, the shuttle crew is going to dump him on a uninhabited moon in a couple weeks time, and then that’ll be it.

And then we get into the character study portion of the comic.

Huffer only bitches as much as he does because he’s self-conscious and doesn’t want to let people in, for fear that they’ll see what a useless hunk of junk he is.

Of course, current Huffer still can’t get over himself- even when it’s just he, himself, and him- and has to continue poking holes in this revelation, claiming it to be no more than a dream that’s presenting him with a fundamental personal truth in an easy-to-swallow pill.

These couple of panels are very dialogue-heavy, taking up a majority of the space available, but in the end, Huffer’s last little biting remark is that none of this is real and none of it matters, so just get it over with and send me back. Which Ghost-Huffer does.

Back at the shuttle, they’ve cleared the asteroid field, and it looks like it’ll be smooth sailing from here on. Huffer wakes up, in just a foul a mood as ever, as he stews over all the horrible things he heard about himself during his dreams. It looks like he’s about to return to status-quo, perhaps dooming himself to the fate of Ghost-Huffer, when he overhears Prowl chewing out the rest of the crew. Because no one had bothered to watch the radar, thus nearly killing everyone, he’s going to start tightening his belt and imposing some rules and regulations, as opposed to letting people do whatever they please. He names Nightbeat as his second-in-command, which everyone seems okay with (except Kup, for whatever reason).

Just something about this interaction Roberts really enjoys, I guess.

As part of this little crackdown, Prowl’s ordering a round-the-clock manning of the shuttle- half-day shifts. There’s quite a bit of groaning about this, but honestly? I’m not exactly sure how they’ve gotten away with not doing this for as long as they have.

Huffer, in a show of what I assume is the closest thing to kindness he’s performed in years, offers to take the first shift. Nobody fights him on that, and he takes a seat. In the background, Kup asks to have a word with Prowl.

Huffer decides that he ought to lighten up, just a touch, and maybe at least consider not being such a massive jerk.

That decision lasts roughly twenty seconds, and then he gets bored.

Personal growth is for suckers! IDW Whirl WISHES he was this disconnected from his own conscience.

As he runs off to go be a jackass elsewhere, the shuttle drifts back towards the asteroid field, surely dooming everyone aboard. The end!

This was a fun, somewhat bitter little story that tried its hand at picking apart a narrative that’s been run into the ground. Sorry, Roberts, but nobody’s gonna do it better than A Muppet’s Christmas Carol.

Up next, we’ll be looking at something a little different. Something not written by Roberts, but based on his work.

We’re going to read Eugenesis fanfiction.

#transformers #jro #everyday is like sunday #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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botslayer · 5 years

Text

The Spirit of Reboots: Thoughts on Thundercats Roar and more

I often find that reboots, revivals, and the odd remake these days tend to miss the mark of the original in some way, and I feel the explanation as to why, even with the good ones, is often pretty simple. This isn’t me shitting on everything that’s come out in recent years, but it is basically a super rambly essay, so buckle up, folks and folkettes. Recently, Cartoon Network released the first two episodes of “Thundercats: Roar” online. In short: Not my cup of tea. Ignoring for two seconds that I’m not “The intended audience,” The animation is genuinely janky (particularly with lipsyncing on occasion) and I don’t think most of the VA’s fit super well. Aside from that, I can see some of the comedic potential of the series, but I feel the whole thing is let down somewhat by the nature of... being a reboot of Thundercats. It suffers from the Teen Titans Go problem, but not quite to the same extent. TTG is off doing its own thing, though for some reason felt the need to steal the main voice cast, designs, setting and some of the more superficial aspects of the character’s personalities to do it, and a lot closer to the end of the old show. Roar is only stealing designs and setting, but both of them pose the same question which I will actually get to asking in a paragraph or two. I’m not opposed to reboots and revivals, as I find they can still be good. I quite liked 2010′s “Predators,” As the whole thing feels like a Predator movie and did enough to up the ante without feeling ridiculous. The new characters and change in setting from places on Earth to a literal alien planet for both the humans and the hunters were interesting and it felt like a return to form while still giving a solid enough shake-up to make proceedings still feel like a fun and unique little ride through a familiar franchise. The spirit of the 1987 original is still with the movie, I find. Another reboot worth mentioning that I liked (If only to demonstrate that I'm not just a mindless fanboy for old things) would be the 2017 movie reboot of Power Rangers. A movie I personally feel had some problems but was still generally fun, held my attention, and earned my investment. But as I watched, I didn't feel like I was watching Power Rangers if that makes sense. I felt as though I was watching a generic superhero movie with Power Rangers themed window dressing, which is its own problem separate from it being a good product. I feel like, had they changed all the names and a few designs, the movie would have very easily been its own distinct example of something. It felt tied down by needing to include things from the Power Rangers playbook but the action didn't feel, look, or at all seem "rangery." The effects weren't what one thinks of when one hears "Power Rangers." The spirit of Power Rangers wasn't there. Like at all. So what does all that have to do with ThunderCats Roar? It has the same issue as Teen Titans Go or Power Rangers, honestly. And they can all have that problem boiled down to a single question: "Why reboot something if you're not going to follow the spirit of the original?" And I personally feel "Going in a new direction." is not usually a valid answer. You can go in a new direction and still maintain the spirit of something. When I watch a new season of Power Rangers, they still generally feel like the old ones in certain ways while still being unique examples of the ongoing formula. The 2011 Thundercats felt like the natural evolution of Thundercats into the modern-day, still having both the action focus and the feels of exploration, mysticism, and heroism. All while kind of doing its own thing with the ideas of the original. The spirit of Thundercats was still there. The spirit of Thundercats is not with Roar. And THAT is the root cause of so much hate. It isn't just because it's different. They drudged up a classic series, one with genuine branding and a still loyal fanbase, and then fundamentally abandoned what made that show what it was. Again, say all you like how the classic fans or fans of the 2011 reboot are no longer the "Intended audience." That isn't a valid argument when they appropriate another franchise instead of making their own. Also invalid is the idea that Roar is any kind of "Parody" of anything. A REAL parody starts from the ground up. It doesn't just rip off an entire pre-existing thing and make it stupid as all hell. A golden standard I hold parodies too is the first Scream movie. We have most of the cast playing straight man to the literal horror tropes they are coming across. Is scream always funny? No. But that's because it's still a legitimate horror movie that can be enjoyed by horror fans. If Roar wanted to be an effective parody, it would probably be its own entity, one that makes fun of the over-muscled, yet still hyper-acrobatic heroes and their over the top bullshit weapons. "This is Quay'tzar, Russviet ruler of the destroyed Fifth Earth. He and his trusty Sicklehammer strike down all who oppose the oppressive Cosmonist regime, the only hope of the people is Astroclese, the saviour of etc..." that was all off the top of my head, people. So, in conclusion to my ramblings and side tangents: I don't think people hate reboots/revivals on the face of them, they don't like reboots/revivals that don't get back to what made the property whatever it was to begin with, making them shit just pours salt in the wound, thus resulting in the hate. I also find people's defenses of this stuff lackluster at best. But that’s all just my two cents. If you have anything to add or a counterpoint, feel free to add them. I’m gonna go watch She-Ra, something I’m still not the intended audience for, and I’m gonna enjoy it.

#thundercats #Roar #Predator #Predators #Power Rangers #2017 #1987 #2010 #2011 #Teen titans #Go #she ra netflix #intended audience

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aliciameade · 5 years

Text

Baby - Ch. 15

Title: Baby Author: aliciameade Rating: *** M *** Pairing: Stephanie Smothers/Emily Nelson Summary: That tearful kiss shared between Stephanie and Emily wasn't their first—and it certainly wasn't their last.

(Chapter 1)

Also on AO3

(You can buy me a ko-fi if you want to!)

When Stephanie’s cell phone rings with Sean’s name on the screen, she sends the boys to the backyard to play.

“Hello?”

She’s met with the gasping sobs of a broken man. “She’s gone.”

“Sean? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

His voice is strained, choked with tears. “Emily. She’s—someone—”

“Just take a breath. Tell me what happened.”

He does and in that second of silence, Stephanie can hear the chatter of many other people in the background. “She’s gone, Stephanie. I came home and found her…” He breaks into tears again and she works on drumming up her own as she allows a believable amount of time to pass to come to the conclusion he can’t put into words.

It’s not as difficult as she thought it might be to start crying; imagining Emily being murdered is an easy catalyst for tears. “Oh, my God. No!”

“Can you please look after Nicky tonight? I can’t have him here. The police say the house is a crime scene. I can’t let him see this.” He sounds destroyed.

“Yes, of course,” she says, working up plenty of tears. “Anything. Anything for Emily.” Her voice cracks over her name. “Let me know how I can help.”

“You’re a saint. Thank you. I need to go. I’ll call when you can bring Nicky home.”

Stephanie cries in earnest when she sets her phone down. Everything was so easy with Emily by her side but she’s gone and she has to see the last leg of this journey through alone.

Emily will be on a plane now somewhere over the Atlantic. They won’t communicate again for some time; they can’t risk it once the investigation begins. They won’t communicate at all until Stephanie, Miles, and Nicky show up at Emily’s new front door.

Their new front door.

She cries because she misses the woman she loves.

~ ~

Three days pass before Sean asks her to bring Nicky home.

The first night had been easy; he was excited to spend the night with Miles. The second, he asked if he could go home and she had to explain that she was watching him for a little while. The third, he cried that he missed his mom and dad.

That had been a difficult night for everyone. Lying to a little boy that he’ll see his parents soon, knowing he’s going to be told his mother is dead when she is very much alive…

If murder wasn’t already an egregious sin, setting it up so a little boy would mourn his mother unnecessarily…

She doesn’t let herself think about it.

When she arrives at Sean’s house, it’s in a far worse state than she and Emily had left it. It’s as though the police upturned every single thing, or maybe Sean had lost his mind when he found his wife strangled in their living room.

There are dark smudges on the walls and counters, fingerprint powder that has been left for someone else to clean up. The white couch is gone, leaving a noticeable void in the heart of the home.

Stephanie keeps an excessive distance between herself and Sean once they’ve hugged in grief. It’s a habit she needs to establish quickly, though it’s not a difficult one. Frankly, she’d like to have nothing to do with the man ever again, let alone be in the same room with him, but to accomplish one she’ll have to tolerate the other.

Nicky’s not ill-placed dramatics of the night previous are absent now and while he’s happy to be home, he doesn’t question why he had to stay at Stephanie’s house. He does ask where his mother is.

Stephanie grits her teeth while Sean tells him to wait in his room and he’ll talk to him soon.

“What did the detective say?” she asks once he’s upstairs. She refuses to ask how Sean’s holding up. It’s clear the answer is, “not well,” but she doesn’t need to be a source of sympathy for him.

“They’re investigating it as a burglary gone wrong. They think whoever did this didn’t expect someone to be home in the middle of the day and panicked.”

“That’s terrible,” she says with fake shock. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Sean doesn’t seem convinced by that but he doesn’t explicitly disagree. “The police are interviewing everyone she has—had contact with. Don’t be surprised if they reach out to you.”

“No, of course. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

~ ~

The funeral is a stark reminder of Emily’s aversion to casual human connection. Stephanie recognizes Emily’s boss, Dennis Nylon, from his advertisements attending with a smattering of similar high-fashion types she assumes to be Emily’s coworkers. To equal levels of astonishment and irritation, Darren, Sona, and Stacy are there with their children as though they gave two shits about Emily beyond either wanting to be her friend so they could tap into her A-list resources or to criticize her lack of helicopter parenting.

No one resembles someone who could be Emily’s mother and that makes Stephanie’s heart hurt. It’s a useful thought to get some tears flowing when she catches Stacy watching her with something akin to suspicion. She doesn’t want to be stoic but to be an emotional wreck would be just as question-inducing.

A thought, a tiny hint of guilt flits through her mind that someone’s daughter is being buried right now and the girl’s mother has no idea.

She blinks it away and holds Miles a little closer.

~ ~

She single-handedly organizes the wake; Sean is useless and his mother wasn’t able to come, still recovering from hip replacement surgery, so Stephanie has to do it.

It seems the town’s gossip committee is feeling their own type of guilt for the way they treated Emily and even Stephanie, and she’s forced to grin and bear the brunt of their attempts to rid themselves of such regrets.

“You’re a real saint to help her family out like this,” Darren says sheepishly after having the gall to use one of her own recipes and compliment her vlog after teasing her for so long.

She tries not to flinch; it’s the second time she’s been referred to as such since she took someone’s life and it doesn’t sit well with her. “I’m not a saint. I—Emily’s my friend. She’d do the same for me.”

~ ~

Nicky refuses to speak to her when she puts him to bed once everyone’s gone home. She doesn’t blame him; death is confusing and upsetting and she can’t imagine having to deal with it at such a young age. She wishes she could tell him it was all a trick, that his mom is waiting for him and he’ll see her again soon.

She contemplates it briefly but it will only stir more confusion in him and it should be Emily who discusses with him why this happened, not her.

She also can’t trust such a little boy to keep that type of thing a secret from his father.

Instead, she simply says, “I know your mother loves you very much.”

~ ~

Another week passes before a detective knocks on her door.

He’s loud and cocky and borderline condescending when he asks her, “Just how close are you to Sean Townsend?”

The question is out of left field and she blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Some of the folks around here mentioned you’ve been spending quite a bit of time at his house.”

“Detective Summerville,” she says as her back straightens and she regrets her nicety of offering him tea, “what are you implying?”

He laughs loudly and holds up his hands as if surrendering. Or in defense. “I’m not implying anything. I was repeating an observation made by others.”

Stephanie finds it convenient that neighbors would only now take notice of her spending time at the house. She’s there far less often than she ever was when “Emily” was alive but now that she’s dead, they begin to gossip that Stephanie’s already swooped in on her grieving widower?

She’s offended, not for that but for the lack of gossip that she spent countless afternoons with Emily while Sean wasn’t home. Why? Because it was two women spending time together?

“I don’t appreciate their implications,” she says defiantly. “If I’m at Sean’s house it’s because I’m helping with his son, who is best friends with my own son. We’re not engaged in some torrid love affair. If that’s what you’re after, you should be taking a closer look at who Sean spends his time with.”

At least the offensive question set up her first breadcrumb perfectly.

It gets his attention and his cockiness shifts to genuine interest. “Is there something in Sean’s life we should be looking at?”

“Try someone.” She says it and then feigns regret as though she shouldn’t have said anything.

The detective pulls a tiny notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and flips it open while clicking a pen. “Do you have a name?”

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself. “I only know what Emily told me.”

“And what is that?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s probably nothing.” She knows he won’t let it go.

“Miss Smothers, we have reason to believe Emily’s homicide wasn’t a burglary gone awry.”

“Why? What did you find?” She knows they found nothing; nothing, that is, but a poorly staged crime scene.

“I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you that any information you have may be helpful.”

She takes a breath and nods. “Emily told me a few weeks ago that she was going to ask Sean for a divorce.”

That information is definitely new to the detective and he almost quivers with excitement in its revelation. “Did she say why she wanted a divorce?”

“He was—or is, I don’t know—having an affair with his T.A. at the university where he teaches. She was scared, and I’d never seen her scared a day in my life. But she was scared when she told me that. Like she was scared of what he might do if she tried to leave him.”

“And you didn’t think to alert the authorities?”

She sets her jaw firm at the return of his condescension. “I didn’t think he would actually…” She trails off to let Mr. Man-in-Charge reach the conclusion on his own; she’s planted the seed for what might have happened and unless he connects the dots himself, he won’t place enough importance on the theory.

“And are you aware he took out a four million dollar life insurance policy on Emily less than a year ago?”

She hesitates for dramatic effect, then nods. She has to be partially honest now.

“What’s interesting to me, though, is that last month, Emily made you the sole beneficiary. I guess you really were her best friend.”

She nods again. “I told you: she was scared. She was afraid of Sean, of what he might do. She didn’t want her son to suffer if something happened to her.”

“You talked about the possibility of Sean killing her?”

“Not in so many words, no.” She rubs the back of her neck. Her nerves are real now; she can’t misstep. One chink in the armor is all it will take. “She said she wanted a safety net. Just in case. It’s why we started guardianship paperwork, too.”

“Emily was going to make you the guardian of their child?”

“Like I said: it was all a safety net. A back-up plan in case...well...in case.” She shrugs at the obvious.

“I see. Well, I guess this means you’re getting four million dollars once we finish our investigation into Ms. Nelson’s death. Assuming you had nothing to do with it, of course,” he adds with an unnerving smile.

She ignores his bait. “Does Sean know about me being the beneficiary?”

“Not as far as I know; he hasn’t tried to file a claim or contacted them at all according to the agent. With a payout of this size and with the circumstances, you can expect them to open their own investigation.”

“No, of course,” she says, nodding in understanding. “Do you think I should wait to file for any reason? I don’t want to interfere with your investigation.”

He scribbles in his notebook as he shakes his head, then clicks his pen and puts them both back into his pocket. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time, Miss Smothers. We’ll be in touch. If you think of anything else that might be of interest, give me a call.” He hands her a business card and shows himself out of her home.

When the door closes she breathes a sigh of relief and sinks onto the couch to hug a throw pillow to her chest wishing it was Emily.

~ ~

Sean finds out about the life insurance policy when Stephanie has to ask for a copy of Emily’s death certificate. She’d tried to avoid going through him but no one would provide her the required documentation because she wasn’t Emily’s next of kin.

“Why would she do that?” He looks almost as broken as he did after Emily’s death. It was clear he had yet to even think about collecting on her death which was, Stephanie supposed, admirable. “That was so I could support Nicky if anything ever happened.”

And that’s exactly what it will be used for. “I don’t know, Sean.” She can’t tell him the reason she told the detective; it’s not yet time for him to know. “But I promise, I’ll help with Nicky in any way I can.”

He agrees to put in the request for the needed paperwork regardless of his confusion and Stephanie offers to make dinner for him.

It’s the least she can do, given the circumstances. It’s the least she can do as she slowly takes everything that ever mattered to this poor man.

~ ~

He learns a week later that Emily’s put into her will that should anything happen to Sean, custody of Nicky is to be granted to one Stephanie Smothers.

He shows up on Stephanie’s doorstep irate, pounding on her front door demanding to know what he did to deserve this.

She calms him down with chamomile tea and reassurances that Emily’s decision was only in Nicky’s best interest and Sean has nothing to worry about. That the guardianship will only be enacted should something happen to him as well and surely, nothing will change.

~ ~

Sean is arrested three weeks later.

According to the news, he is a possessive husband who was engaging in a torrid affair with a college student. He snapped when his successful wife found out and tried to divorce him. He’d strangled her with a rope (the police had found a rope just like it in his gardening shed) in a fit of rage, then staged the house to make it look like someone had broken in to burglarize the home. Much of her jewelry appeared to be missing and the police uncovered one piece, a diamond and ruby necklace, at a pawn shop just a few miles from Warfield.

The shop’s security cameras weren’t recording at the time and no one remembers who sold them the necklace. It’s the only piece of missing jewelry that will ever be found. The rest, Stephanie knows, will be disassembled and sold separately as gemstones and precious metals over time to shops outside the United States.

She rushes to the police station as soon as the breaking news report about his arrest ends. No one has contacted her, but then again, no one would know to do so.

She arrives prepared, a certified copy of Emily’s Last Will and Testament and partially signed guardianship papers in hand should they be necessary.

There’s press everywhere, local news trucks and reporters from New York City are parked outside the station. They pay her no mind and she speaks to the officer at the front desk about the situation and her concern for Nicky Townsend’s well-being, and do they know where he is and if he’s okay?

Her concern is genuine; she doesn’t know how long Sean’s been in jail. She doesn’t know where Nicky is or if he understands what’s happening. He’s surely scared and upset; his life has been in turmoil for weeks since his mother died and now this.

She’s given the name and phone number of a Child Protective Services counselor and several more phone calls are required once she arrives at their office. Calls to lawyers, to law enforcement, to agency directors until she’s signing paperwork stating who she is and where she lives to allow Nicky to be released into her temporary custody.

It’s clear he’s upset: he won’t even speak to Miles on the car ride to her house. She knows he knows what’s happened; the counselor took care of educating him on where his father is, but (of course) not the specifics of why he is there.

She lets the boys have whatever they want for dinner and stay up as late as they want. They build a fort in the living room and the three of them fall asleep there together.

~ ~

The trial is arduous. Stephanie watches much of it play out in the news headlines. The jury selection. The recap of the arguments that were made each day. The evidence that was presented. She lives with constant, haunting worry that something will go wrong. That she and Emily made an error along the way. That one day the police will knock on her door with an arrest warrant for the murder of Faith McLanden.

More weeks pass.

She’s called to testify by the state’s prosecution.

“Can you describe your relationship to the victim?”

“Emily Nelson and I were best friends. Our sons are in the same class at Warfield Elementary.”

“Can you please share with the court what you told Detective Summerville on April 26, 2018 with regard to Sean Townsend’s personal relationships?”

Stephanie recounts what she’d told the detective about Emily confiding in her about Sean’s affair, her desire for a divorce, and her fear of the consequences. She’s asked to share the details of becoming the beneficiary of Emily’s life insurance, the guardianship paperwork they’d started, and the temporary custody of Nicky she’s been granted.

Sean’s defense attorney grills her about the details of her relationship with Emily. Why she trusted her so much as to give her millions of dollars. To trust her with her son. He stops short of saying the words, but she knows the implication he’s making. He wants the jury to think there’s more to the story. That Sean wasn’t the only unfaithful spouse.

All he needs to do is put enough doubt in the jurors’ minds to get them to return that Not Guilty verdict.

He doesn’t.

Stephanie watches the sentencing coverage on the news, heart in her throat and tears on her cheeks while she packs.

Sean Townsend will spend forty years in Bridgeport Correctional Center for the murder of Emily Nelson.

Stephanie Smothers is granted sole custody of Nicky Townsend in accordance with Emily’s will.

Stephanie and Miles Smothers and Nicky Townsend are reported missing by a concerned citizen on July 19, 2018.

~ ~

(Chapter 16)

#a simple favor #stephanie smothers #emily nelson #asf fic #murder moms #fanfic #HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!!

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blodreina-noumou · 5 years

Text

The Salt, 6x03

Okay, we all knew this was coming.

How and why does Bellamy suddenly trust Clarke so much that he’s willing to say “she is” to the question of whether or not she’s their leader?? (Oh man I just realized that shippers must’ve gone nuts for that 5x03 callback.) She left him to die like a week ago!! They have had exactly zero conversations about anything important in their histories, and no, the fucking radio calls do not count. It just feels so fan-servicey and wrong. I don’t know if the new writers missed all of last season or only got a synopsis of what each character has done, but a lot of people are regressing and Bellamy is getting the worst of it. I now completely see what Bob Morley meant when he responded to a fan’s question about what s6 Bellamy would say to s1 Bellamy with, “They’re not that different.”

It feels like s5 basically didn’t happen for them. Everyone else is still rightfully seething at Clarke, questioning her leadership abilities (Raven you’re doing amazing sweetie), and Bellamy’s just blindly trusting her again. They keep sharing these tender, quiet moments that, without shipper goggles, just feel unearned.

I’m worried unearned emotional moments are going to be a theme this season. We are diving headfirst into the dynamics and problems that come with Sanctum as a society and Alpha as a world. The reasonable gap for actual, meaningful conversations about these things is narrowing faster and faster. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else, but I am disappointed.

On some level, I can see the writers’ attempts to make this feel genuine. All of the emphasis on “a second chance” and “a new world” is supposed to make us feel like the slate has been wiped clean. But only for Clarke, and only in Bellamy’s eyes? It’s just weird that everyone else is demanding she give better apologies, is demanding she do “good works” to redeem herself, and Bellamy suddenly understands everything because Madi told him about some radio calls, and Marper woke them up first, and yadda yadda yadda. Even Echo’s defenses of Clarke have been more practical than anything else, in line with how she tends to defend Octavia. Murphy and Raven are the only ones having reasonable reactions to things, and Murphy is now going to be distracted with trying to drink away his existential crisis. Emori has gotten 5 minutes of screentime, and while the spectacle of her breakdown was fun, it was so devoid of any complexity towards anyone but Murphy.

I’m not fooling myself, I know the B/C dynamic is the major focus of the show. But since that’s the case, I want their relationship to feel fleshed-out and fully conveyed to the audience. Bob and Eliza do some amazing work, and they have great chemistry, and thank god for that, because they’ve carried every single B/C scene alone since like, s3, on the workhorse that is their acting abilities. The writers have not helped them in the slightest. If I’d been given these scripts, I would’ve been confused as fuck.

I know it’s television, it’s a bombastic post-apoc teen drama on a network known for its cheesy teen drama. There have just been enough bright spots in The 100′s narrative overall that I expect a little better from them.

My main issue with this whole narrative is that if B and C are endgame, but if they’re not going to start forcefully moving that potential plotline forward, they are wasting everyone’s time by not actually addressing the issues between them, on-screen. And it is clear that there are still issues! Psychosis or not, Bellamy was speaking the truth when he asked Clarke how many times he’d tried to kill her, when he told Clarke he didn’t need her anymore. But everyone’s just kinda goin’ “Wow what a crazy day lol” and moving on.

I’m intrigued by Murphy’s arc, his new belief in an afterlife - specifically one where he’s doomed to an eternity of torture. I’m also anxious about how it’s going to pan out, because The 100 has rarely treated religion with any level of dignity, grace, or reverence. Even the Faith of the Flame has been stripped down to a science-fiction explanation, so far removed from the original spiritual grounder belief of “reincarnation” that everyone pretty much just accepts that Madi is walking around with a computer program in her brainstem. And yes, this show plays with the whole idea that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” but I think we can all agree that the way The Flame works is a Little Much. Even I know that, and I am a sucker for that storyline. Just knowing how it plays out makes me concerned about where this Sanctum stuff is going, and the Children of Gabriel, and how “two opposing cults” it all is.

There are a lot of things about this season I’m enjoying. Unfortunately, too many of our main characters and their arcs don’t make that list. I’m going to do my best to distract myself with the strangeness and wonder of Sanctum and Alpha moving forward, and try to lower my expectations in terms of what this show will actually do in terms of meaningful, character-driven conversations that exist to do more than just further the plot. This season has been an exposition overload, and on some level, it feels like they’re trying to distract from how quickly s5 was tied up, and how so much was left unaddressed.

I don’t think I hated it as much as a lot of people did. But I was definitely disappointed, and I’ll be relying a lot on a good plot to keep me interested, since the character moments have been so lacking, and so frustrating. Given how haphazard the plots have been the past few seasons, I’ve got low expectations. They have planted quite a few seeds for an interesting conflict, one with two distinct sides and a host of main characters who all have different motivations around which side will be best. Obviously I think the Children of Gabriel are basically the grounders in s1 again - they seem really scary now, but they’ll be friends later. And while Sanctum is beautiful, there’s a lot of potential pitfalls there. I’m absolutely expecting Sanctum folk to end up as “the bad guys” and the CoG to end up as “the good guys”.

Spill your salt, my friends. Tell me what bothered you. Air your grievances. Even if I don’t agree, I always love seeing what other people think.

#antibellarke #anticlarke #anticlarkegriffin #stephspeaks #the 100 meta #the 100 spoilers #s6 #6x03 #long post #wrong show bro wrong show #negative tw

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uberhero-chorus · 6 years

Note

Cruelty @ modern Myamsar

This Ask is Old But I’m Ready Now

Trigger warning for abuse and discriminatory undertones

Hospitals. At first, Myamsar was neutral on them. The occasional shot or check up didn’t bother him, and nothing tragic occurred while he was in them. That began to change after the Yottapon Incident.

He was in a lot of pain, for one. He had plenty of bruises and abrasions from the beatdown and previous abuse. He didn’t feel it at the time, but Yotta managed to break his ankle in a few places, which restricted him to crutches while walking around.

He also found it was quite lonely there. Wooyari was able to visit him the most, but she still had to go to school and then back to her own foster home when it got dark. The nurses where nice and attentive, and good for the occasional small talk. However, Myamsar could not seem to make interesting conversations with them. Besides, he didn’t want to hold them up from doing other things.

His Doctor was someone Myamsar was not keen on seeing too much. Dr. Boonepon was notorious amid other Uberheroes as being a bit on the creepy side, while any complaints regarding him were swept under the rug. The cat was not willing to let his doctor get too comfortable around him, and only answered his reasonable questions.

He was usually left very bored throughout the day, which was occasionally broken up with a friend or lawyer visiting. It ate at him, it made Myamsar feel lonely during his stay. He was dying for a bit of companionship. He was in pain, and no one could warmly say he would be okay. More than anything, Myamsar wanted a good, proper adult to lean on.

And then it happened, at first.

Late afternoon in the pediatric wing of Mater Park Hospital. He was writing his frustrations in a notebook when a slight commotion began stirring. A woman came in, crying babypon in tow, and worriedly told them her child had a fever that wasn’t getting any better. Doctors were summoned, tears were shed as a worried mother was told of what had overcome her baby, and they were put into a room for observation one treatment later. It was the room directly next to Myamsar’s.

He heard the beginning of a trembly phone call from the mother as the virtually soundproof door was shut.

Later in the night, it was reopened, propped open with a doorstop. As he usually did, Myamsar was up late at night, mindlessly scrolling through social media. At heart, he was a nocturnal creature. Bedtime was a hard thing to come by when he had no adult supervision. It was fun at first, until it got boring...

The baby next door suddenly woke up, and began to cry. He didn’t mind this too much, he wasn’t sleeping anyways.

Then, the tired mother got up, and began to sing lullabies.

This caught Myamsar’s interest immediately. Those were actually a thing, lullabies? Parent actually did that, didn’t they? He sat up in his bed, setting aside the phone. His own door was buffering out most of the song... He had to hear it clearer.

Shoving his covers aside, the Uber grabbed his crutches and slid off of the bed, glad that he was at last off of the nutrient drip he had been placed on initially and was free to roam around without it. Myamsar opened the door as carefully as one on crutches could. Taking a hint from his neighbor, he located a doorstop and managed to wedge it in, preventing the thing from slamming shut.

As quietly as possible, Myamsar hobbled over to one of the open couches and settles down. Relief washed over him as he figured that the lady was unaware he was there and continued to sing. After the baby fell asleep, she stopped. He intended to go back to his bed, but he was too comfortable...

“...Sar.. Myamsar!”

The teen jumps awake to see a few nurses surrounding him, two regular Patapons and a Dekamen. The door to the lady’s room was closed, while his was ajar, doorstop still doing its job. Now he began to grow embarrassed as the women began firing off questions as to why he was not in bed.

“I... I sleepwalk.” He sheepishly replied. He really did, but the way he sounded made it sound like a lie.

“Yeah, well.” The Dekamen gently lifted him in her arms with no warning. “It’s back to bed with you. It’s 5 am.”

“Wh- Hey! I’m not six I’m sixteen!” He protested, though it was little use. The nurse had him back under the covers in no time, while one of the orderlies came trailing after with the crutches.

“Goodnight Myamsar.” She muttered before moving the doorstop and closing the door. “Man, I wish I could sleep as comfortably as him.”

Despite that one misstep, he still came out every time the mother next door sang to her crying baby. It happened a lot, actually. Poor thing was probably in agony. However, Myamsar was always drawn out by the singing. He sat at the same couch and listened until it was over, and then quickly made his way back to bed, no problem. No one seemed to care, he wasn’t bothering anyone by doing it. Right?

He heard the singing again one night after a particularly hard day. Earlier, Myamsar had to go to court and testify against Yottapon, who incessantly spouted lies about him and Strelloton, the other foster child at that house. It was hard to sit through, so the singing was very much welcome that night, even though he didn’t notice the baby crying at all.

He set aside the crutches as he usually did, curling up on the couch and ready to listen. Soon after he settled down, the song stopped. That was when he noticed that the baby wasn’t even crying, and he had been found out.

“Hello there.” She said from just outside her door. “You’re the little guy who enjoys my lullabies, huh?”

She couldn’t see him from where he sat. There was a wall in the middle of the lobby, which the couches were pushed up against. Feeling a bit shy and very flustered, Myamsar did not say a ward, as if she would just forget about him.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to come out, I figured you might have been a bit timid.” She said sweetly. “I just wanted to let you know that my baby and I are being discharged soon, so...”

“...Oh.” Myamsar finally spoke up, a sharp pang hitting his chest. He was glad the baby was getting better, but he would miss the singing very much. “That’s good, right? Your baby is doing well again?”

“Yes, he is!” She seemed happy to get a response out of him. “My, you sound a bit older than I thought you were! How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” He said quickly. “Still a minor, so...”

“Aw, getting independent, huh?” She chimed. “Is that why your folks aren’t here?”

Ouch, that stung. But it was alright, she didn’t know. “They... Aren’t here. With me. You know, in that kind of way...? I haven’t seen them since I was ten.”

“Oh! I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have assumed.” The lady apologized. “That must hurt you a lot...”

The woman was getting curious. She took a few steps closer to the couches. “Say... It’s alright, buddy. You can come out into the open. I don’t bite, I promise.”

If their conversation was any indication of their possible relationship, Myamsar was more than willing to trust her and go out into the open. She knows he exists, so there was no point in hiding it. Besides, what if he had just made a new friend? An adult friend he could look up to and learn from?

Forgetting himself, Myamsar stood up, disregarding the crutches in favor of limping, peeking out before putting himself out into the open. He stared at the floor, though he caught a glance of the woman before him- a Megapon, and a tall one at that. Or maybe he was just not done growing yet.

“Um... You see.” He began to explain as he heard her come closer. “I was kind of being.. Mistreated-”

The Uberhero did not get to finish his thought, however, as a harsh slap came over his face. It smacked his mask clean across the floor, and sent Myamsar tumbling to the ground.

Stunned, he held the affected area and slowly gazed up at the woman he thought could have been a friend. Her eye only held hatred for the kid she just smacked down.

“You deserved it!” She hissed at him. “You deserved to get mistreated and beat up, you sorry stinking excuse for a Patapon!” Alerted, night shift nurses and doctors seized the woman before she could lay her hands on him any more. “It’s because of your type my husband lost his job! That’s why he drinks all day instead of being here! Your kind caused this, you miserable little-”

“Ma’am!” The Dekamen nurse from a week earlier yelled as she wrangled the lady to her room. The last words he heard from her were “I want a different room right now. I don’t want to be next to an Uberhe-”

As it happened, Myamsar sat powerless on the floor, instinctively holding his arms over his face in protection. When things had quieted down a bit more, he began to unfurl.

“Some people just aren’t ready for your kind, my boy.”

Hearing Dr. Boone’s accented voice from behind, he went right back to curling up defensively. Not having any of it, the doctor ignored him and went to the dropped mask, lifting it in his arms.

“People learn to hate for the most insignificant things, don’t they?” He mused. “Rarepon type, Tribe, Country of origin, accent, age, gender, sexuality... Shape. You can’t control these things, but they hate you for it anyways. That’s a sad fact of life, Myamsar.” He studied the mask a bit. He wasn’t sure if the doctor was genuinely trying to help or if he just couldn’t pass up the chance for a better look at the mask. “The sooner you learn to get over that fact of life, it’ll start hurting less.”

The Dekamen nurse finally tumbled out of the room as orderlies quickly moved the woman and her babypon out of their other room and to an empty one. Still coiled up, Myamsar did not see any rude gestures or venomous glares she might have thrown at him before her new door shut behind her.

The doctor sighed, and motioned the nurse over. “Put this one back into bed. Remind me to inspect his ankle later, I want to check for any extra damage the fall might have caused.”

As this particular nurse usually did, Myamsar found himself being scooped up and put back into bed, covers drawn. “Get some sleep kid, please.” The nurse whispered. “Just... Try to forget about her, okay?”

He was still maskless as the door closed, but he didn’t care at that moment. Still a bit shocked, Myamsar steadily rolled over in bed, pressing his face against the pillow.

“... ... So what? People are just going to hate me, and I can’t do anything about it?” The events of a few minutes ago began to hit him, and tears finally fell. “That’s so... That’s stupid! That’s so, so stupid a-and unfair! It’s... Stupid, and unfair...”

“I don’t wanna trust adults anymore.” Myamsar confided in Wooyari the next day. “They hate people over the dumbest things. It’s idiotic, and I don’t wanna be near adults who think like that anymore. But I don’t know who does and doesn’t think that way... So I can’t trust them anymore.”

#Anonymous #Asks;#Drabbles;#TW: Abuse #TW: Racism #V; Uberhero High #🐈Myamsar🐈#((AH; OW #((I apologize for the tears

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