#i was using the pride theme :( and i still am but on my dash its dark blue!!

[xxstarl1ghtxx]

WHY IS TUMBLR BLUE

i need my garish pink back tumblr please fix this

[fromiftowhen]

The Rookie 3x06 Revelations Thoughts

THIS. EPISODE. I yelled a lot about it on Twitter already, but it was getting a bit much, so this is easier. I need to watch again for more coherent thoughts, but here we go. I'm going to try to go through the plot lines in the order that I cared about them, ranging from literally not at all (Nolan) to literally every fiber of my soul being on fire (Harper and Lucy and June.)

This got VERY long, so it’s behind a cut to save your dash. 

(TLDR? I LOVED this episode. My Chenford heart is happy, but my LUCY CHEN IS A BADASS, NYLA HARPER IS A BADASS, WOMEN RUN THE WHOLE DAMN WORLD HEART IS SOARING. SOARING. Read on for more.)

 First, to get the boring stuff out of the way. NOLAN. I AM SORRY. I get that this show wants me to care about its main character. And in the ways that he relates to Lucy and Jackson and Harper, I do. But I'm just entirely past the point of needing Nolan in separate plot lines. This episode, in particular, I could have done without his arc. Any time he interacts with Harper or Tim, I'm good. But that's because of Harper and Tim. This week he took time away from storylines I was MUCH more interested in, and I honestly didn't care. I know they use him to check in on current actual world events, but this show did that SO well with Jackson's story last week/etc. that this stuff with Nolan wasn't necessary this week.

 JACKSON AND HIS NEW LOVE INTEREST. As soon as they panned up to OFFICER ISAAC "A cop on a horse, yeah" YOUNG, I was like OH HELL, this is ON. I forgot about Sterling and then was like, "wait, he has a boyf.... wait, I DO NOT CARE" -- "You must've been looking in the wrong direction"/"Yeah, well, I am not now." And the scene at the end with the bikes! YES. Here for this. They IMMEDIATELY had more chemistry than Jackson and Sterling ever did, sorry. I hope he sticks around. Jackson finally getting a love interest who will (hopefully, presumably!) understand him as a cop and a person of color? NEED. IT.

 TIM BRADFORD AND BILLY RIGGINS MACK DANIELS. "YOU GET PRETTIER WITH AGE." (I am here for ALL references to this show understanding how beautiful Eric Winter is. ALL. OF. THEM.) Derek Phillips is a longstanding love of mine, and he just plays every minor role he's in so well. This storyline was heartbreaking and gave me SO many Tim (and Isabel!) feels. For some reason, even though I thought about this episode a million times over the last week, it NEVER occurred to me to think about Tim's reaction to the UC stuff as an extension of the Isabel storyline, which just... what in the world, self. That is clearly, if you've read my fic, one of my favorite of MANY aspects of Tim's character, and it just never occurred to me that it would play into this episode. So when he said Isabel's name, I had to compose myself. And how it played out, the multi-layered way it gave us a glimpse into Tim now and tied into his clear feelings about Lucy going UC, THIS is what this show does best. 

 When he administered the Narcan to Mack and did CPR, god, I HURT for him (and for Mack and his family) -- but TIM. He's been there. He's watched it tear his entire world apart, and the guilt he clearly still carries from that is just. Heart-wrenching. The scene at the end with Mack's wife and the scene with Sgt. Grey... so painfully good. The guilt. The honesty. Eric Winter is just knocking it 1000% out of the park every week this season. Honestly, I've loved many television characters with my whole heart, but maybe none more than I do Tim Bradford.

(Please know the restraint I’m showing by not writing one million words about Tim’s solo storyline and the Chenford of it all here. Trust me when I say I could have. But this episode ended up being SO MUCH MORE to me than what I thought it would be. I went in for WORRIED TIM and I got that! But in different ways than I thought, and SO MUCH BETTER.)

 TIM "GET CHANGED" BRADFORD PUT LUCY "YES, SIR" CHEN IN HANDCUFFS. WHILE ASKING IF SHE WAS OKAY. AND THEN HE TOLD HER SHE DID GOOD. "I kind of hoped that he would be proud of me... wow, that sounds stupid when I say it out loud." "I know she can. I trained her." Her little smile as he closed the shop door and the way he sort of hesitated before saying anything. It wasn't as much as I wanted it to be (but then again, will anything with these two EVER BE genuinely enough for me? Signs point to no), but it was still EVERYTHING.

 BE SCARED. BE WILD. BE UNPREDICTABLE. There are no words for how much the girl power part of this episode worked for me. From Tamara or asking Lucy for the interview to Lucy sneaking a peek in on Harper's presentation, the clear history that Harper and June have (which I want to know EVERYTHING about), to the end scene, which is one of my favorite things this show has EVER done.

 It ALL worked. I can't adequately express how much this Lucy storyline means to me. I could ramble for a thousand words about it, but to keep it somewhat coherent, I'm going to bullet point all of the moments that gave me every feeling. 

Harper’s look when she realized Lucy was listening. She wasn’t shocked at all. That was pride. 

June’s little glance at Harper as she told Lucy that if she wasn’t nervous, she wasn’t human. There are so many sides to Nyla Harper, and I think the soft,  caring side is one she hasn’t let everyone see. She shows it to Lucy (and Nolan) when needed, but I don’t know if June had seen it before that moment. And it was a lovely moment of all of them acknowledging in a safe way that what they do, what they were about to do, is dangerous, and nerves are natural, even if you’re badass and can push through them. 

“Nope. I just have a flair for the dramatic.” MY GIRL.

Harper’s WINK. I yell a LOT about how much I love Tim Bradford, but I could just as easily yell about Nyla Harper too. 

“Actually, my body does have magical powers, but.” YASSS, Harper. Queen. 

“I think fitting in is a trap.” This one sentence explains SO MUCH of who Lucy Chen is as a person, not just as a cop. “... as though empathy is somehow a liability.” 

“And there sure as hell isn’t anyone tougher.” Basically, every word of that last scene was pitch-perfect, Melissa’s delivery was flawless, and it gave me every feeling possible. 

 This show does a LOT of things right. This episode was so, so strong. I missed Lopez and Wesley because I love them, but I didn’t MISS them in terms of the storylines we got. A storyline for them would have been one too many for this week, and in a season that’s already felt overpacked, random storyline wise, it wasn’t needed. I would have loved to see Angela on the couch with everyone at the end, but it was perfect as it was. 

 I sincerely hope this show has started to realize what its strengths are --  bold, badass women (honestly, they’re ALL fantastic - Luna Grey, Isabel, Rosalind, Julie, Tamara -- and obviously all of the regulars) who CARE and who know that isn’t a weakness, Tim Bradford and his mile-long guilt complex and his relationship with all the other officers (especially Lucy and Harper, and now Jackson), Jackson’s ability to fit into whatever role they put him in (Titus is SO good), and multi-layered episodes like this. We don’t need wild, dramatic bombs or random meth lab explosions that don’t fit into an episode’s overall theme. We don’t need hours devoted to telling us that Nolan is the Good Guy. We just do not. This show has come so much further than that, and I know it can continue to be JUST as good if it focuses on everything it already does so, so well. 

[writefightandflightclub]

Two steps back: chapter 4 (Poe Dameron x reader)

Chapter summary: (LEAVE:TWO) Poe is now a Captain in the Resistance and he’s finding his stride - that is, until he has a brush with death. After his life flashes before his eyes, he realises he needs his best friend by his side. Somehow, somewhere, across the galaxy, you are coming to the same conclusion.

Series masterlist here

Rating: TEEN Word count: 5.5kish OOPS GIF: @irebelcaptain​

Author’s note: please know that the last scene was SO sad in my head that I wept, and I’m sorry if I have failed to convey it well enough to get you in the feels too. I hope you like this instalment. Stick around, there’s a lot more to come for these two.

Song: I have a whole angsty / cheesy playlist for these two and Grow as We Go fits this series so closely that I strongly advise a listen - if you’d like some angst on the side of your angst.

Warnings: character death / death mentions, wounds (not super graphic descriptions but mentions of blood, shrapnel, coughing), ANGST. Kissing. Canon-typical mentions of war, strong themes of homesickness.

Poe was leaving you behind.

There was a sky fringed with red as he lay on his back, the warm, damp soil under his fingers reminding him of home. He was grateful for that. Home is indistinguishable from you.

His fingers clawed more deeply into the earth as he cried out, marring his fingernails, pulling up grass and grit, his hands digging as if searching for the roots of himself.

Poe was leaving you behind, all over again. But this time, as he prepared to leave, the sky was darkening and shrinking above him, frayed hems of red bleeding more deeply into his vision. 

So long. So long looking up, ahead, beyond, and in that moment, he simply wished he could look over to his side and see you there. Whyever had he been so keen to fly deep into the maw of space and have its dark expanse swallow him? Why had he wanted to see anything of the universe, beyond where your arms could reach him?

Poe brought his hands to grasp at his stomach, soil mingling with the flowers of red blooming over his torso, a garden of shrapnel buried in him; thorns amongst the pooling red roses.

His chest heaved. A cough rattled like his lungs were full of stones.

He knew. He knew what was coming. A boy who once reached for the stars held hands with a man ending on the ground.

So this is what it feels like to die? So this is what it feels like to die alone?

Perhaps, in these precious moments, Poe should have been thinking of whether he did enough. Enough good. Enough to make his parents proud. Enough to make the sacrifices worth it. Enough that Leia wouldn’t feel he let her down, after she took a chance on his dumb ass.

Perhaps, Poe should have been thinking about whether he would see his mother again soon, as his reddened fingers wound around the ring he wears on his neck, seeking comfort from the familiar, cool band of metal which he used to twist on her finger when he was a boy.

Still, all he could think of was you. That it had been years. Years since you had both laid on your backs in the grass and grazed fingertips, hands and hearts inching closer. Years since you had generously masked the fear in your eyes, for his sake - your fear that the sky he craved so desperately would swallow him and he’d never return.

It had been years now since Poe had seen you, held you, known you, and yet... in these red-tinged moments it was thoughts of you which jarred most in his mind; violence within violence.

Violence, yes, because you didn’t appear to him as an angel- as a soothing balm. As a comfort.

You appeared to him like a spectre. A terror. A panic-rousing lament signalling that it was too late. That he had messed up, because he was too far from you, at his end, even though the only beginning he remembered was hand in hand with you. He was too far away to come back. Out of time to return. Out of breath to tell you…

They say your whole life flashes before your eyes, don’t they?

You are his whole life, then; and yet…

He is filled with dread because he is leaving you, and he never meant to leave you twice.

Once was more than enough for a lifetime.

He looks up, and the sky blazes red, but the earth beneath his clawing fingers reminds him of home. Indistinguishable from you.

****

Poe looks uncharacteristically brooding as he cradles his drink in a dark corner of the Resistance bar, his leather jacket – the first of many to come, perhaps - tugged tightly around himself like a protective barrier. His brow is heavy, his youthful, unlined face learning a new weight. The burdens of war have already begun to school his features; to carve out future furrows.

He rasps a hand over the dark stubble sprouting along the sharp line of his jaw. Typically clean-shaven, Poe finds the texture is a comfort. If he’s honest, he likes the way it makes him look too - and by all accounts so do a fair few others on base. Since he grew it in, he has heard fewer descriptors like “boyish” and “baby-faced”, and more like “handsome”.

Youth is wasted on the young.

Still, his new image, combined with his exploits as an X-Wing pilot, have certainly generated Poe a certain level of… attention. And, certainly, the dashing pilot is learning to better handle the attention he gets - even how to attract and cultivate it, when his Resistance schedule allows it.

Tonight, however, he is not in the mood for any kind of attention, and so he sighs deeply and averts his gaze as Harli enters the bar.

Bracing himself as she sashays over to him, Poe takes a rousing sip of fire whiskey, the spirit burning down his throat and making him cough, fracturing his well-crafted display of sullenness and suave.

Perhaps he is still learning some finesse, then?

Or, perhaps the boozy nights he shared with you on Yavin didn’t develop much of a tolerance in him. Since then, he hasn’t often indulged - he has usually needed to stay sharp in case he has been required to jump in an A-Wing or X-Wing at short notice. This time, though, there is nothing to preclude him from a tipple, since he has once again been grounded for reckless behaviour. No change there, then? Aside from the fact that, this time, his behaviour really had almost killed him.

“Kriff, you’re choking!” Harli sing-songs from behind him in her sweetened voice, patting and rubbing circles into Poe’s back as he chokes. “Are you okay, Captain?”

Poe can’t help it- he still feels a swell of pride every time he hears his newly bestowed rank, especially when delivered in Harli’s honeyed, laudatory tones. He feels it even though Leia had threatened to strip him of his title after the last mission. Still, she had opted not to be that cruel to her fallen pilot. Perhaps she thought he had been taken down a sufficient number of notches already, considering he languished in the med bay, broken and bruised in both body and spirit.

Poe looks at Harli impassably as she slides herself delicately into the bar stool next to him, eyes sweeping over Poe with gentle concern as he presses his palm to his stomach, checking that all of his insides are where they should be after his coughing fit – a nasty habit you form when you almost die, turns out. 

He mulls over Harli’s question with more soberness than she had delivered it. He is okay, isn’t he?

Isn’t he?

If so, why can’t he shake that red sky? Why can’t he shake thoughts of you? Ever since that fateful day he has been saddled with a deep-seated sadness, as if all of the incremental, unconscious grieving he has done for you over the years is risen to the surface. As if it had been you that was lost that day. Lost to him. 

Perhaps this is how you felt when he left you. When he still had so much to learn. Perhaps he should heed Leia when she insists that, even now, he still does not know as much as he thinks he does.

“Come on, Captain,” Harli probes, a less than subtle hint of flirtation in her tone. “Why so glum?” she slips an arm over to squeeze his bicep, a gesture hovering transparently between comfort and coquetry. Poe had filled out his flight suit a bit since he started training. That seemed to garner him more attention too. He certainly wasn’t complaining.

Harli’s gentle advances are not lost on the pilot, but Poe isn’t exactly in the mood to respond. He is snared by thoughts of you. Of how she is not you. In fact, the ghost of your features acts as a shroud over his companion every time he looks at her, of late. Not your eyes. Not your hands. Not your lips. Not your smile. She is not you.

Of course, this sudden malady doesn’t make any sense, Poe knows.

He’d had his chance to choose you. And he chose to leave you.

There had been others since he tangled limbs with you on Yavin - others who were not you. Of course there had. Zorii. Alister. Ayenne. Harli… Some unions were dalliances, and others over the years, were something approaching love, if not love itself. And yet... none of their faces had appeared to him as a cruel vision in the moment before death. None of their names has embedded themselves in his heartbeat and sounded out with his last breaths.

None of them were at the root of him. You were. You are.

Poe had used to feel invincible. Like the war couldn’t touch him. Like he had all the time in the galaxy to come back to you. It didn’t matter how many bodies he touched or how many names fell amorously from his tongue as he skipped from star to star. But now… now that he understands that he is fallible, he can no longer shake you. Now he understands all too well that time is a thing which ends, his promise of loving you until the stars go out seems recklessly lackadaisical. He should love you now, instead of loving you forever, he thinks.

“I almost died.” Poe says in monotone, eyes fixed on the spinning ice cubes as he swirls his glass in his palm. A distraction. His mouth goes instantly dry.

“Am I missing something? Because that seems like cause for celebration to me,” Harli offers brightly, though Poe still does not look up, his dark eyes appearing haunted. A spectre of you. “Unless… what flashed before your eyes that day?” She studies him more intently. “Or... who?” she ventures, perceptively. She’ll do well in her espionage vocation, Poe thinks, once she’s through with training. She can already run circles around him.

Poe looks up now, squirming guiltily in his chair.

He finds Harli’s beautiful, bright eyes. 

She doesn’t deserve the thought, and yet... all Poe can think is to lament that they’re not your eyes. Still, the steady warmth in her gaze softens him a little. Blunts the sharp knife of you which is rammed into his chest, like a piece of shrapnel they could never quite extricate in the med bay. 

Poe regards Harli fondly. She is pretty as well as headstrong and sharp. Her body is full and soft and her smile easy, but she retains a careful air of mystery which fits her vocation well. She invites him in but not too close, and, perhaps, that’s exactly where Poe needs to be. 

“Someone I left behind,” Poe offers cryptically.

“Hmm,” she responds kindly, even though he has given her little to work with, still smoothing her hand over his arm. “Well, maybe they’ll forgive you, Captain. Maybe you can find your way back.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive myself.” Poe says gloomily, his eyes clouding over, and he looks away from Harli again, not wanting to burden her with this.. whatever this was. 

Poe had been convinced he’d done the right thing when he set off for the stars. The war was his vocation, the Resistance in his blood, and he had huge footsteps to fill. Poe put the Resistance above his own life, and he would do it over again, he was sure. Still, in his final moments, when he allowed himself to be selfish, to want something for himself, it was you that he wanted. He didn’t regret joining the war. He did regret leaving you behind to pursue it.

“Well, Dameron,” Harli soothes, extending a hand to squeeze his thigh this time, her lithe fingers rubbing lightly over the fabric of his pants and inching subtly up and up. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”  

Poe gulps and looks down at her hand there. Not your hand. But it feels… good. Maybe he needs this. Wants this.

“Where are they? This person?” Harli asks, and Poe almost falls into her eyes as she dips her head towards him, her painted, cherry-red mouth tempting him. Harli doesn’t deserve this thought either, but Poe thinks of your lips, so often tainted by the crimson blush of koyo juice, when he knew you.

Where is she? Poe reaches, and…

“I don’t even know.”

Where is she?

There is that rising panic again.

He’s lost you. He’s lost himself.

He can’t find his way back.

He kissed a map of stars on to your skin, and yet...

You should be by his side, and yet...

Harli is here. Harli is here as she tentatively dips forward to capture Poe’s full lips in between hers, staining him cherry-red. A different fruit to you but still sweet, stealing the red from his sky and his wounds and channelling it into this. Into a kiss. Not yours, but warm, like you. 

“Feel like hooking-up tonight, Dameron?” she coos as she parts from him, her eyes full of promise. “I promise I can make you feel better.”

She finally teases a smile from him, disarming even though he reveals a mere flash of teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Harli Telana.”

The smile she returns is bright and easy. It cuts through the dark.

Yes, Harli is quite unlike you; Harli is here. Reaching for him.

Able to comfort him. Unlike you.

It’s not your fault.

Not your fault at all. Poe was the one who flew beyond where your arms could reach him. But he had to, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

Channelling the red, finally shifting the blood from his skies, Poe dips his head to the crook of Harli’s neck, her light, flowery scent filtering over him.

He needs to shake that red sky. He needs to shake the ghost of you. He needs to shake that dense, packed earth where the roots of him are buried. Even if only for now, and not forever.

He can’t go back. He has grieved for you already. For that part of himself you will forever hold on to, and now…

Now… he can only move on.

He nips and tongues the sweet spot on Harli’s neck, tasting her perfume under his tongue and grazing his stubble along her collarbone, earning a soft, keening moan from her already. Her body is soft and full and her smile is easy.

He looks at her. Bright eyes, filled with intelligence and mystery. Cherry red lips like petals opening in a moan for him. He looks at her, but this time he sees her. Sees her without the ghost of you shrouding her features. She deserves this. Deserves to be seen.

“Yeah, I would like that,” he concedes, and she offers him a satisfied, sultry smile.

“Come on then, flyboy. Follow me.”

She rises from her stool, catching his hand in hers. Not your hand, but warm all the same. 

Her grip is strong, confident. Leading the way. Not the way home… but where else can he go? 

Maybe this could be something? Maybe?

Maybe it could be enough.

Maybe Poe could finally leave you behind. At least for now, if not forever.

****

He was leaving you behind.

He gasped, and spluttered, and he cried out, until he knew not whether he heaved violently for air, or for you. Until the burn in his oxygen-deprived lungs was indistinguishable from a need for you. Until the letting of blood from his body was the chance of you, slowly ebbing away. Until the pain jarring through his body was nothing but the burn of regret. 

In death you returned to haunt him as a life unlived. A story unfinished.

Violence within violence.

“No, no, no!” he rasped brokenly as the field medics rushed to his side. “Tell her… Tell her…” he had tried, but his lungs felt weighed down by stones, his voice a red, gargling brook, his liquid sinking into the wet earth.

As they tended to him, they might have imagined he was crying for the loss of himself, and yet... he was crying for you.

He had always wanted to fly away, to disappear in the stars. He did not comprehend that he ran towards death. He had still had so much to learn, when he flew the nest. And yet…. now, he would trade it all for a life with you.

He didn’t want to leave you again. He wanted to come back to you, in the end. At his end.

But it was too late. Too dark. He didn’t even know where to find you.

He was lost. He always lost his path without you, didn’t he?

And now, now he was under a shrinking, blood red sky. Reddening. Redder.

Still, as his eyes blinked closed, he was beneath a canopy of verdant green, looking up at the expansive blue sky. He looked to his side and found you there.

You were children again. You had nothing to regret yet, and he felt calm as he reached out to take your hand in his. You always were and always will be at the root of him.

He had thought all was lost but now...

“How did you find me?” he whispered, and his voice was innocent again. 

“I always know my way to you,” you replied, in the voice of his best friend. Of his youth.

“I was so lost,” he cried - to you, to the medics, the boy who reached for the stars joining his voice with the man ending on the ground. You swiped the tears away from his skin. A comfort. His angel.

“You’re safe, Poe,” you had gently smiled. “You’re home now.”

And in the moment where the reds and greens and blues faded to black, you were with him.

He stayed by your side as he left you behind.

****

As Poe is ending, you are returning to where he begun. You track down the oh so familiar dirt path to Kes’ house, your face still tear-stained and puffy from both your reunion and your hasty goodbye with your Mama.

“Kes? Are you home?” you call into the house, a break in your voice already - a distinct crack as you sound the word “home”. You find the door ajar, and you wait at the mouth of the house for him to greet you, your heart in your mouth.

It has been years.

You never expected that returning here would hurt so much. To this planet. To your house. To Poe’s house. You ache with both regret and relief.

Still, the sounds and sights and smells of Yavin are deeply familiar and soothing, and you let them wrap around you while you wait. You tilt your head up towards the low-slung sun, which bathes everything in gold. You allow the wafting scent of koyo fruit and tea and wet earth to fill your nostrils. Allow the jibber-jabber and chatter and squawk of animals and birds lilt into your ears, filtering from the jungle via the gentle breeze which makes the leaves in the canopy shush and tremble.

Beneath all this, if you peel back the layers of yourself, you can practically hear the laughter of two young children. You can practically see tiny, grubby hands teasing the hefty, wooden door ajar. Can practically see a brown-eyed, black-haired boy, greeting you with a toothless, cherubic grin.

The lump in your throat grows. It has been a long time since you were home. So much has changed - including you. There is so much that is missing. And yet, everything is simultaneously as it was. You are a child again. As you stand here in front of Mr. Dameron’s door, you feel three foot tall.

Kes appears in response to your call, trundling through from the back of the house, approaching you from across the kitchen, his eyes creasing at the corners as soon as he catches sight of you, his arms already extending towards you in preparation for a hug. He looks older - slightly more rotund, and his hair now entirely awash with grey, but the light in his eyes is still as bright as ever. They are warm and brown like earth as they fall on you, and they remind you endlessly of a boy you used to know.

“Hi, cookie.” Kes smiles, a break in his voice too as he tugs you into an immediate, enveloping hug, and your heart snags on the old nickname.

You hadn’t realised how much you felt Kes’ absence until his presence surrounds you, and suddenly a delayed fit of sorrow bubbles to the surface.

Still, you gladly return his vigorous embrace as he grasps the nape of your neck, just like his son used to do. As he holds you, you are overcome, your eyes screwing shut and your brow creasing - your throat bobbing around a terrible lump as you fail in biting back the tears. You are sure they are in part shed for this reunion, and in part for the reunion you never did get with his son.

Kes feels a gentle, unexpected sob wrack you as he holds you tightly, and he breaks from you to plant his hands firmly on your shoulders, giving you a reassuring squeeze and pat. He nods gently - kindly, understanding your tears. You feel three foot tall again, as if you have run to him with scraped knees and crocodile tears to tend to. You had been prepared to face your mother, but this - this took you by surprise.

“It’s been a long time, kid. Long time since you were home, huh?” he asks gently, allowing you to freely let go of whatever you didn’t realise was pent up.

There’s that word again. Home.

It has been a long time indeed. And it will be longer yet that you must be away. A fresh batch of tears travels down your face and you quickly wipe them away with the back of your hand, smushing your face. You nod quickly, your face a grimace. 

“Well, let me get a proper look at you,” Kes says in his soothing baritone, as you bring yourself under control with a few deep breaths, his kind eyes creasing at the corners as he fishes some glasses out of his cardigan pocket and lifts them to his face with his big, worn hands, his aging skin lined and crinkled now like brown paper packages.

You’re not sure Kes will like the jaded, battle-scarred woman in front of him, and for a moment you worry you will disappoint him upon closer inspection, but he tips up your chin fondly with his thumb, a warm light tinkling in his eyes. He looks you over in your tactical wear and you stand a little taller, out of habit.

There is a certain sadness in his eyes when he observes that you look every inch a soldier. He always hoped you and his boy would be spared the fight.

“Look at you, beautiful girl. And look at that steel in your eyes. Still a hard nut, and still soft in the middle, I suspect. You’re everything I knew you could become, but hoped you would never need to be, aren’t you?” Kes’ eyes grow even more wistful as he regards you, at once familiar and yet entirely changed. “It’s still so strange to see you without him. Whenever I saw you standing in my doorway, I could always expect to see my boy rounding the corner a few steps behind.” Your eyes become misty again, and you and Kes are joined, finding affinity in the pain of Poe’s absence. “Come in, cookie? Have some tea? I’m sure we have a lot to catch-up on.”

So much.

You nibble your fingernail, because you know you’re about to break Kes’ heart.

You and Poe had each given the man a hard time in your youth. Poe in particular, especially after his mother passed. For a good few years things had grown strained between them. Still, Kes had always seemed so much sterner back then. Now, he seems kind and soft, and you realise that you owe him so much.

“Kes. I’m so sorry,” you say earnestly, placing a hand on top of his as his grip settles around the kettle. “I can’t stay. I wish I could, believe me,” you say truthfully. “But I need to find him, Kes.”

The man pauses, recognising the levity in your tone. He looks at you questioningly, knitting his brows together but serving no interruption. 

“My unit are... They’re all...” You can’t complete the thought. You can’t bring yourself to say it, but Kes recognises that familiar look. The weight on your face is all too familiar.

He is sorry, in that moment and so many others, that his generation did not do enough to spare the next from this pain. He can’t find the words either, but he again finds an affinity, and he reaches out to squeeze your arm.

“Someone betrayed us,” you explain more cleanly, gaining some composure. A determination taking over your voice, causing Kes’ eyes to glow with a gentle pride. “I don’t know who to trust, Kes. The Order obliterated our forces. I have no friends left. I need to find him and find the Resistance. There’s work left to do.”

Kes nods in understanding and pats your cheek reassuringly with his palm. “Kid.” he says, with a fond smile, crossing to a wooden dresser and fishing out a data chip. “You’ll always have at least one friend.” Padding back to you, he scoops up your smaller hand and places the data chip in your palm, wrapping your fingers securely around it as he clasps your hand in his.

“That’s the most recent cypher. He might have moved on since then, I don’t know. He... he gets in touch when he can.” Kes’ voice is heavy with the absence of his son, yet also imbued with forgiveness, readily given, for the lack of him.

You clasp your free hand over Kes’. “I missed you, Kes. I miss him. I wish I could stay.”

A soft smile blooms on Kes’ lips. He is getting all too used to being left behind. “Me too. Me too, kid. Just... promise me something?” You nod. “If you see Poe...” Kes’ watery smile falters and his eyes drop to the floor, his breath becoming subtly discombobulated as he speaks. “If you see him will you tell him that I.... I....” Kes’ voice fractures, and so you generously pick up the slack.

You nod, a steel in your eyes letting the man know you will keep your promise. He can’t put his message into words, but he doesn’t have to. You can translate it for him. You know love when you see it.

“I’ll tell him, Kes. But he already knows, and he loves you too,” you reassure, your words precise and your eyes searching his to ensure the words sink in in their entirety. It seems to offer some comfort to the man. You fish for a little more, if you can provide it. You land on the only other thing you know of Poe since you knew him on Yavin. “He saved my life you know. He was one helluva pilot, even as an Academy flyboy.”

“He told me about that. Told me we almost lost you,” Kes shakes his head as if chiding you for it. “I’m glad my son was a crappy enough pilot to crash and a decent enough pilot to get you out.” Kes delivers another wistful smile. “Boy always was like his mother, fortunately. Wouldn’t want him to have turned out like his father.”

A soft, watery smile finally cracks your face, and you force it up until it apples your cheeks.

“Ah, you’re not so bad, Kes. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” you say fondly, dipping to kiss him on the cheek.

He smiles gratefully at you, suddenly looking smaller and older, and with a deep inhale, you turn and track out of the house. If you don’t leave now maybe you never will. This house is imbued with memories from the floor to the beams and everywhere in between, and if you bask in them too long you won’t want to leave them behind. Still, you pause in the doorway, your fingertips gripping the frame, just above where child’s hands used to.

You turn, looking back over your shoulder, and you say something to Kes which you have thought to yourself on many a battlefield, in moments of deep gratitude. You really did owe him a lot, and now you can tell him that. “Thank you, for teaching me how to shoot better than every enemy I’ve come up against so far.”

“I’m sorry that I had to, but I’m glad that I did.”

You nod, one soldier to another this time, and you begin to track down the dirt path, turning your back on the past once again. Kes follows and leans up against the doorframe, calling out to you one more time. He sees your humble ship in the distance, parked-up by the edge of the clearing.

“You’re not flying that are you, kid?”

Flying was never one of your talents. Nor was it ever a talent you wished for.

You smile at the good-natured teasing. “Unfortunately yes,” you call back. “But I’m a little better than I used to be.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Kes calls, with a rumbling, baritone laugh, and you smile as he beams back at you, etching this happier image into your memory for later. You really do wish you could stay, and so, this time as you turn your eyes away from the cottage, away from Kes, and away from the ghost of a black-haired boy in the doorway, you don’t look back.

Instead, you fix your eyes ahead on Sion, where he leans up against the side of your craft. You school your face until it is free of emotion, despite the tear-tracks lingering on your cheeks. You don’t feel like sharing. Sion hasn’t exactly been on board with this plan, and with this whole visit, and his attitude inspires a coldness in you, in stark contrast to everything you found in that cottage.

“Did you get it?” Sion asks you tersely, pushing himself up from his position and opening up the boarding ramp.

You nod, curtly, not making eye contact with him as you make your way up the ramp.

“I still don’t like this,” he voices, for the nth time.  

You are starting to lose patience. You’re not sure how many more times you can rehash this.

“We need a friend,” you bite. “Someone we can trust. I don’t know if you noticed, but we have no-one left, Sion. If we don’t act soon, the Order will -”

Sion grabs you by your arm as you bluster past him, and your eyes whip towards him, full of steel. “I know all that.” he interrupts. “But, I don’t get it. Poe. Poe Dameron. It’s been years. Why him? You don’t know him anymore.”

“I know him,” you insist, and Sion shakes his head, puffing out air in exasperation. But, with a lack of alternatives, you know he has no moves left to make. You’re at stalemate.

“You trust him?” he asks, muscles in his jaw twitching in agitation.

You pause, looking Sion in the eyes, your stare penetrating, your body poised. You know you should probably bite your next words back, but you feel in the moment that’s it necessary that you make yourself eminently clear.

“I’d sooner mistrust you,” you say coolly, emotionless, before snatching your arm away from him and tracking up the ramp to slide yourself into the pilot’s seat. 

“Brilliant. Kriffing brilliant,” Sion curses under his breath, angrily strapping himself in beside you, his face painted with a scowl. 

You ignore his mood. Something feels off with him and has for a while, but you don’t have anything you can prove yet. Only conjecture. You know Sion cares about you, but sometimes you wonder if he cares a little too much. Enough to have struck some sort of deal with the Order. The fact that only the two of you survived the betrayal always struck you as a little too... convenient.

Still, you push your niggling suspicions down, and allow your eyes to sweep over the view in front of you - the panorama of jungle and temples and golden light through the transparisteel windshield. You drink in one last measure of home, while you still can.

You were home, but it wasn’t quite the same without him.

And, as much as you wanted to stay here, on familiar ground with your family, you had to find a friend. You knew you could only find him amongst the stars.

You power up the craft, and you insert the data chip into a vacant slot on the control panel, letting the ship decipher the coordinates.

The ship whirrs, and you take off shakily, in all respects.

“Kriff, I hate flying,” you complain as you rise up, up, up. Far above the canopy. Far above the place you never wished to fly away from, and towards the only person worth following into the stars.

[centrally-unplanned]

Medium & Marketing for 90′s Anime Dubs

Today is Hayao Miyazaki’s 80th birthday, which made sure my dash was filled with Ghibli tidbits. A discussion of my personal favourite, Kiki’s Delivery Service, brought up its ill-fated original dub by Disney in 1998. Ghibli still didn’t have the courage yet to put their foot down on changes for international releases, and so there are a lot of alterations - the theme songs are changed to be anglicized, almost any “dead space” or quiet moments in the film have someone (normally animal sidekick Jiji the cat) improv lines over the scenes to liven them up, and in particular the ending is changed to be less bittersweet as Jiji, who in the original Kiki permanently loses the ability to talk to as a sign of growing up, regains his voice.

These changes slot neatly into the zeitgeist of all 90′s anime changes - a disregard for the property’s core appeal as they were bowdlerized for a western audience. Sailor Moon is an infamous victim of a similar process - at least Kiki took place in fantasy Europe, the Sailor Moon dub’s attempts to pretend that the show doesn’t take place in Japan were simply insane as they cut out or blurred every appearance of Japanese writing in the show, leaving reams of animation frames on the floor in the process.

(Tangent time: the greatest scene ever is one where, upon reading a note by Usagi, to prove it was her Minako/Sailor Venus comments “it must be from her, its written entirely in hiragana”, the simpler form of written Japanese compared to kanji, which Usagi as a running gag cannot write. So in the dub they just...blur out the text of the note, and have Minako comment “I had to read it with my imagination. It's all written in funny symbols!". I distinctly remember watching the episode live when I was 12 years old and going “wait what the fuck does that even mean?” and suddenly realizing that the show was changing its own script, it was a trip of a moment)

Like most people I do malign these changes, but I am actually here to partially defend them via contextualization. The idea that American audiences would have cared that the show was Japanese is pretty dumb, but what you often hear are statements like “kids in Japan appreciated Sailor Moon/Kiki’s Delivery Service just fine, they didn’t need to change it”. That is possible, but it mistakes why changes are being made to begin with - its not the “culture of children in the US vs Japan”, its intended market via the medium of distribution.

Kiki’s Delivery Service was released in Japanese theatres in 1989, and it was the highest grossing film of the year in Japan (about ~US$18 million, man do things change). Kiki’s Delivery Service the Disney dub, was....released on VHS in 1998. VHS releases and movie theatre releases aren’t really intended accomplish the same thing. Remember all those direct-to-video Disney sequels? Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride? Cinderella 3: A Twist in Time? Remember how they were all just garbage? Anyone looking back at them today cringes, with a few exceptions. But none of us cringed when we were 8! My partner is a huge Disney fangirl, and when she was young she didn’t even distinguish between the theatre release and the VHS sequels - it was all Disney, you just lined them up and played them in a row as the complete canon. Yes, these movies sucked partially because they were low budget, but they weren’t actually *that* low budget - and not the throwaways your memory probably tells you they were. Lion King 2? Made ~$300 million in net sales, almost as much as the original Lion King’s theatrical run.

What those Disney VHS sequels and Kiki share is the fact that their intended market was *only* children. That is the point of VHS - you put it on for your kids and then go make dinner. Its the virtual babysitter, the kids can loop it while reenacting every scene with their stuffed animals. Movies released in theatres don’t serve that role at all - the parents are paying $15 a head and they are trapped in their seats for the whole runtime. It has to entertain everyone, or you aren’t going to go, or at least not as often. VHS releases sucked because kids don’t care, they actually do enjoy the constant quippy lines and dumb jokes. That is equally true for Japanese kids - its just that Kiki’s intended audience wasn’t Japanese kids, it was “all ages” - a very different category.

The same is true for Sailor Moon, by the way. The idea that kids in Japan could “handle more mature themes like death” unlike American audiences doesn’t hold up quite as much when you look at Disney theatrical releases like the Lion King - Mufasa’s death pulls no punches, but kids didn’t mind. And Japan does have shows like Doraemon that are just as childish as the 90′s western cartoons you remember. Its that Sailor Moon’s audience wasn’t just kids. 

Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon aired in March of 1992 on TV Asahi. Asahi was not a kids network, and Sailor Moon did not air in a kid’s block - instead in its “Anime Block”. It aired on Saturdays, at 7:00 PM. For most of its runtime, the 7:30 slot after was held by Slam Dunk, a hyper-serious basketball anime adapted from a manga in Weekly Shonen Jump. You think director Kunihiko Ikuhara was throwing in queer relationships and even trans characters, and every other villian was a half-naked seductress, because it was gonna really resonate with 8 year olds? Sailor Moon was for 8 year olds, yes...and for otaku. So, 15 year olds, lets not exaggerate here. But still, its hype, its success, came just as much from its teen and adult fans as much as its young devotees. Which was intentional - it was *marketed* that way. That's why it aired at 7:00 PM on a Saturday. 

Sailor Moon’s original dub, on the other hand, aired on UPN at, yeesh, 6:30 AM?? Then on USA’s Cartoon Express at the much more reasonable 8:30 AM, and later on Toonami at 4:00 PM. All of these are kids slots, to watch over cereal or snacks before/after school while the parents are busy. You do not expect the adult in the room to be watching alongside the kid, or for teens to really be paying attention.

And to cut off the logical objection, a show like Sailor Moon was just not going to get a 7:00 PM Saturday slot in the US in the 90′s. Nor was Kiki going to get a movie theatre release in 1998 of any scale. Movie releases are expensive, Saturday slots are precious, the funding just wasn’t there for something so untested as Japanese anime. There was no demand in the west for it - that demand would only be created later, by a generation who grew up on, well, shitty Sailor Moon dubs and Kiki VHS releases. And what success in the media slots these shows and movies did have are shaped by those market niches.

I don’t want to be over-deterministic on this - at some point Cartoon Network rolled the dice on Cowboy Bebop and Full Metal Alchemist and it worked - maybe they could have done that in 1995 with like Neon Genesis Evangelion, who knows! And of course US children’s cartoons are, beyond market forces, burdened with regulatory moralizing that Japanese media does not have. But I do think these 90′s dub efforts should get the proper context for the constraints they were operating under, and why they existed at all, as they are criticized.

[murfeelee]

Weekend! Updates! Replies!

Happy July 4th, everybody!

(WTF did Tumblr do NOW? At least X-kit’s still active, thank god.)

I’m still cooped up inside not getting any sleep (effing fireworks) and melting my eyeballs as I try to finish my thesis. I’m nowhere near done yet, this is insanity; I’m scared I won’t be done by September at all. If I do, it’ll be because I rushed through it and did the bare effing minimum. But I might have to at this point, I’m exhausted.

And my next summer class starts next week, and the professor sent us the syllabus and WHAT THE EFF, LADY!? 😠 This is a dinky little summer elective, not a frikkin dissertation, wench, DANG!! 😡🤬

I just wanted something light, so I could coast on through and get my last credits GGEZ & bounce; I’m tired of this place. No, this heifer has to send us a whole TERM full of course material. I am too upset.

I just want my effing degree already. Not that it matters, cuz the economy’s even WORSE now--schools, libraries, museums, galleries, non-profits, etc. all got slammed cuz of quarantine, and they’ll all be busy letting people GO, not hiring. U_U And that’s MY EFFING SECTOR. 😫 I want to WORK. I don’t wanna be stuck in school wasting ANOTHER 5+ years getting some PhD--the pay is peanuts, and I hate school! But if there’s no jobs I’ll do it, at least PhD programs pay YOU to go to school. XD

I’m calling it now: I’ll be reporting to y’all live this time next year working on a effing doctorate, just to have SOME money in my pocket, jfc. 😤

ANYWAY, so that’s me right now.

Sorry for the rant -- I’ve been so angry and fed up with absolutely everything lately.

And I’m really sorry for not being active AT ALL lately; Tumblr & Simblr in particular are my biggest distractions, and if I even take a peek on my dash I’ll get sucked in and get zero work done on this stupid paper.

But trust! In my spare time I’ve been working on new CC & new gameplay! I am so excited to share it with y’all; I’ve been planning this for months, it’s based on one of my alltime favorites. ^_^

REPLIES

descendantdragfi replied to your photoset “3 Favorites Tag!  Rules: A person’s favorite color, favorite animal,...”

Love your favourites! Peacock is magnificent 🦚😁                    

Thanks again for tagging me! ^_^ Oh wow, I didn’t know there was a peacock   emoji; you mean I could’ve been spamming it this whole time!? 🦚 🦚 🦚 🦚

andantezen replied to your photoset “3 Favorites Tag!  Rules: A person’s favorite color, favorite animal,...”

Your love for peacocks is contagious... Since playing with the magnificent CC you made of them, have read more about these birds' symbolism in several cultures... and decided to turn them into an actual character of the story :) thank you!                    

Thank YOU! *hugs* 🦚 Yes, I’m obsessed with peacocks, they’re my favorite animal on earth (dragons are my favorite fanciful creatures). Every time I go to the zoo I’m SO tempted to just steal one; they let them roam around freely, and I just wanna scoop up one of the babies and parkour myself over a fence or something. XD  🦚 I mean look at these frikkin things! 🦚

😍 🦚  😍 🦚 😍 🦚

darkccfinds replied to your photoset “SAKURA - BLΛƆKPIИK INSPIRED BLACKPINK! 지금 내가 걸어가는 거린 BLACKPINK 4...”

Sakura in its purest form!!.. as it should be in black and pink. I love everything about this photo set🤩

*high fives!* :D Thanks so much! Yup, I had to do it. Sakura would totally dye all her money pink and buy a sequins-covered bedazzled military tank, why wouldn’t she? XD Plus, I just LOVE Blackpink’s music videos & songs, so it was a perfect fit, really.

ashuriphoenix replied to your post “Chinese Creatures INSP”

*furiously mashes download button*

I want to make a lot more Pets CC and kemonomini CC, and get back to playing in Green Isle; that was the most fun I’ve had in months!

solori replied to your photoset “Pride 2020: Bartros & Nagron at the LGBT+ Community Center “History...”

♥ ♥

pitheinfinite replied to your photoset “Pride 2020: Bartros & Nagron at the LGBT+ Community Center “History...”

Love how you presented this theme with this positive energy!

If you don’t smile you’ll burst into tears, is how I see it. I needed something bright and colorful and loving, and my Spartacus-inspired gameplay always brings a smile to my face; I love my Nagron & Bartros babies. :3

ohsimtastic reblogged your post and added:

IM SCREAMING !!!!!

Speaking of babies! :D

Happy simming, y’all!

🦚

[lemonietrinket]

Ladder ||| Lucas x Reader

Summary: You love your boyfriend Lucas, you really do. But sometimes, his chaotic tendencies led him into all kinds of trouble. And you never, ever laugh at him. Totally. Not even when he puts himself in a compromising position. Not even once. Genre: Fluff, Comedy Warning(s): Please remember health & safety when putting up lights (they can get hot, you can trip over the wires, you could get tangled up in said wires...) as well as being very careful when using ladders. If you are not 100% certain that the ladder is stable, then do not use said ladder. Please, save your skulls. Word Count: 1383 Theme Song: I’m Falling - Golden Child I promise I didn’t choose the song for the title no one is going to fall I swear AN: 5th Dec prompt (credit to @songi-writes) decorating the house. I now realise that the original intention was likely to decorate the interior of the house but like, eh, since when did I ever follow the rules hehe. Also, I love Lucas, I love my big dumbass so so much. He’s just so sweet and kind and dumb—did I say I loved my dumbass?

~~~

You loved your boyfriend. You really did.

He was everything you wanted in a man.  Kind. Caring. Affectionate. Sweet. Amusing. Talented—

You get the idea.

The point is, there was one thing he lacked.

That thing, was common sense. 

And said lack of common sense got him in all sorts of situations that you never would have expected a man like himself to get in.

However, you wouldn’t change a thing.

Because one, you loved him in his entirety.

And two, no matter what scenario it was, it never failed to be absolutely hilarious to watch.

All you had to do was make sure he didn’t get hurt in the end and voila: free entertainment.

This was why, on the night of December the 5th, Lucas was up at the very top of an old rusty ladder, with his back to the fading daylight and his girlfriend, standing at the bottom a few feet away.

An old mattress, lent to you by your neighbours, had been on its way to a skip when you politely asked if you could use it as a precaution. They hadn’t understood why you needed it, and you weren’t sure how to explain it either.

Then Yukhei had suddenly sprinted from one side of the road to the other, chasing a drone (it was Haechan’s new toy apparently, though you knew exactly who bought it, and exactly who its real owner was, but you knew better than to get involved in the dorm politics again and so didn’t bring it up) and a few seconds after going out of sight, he reappeared and ran all the way back again.

They gave you the mattress with few extra words.

It sat at your feet, where you presumed he was most likely to land if he was to fall off the ladder, whilst he jostled with the lights.

They were cheap, thank god, on the off-chance (which you had calculated to be pretty high) that he would drop them, but you did hope he’d get them up soon, with as few broken bulbs as possible.

Not only would it be more money to spend, but there’d likely shards of plastic or glass to deal with and that was much more effort than you’d signed yourself up for. 

“Yo babe!” he called down from the penultimate step at the top.

“Yeah?” You couldn’t wait for what came out of his lips next.

“Look at me! I’m so much taller than you!”

“Yep,” you squinted up at him, trying not to let your chuckles edge into your voice, “you sure are! Not that it’s much different on the ground, though,” you added, muttering to yourself.

“Yaaa, what’s it like to be so short?” he asked, laughing to himself mainly. “With your head so close to the ground, like...”

You rolled your eyes.

“How do you see over high counters? Go to concerts? Or reach top shelves?”

“Ah yes,” you announced, “the famed top shelf! You see, we level up our manipulation and charm skills so we can talk those who rolled higher stats in height into doing things for us.”

You heard him laugh and nod his head, but it was the chuckle that appeared  when he didn’t really get what you were saying. 

Instead, you watched him shimmy down the ladder, to shift it across a few steps and clamber back up.

You flinched as there was a loud creak from one of the ledges as he stepped on it.

It wouldn’t actually break. He wouldn’t actually fall. Right?

As you’d zoned out, his joyous shouts brought you back into reality. Looking back up, your breath caught in your throat.

“Hey! Look babe! I’m a giant!”

He was jumping on the top most step, brandishing an end of the lights in his hands, the other rings around his arm. The ladder was shaking, and you could see the leg dipped in the gravel was slipping.

Oh dear lord.  “Yukhei, baby, please be careful!” 

“I am being careful!” he insisted, “I am the definition of careful!”

It was at that moment when the entire ladder juddered. Yukhei immediately caught onto the roof and steadied himself.

After your heart had returned back to your chest from rising into your mouth, you exclaimed, “Yukhei!”

He peered down at you from over his shoulder, the grin you knew so well lighting up his face, and his (in)famous laughter floating over the air. “I’m ok, don’t worry!”

“Well, I’m gonna keep worrying until you’re done up there and have both of your feet on the ground!” You strode over to the ladder and held the legs still as best as you could. “Please just... hurry up back on down here.” You bat your eyelashes as cliché as you could manage. “I haven’t had a cuddle in forever and it’s starting to make me so sad...!”

He pouted cutely, but your move worked. He began hanging up the lights at thrice the speed he’d previously done, and in minutes, with a couple of stretches, he was finished.

And no sooner were they all up, he was down from the ladder, his strong arms picking you up and spinning you around. 

“I’m back!” he announced, smile as bright as the moon.

“You are!” You added, “And alive!”

“And now,” his voice dropped lower, “I can make sure my girlfriend is no longer sad, by cuddling her as much as she wants!”

You accepted the invitation, leaning in to press yourself into his warmth, when you spotted a vacant look in his wide, glistening-clear eyes, his lips parting as he blinked.

The look of a thinking Yukhei.

“What is it?” you enquired, not bothering to follow his line of sight as it never was related to what he was pondering on.  You wondered if you would hear the tick of a clockwork system if you held your head beside his whilst he thought, cogs kicking into gear as he formulated an idea.

“Hang on, just one second!” he reasoned, dashing off round the house, out of sight.

You watched as he went, considering if he wanted you to follow him or not and thus stay round the front.

Luckily it wasn’t long before you received an answer.

The lights were a vast improvement to the plain cream walls, embellishing them with a gold and silver made it look as if the house was much grander than it actually was. As if fairies had pitched in their hands to make it a home for the two of you.

They also brought something into your heart. 

Whether it was a pride or a joy you couldn’t quite tell, but it did suddenly feel to you as if Christmas was genuinely coming in a few weeks, and that the mellow warmth that accompanied it every year would return this time too—even if the hundreds of days that preceded it weren’t always painted with gold. 

As you were distracted, dumbly staring up at the lights, you felt a pair of arms wrap around you.

Holding you as close to his body as he could, Yukhei nestled his chin in your hair, swaying the two of you gently to a beat in his own head.

“There,” he hummed, deep voice resonating through to your heart, “you’re not sad anymore, right?

“No, I’m pretty happy now,” you murmured, nuzzling your face into his chest. 

Though Yukhei brought you no end of joy from being his chaotic self, it was these moments that you prized more than any other. It was when you felt at home at last, and when you were most happiest.

“We should go inside,”  you suggested, fingers tracing lines on his back.

“Aww,” he cooed, “are you cold, baby?”

You smirked, slipping free from his arms. “Yeah I am, so you’d better come inside with me and do a better job at keeping me warm!”

He took this as a challenge, grin wide and shoulders squared. “First one inside doesn’t have to make the hot chocolate!”

The two of you didn’t even hesitate, taking off into a run.

The ladder was left by the front wall, but you didn’t care. You’d deal with it tomorrow, once you’d finished snuggling with your Yukhei. Even though you’d likely be preoccupied for quite some time. 

~~~

AN: I am very tired but I finished it! I’m not sure it’s as good as my others but I really tried I promise. This won’t be the last time I write for him (hopefully I won’t be as tired then) Thank you for reading!

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Did I mention I love Lucas?

Masterlist

[edited on 7th Dec 2019

[esepoimipullula]

So, there’s this reply to that “do you ever read you friend’s writing and you wonder why they even put up with you” post, about how that’s an unhealthy attitude that will only hurt both you and your friend, even if you pass it off as a joke. About how you should try to better your writing because you love writing and it gives you joy and improving makes you feel proud, not because you keep comparing yourselves to others or because you’ve been told you can’t be too confident in your achievements and now think hating everything you create is the way to improve when it’s really just a way to both destroy your self-esteem and make creating unnecessarily difficult. And the thing is, I agree with it. The wording feels a bit harsh to me, but I’m kind of an oversensitive softie, and I suppose people do need a good kick in the pants once in a while. And I really do agree.

I think love is fundamental, and if you don’t love writing or what you write, you should either stop or take a good, long pause to figure out if you can love it, again or at all. I write because I love it. Or at least, I feel something close to love for it. I don’t really think about it. Sometimes a sentence, a description or a line of dialogue or a simile or anything else, pops into my mind out of the blue and I’m like either, “Oh, what is that? Who or what is it about? Where do is it lead me?” or “Yes, that’s it, hold that until a less ungodly hour/a moment when I’m free to try and do something with it or at the very least write it down.” Sometimes I’m watching or reading or doing something and my brain says, “Yeah, but you know what would be cool? If this thing happened to these characters!”, and the thing that should totally happen to the characters may or may not be related in any way to the thing I’m watching or reading or doing. And sometimes I have a sudden craving for a certain story or character or scene, or a want that has built up through years, but of course I know I won’t find any piece of fiction that fits my tastes exactly and precisely and because I don’t know any writers who happen to be mindreaders and I’m not about to become the kind of prompter who feeds the plot almost line by line to the unlucky writer their asking for a story, so in the end I go, “You know what? This is actually a very good idea and it’s a shame no one has written it yet so I’ll just do it myself!” And sometimes I feel frustrated or unsatisfied or irritated or even just a little too frantic and in too deep to actually feel any love or joy or anything else while I’m writing rather than when I take a step back to reread and edit what I’ve written, but I wouldn’t trade all those other “sometimes” I’ve just mentioned for anything in the world. And honestly, I wouldn’t do it even with these less pleasant “sometimes,” as much as I like to complain or joke or jokingly complain about them. Because they are all part of what makes me me and the idea of ever giving them up, even for some relative peace of mind, feels as absurd and unnecessary as the idea of consciously trying to change my tastes in food or music or fiction or jokes or pets --- I can only guess at where some things come from, so how would I even go about upturning or taking away things that feel almost more like instinct than anything else? And why would I ever wish to? And I don’t think I’ve never been in romantic love, I’m not even sure if I know how that’s really supposed to feel like or work out, but this is kind of love I know. The kind of love I feel for my family and my friends, who all have annoying, stupid habits because that’s what people do and I’m sure they find my habits annoying and stupid, too, and that’s fine, and the kind of love I feel for our cat, who yells at me when he’s hungry and scratches me when we play and bullies the neighbour’s overly friendly, peace-loving dog and does a lot other things that made me fear and wonder, “Oh, god, what if the novelty of having a cute little cat all for ourselves wears off after a while and we don’t want him anymore and we become one of those families that take in a pet and change its whole life only to immediately give it back and give it trust issues in the process because they’re not actually fit to have a pet” before we’d actually gotten him but now they’re just part of him and you’ll have to fistfight each and every one of us in a parking lot if you try and take him away from us. That’s the kind of love I have for writing, and even if it’s not always joy, and sometimes it’s annyoing or irritating or no more pleasant than merely, simply breathing, what does the unpleasantness or the lack of enthusiasm really matter? Nothing, or at least, very little. It’s my love, I can only guess where it really comes from, it’s always with me and I can’t imagine it ever going away, and you can fight me in the aforementioned parking lot.

And I think it’s this love that allows me to... not quite be carefree about my writing, but something a bit like that. What do comments and reviews and kudos matter, if my love expresses itself through fandoms most people don’t even think can be considered as fandoms or themes nobody but me thinks or cares about? Sure, validation and compliments and people genuinely enjoying what I create make me feel great and may even warm my heart, depending on how much thought and effort I put into a particular work or how long I’ve wished to be able to find other people interested in a certain fandom, but they’re not my reason for writing or even something I really need -- I’ll keep doing my thing whether I get a hundred kudos and fifty comments or only three views. I did use to compare myself unfavorably to other writers and despair over all the ways I found myself inferior and lacking, but then I realized... what good is wishing I could be as good as someone else, or even someone else altogether, if my writing is part of me, stems from who I am? What influence on me could another writer’s success and the methods and techniques used to reach that success even have? I should strive to satify myself while doing what I want, to become as good as I can be according to my standards and through the methods and techniques that work for me. I can take what I like and analyse it and try to make it mine and incorporate it in my style and my ideas, there’s nothing wrong with that and it’s a good way to broaden my horizons and challenge myself and improve my work and love writing even more, but in the end, I can’t be anyone but myself --- and I may have lots of flaws, but in the end, there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. Actually, there is some joy, and even pride, in that. And so, I reread my old works and see them with new, more charitable eyes, remembering the fun and the satisfaction and the need to write precisely that specific thing, pushing aside the old doubts that gave me nothing but endless nitpicking and rewriting and saying, “You know? Maybe my use of em dashes wasn’t actually as overbearing and cringy as I thought, maybe I should start using them a bit more freely again.” I reread my new works and tell myself, “Fuck it, of course I enjoy this and I am actually a bit proud of it, I wrote it for myself, according to my own tastes and following my own inspiration and putting as much effort and care into it as I thought it needed!”

I still have doubts and fears like everyone else, but they’re more along the lines of, “I know I can write better than this, so why am I not doing it right now? What is the problem here?!” or “I love and care and believe so much in this idea and I want to be good enough to do it justice and make sure it’ll make me feel perfectly satisifed and proud with the final result”, than “Everybody is doing the thing I feel is my thing better than me” or “I’ll never be this other writer I admire.” My writing blocks are usually more about getting stuck in the middle of a work while struggling to find the right words to put the exact feelings and actions I have in my mind on the page precisely as I’ve imagined them (”No, thats not it! There’s something missing and I can’t go on until I find out what it is! The words here don’t sound right!”), or struggling to find the Right Words to start a new project at all because I still have to work on internalizing that perfectionism is the enemy and a first draft is meant to be changed and corrected and maybe even kind of suck even if rationally I understand both concepts, or having Something Big in mind but knowing I usually just follow the flow of my ideas until it dries up and feeling my best works really come from truly getting lost into it and then worrying about how difficult Building An Actual Plot Like A Rational Person will be, or having scenes or even whole stories feels just so complete in my head that laboring to get them out of it feels like doing the same exact work twice for nothing (which isn’t true, but tell it to my brain), or just... not being able to start or go on or even end even if I have everything from ideas to motivation ro the right, relaxed but willing and driven state of mind, for some reason. Or, like, utterly dumb stuff like, “This paragraph will only make me feel good if I manage to get the lines to align in this specific way without changing the meaning or ruining the tone and atmosphere, so I will now modify it four or five times until I get it right even if I know this doesn’t make any sense.”

Except... there’s this friend. Her writing is the kind that uses a scant amount of sharp, essential words to tell whole worlds made of unsaid things, so soft they make you feel like you’re inside a dream or so harsh they're like a punch in the gut but always so clever and full that you always feel you’re always missing somthing, you just aren’t smart enough to figure it out. I have to make a conscious effort not to compare them to my works, because then mine feel overwrought and overdramatic, childish and naive.

And I know, believe me I know, that despite how much of yourself ends up in your writing, despite how much your writing can be a part of yourself, skill as a writer is not synonymous with worth as a person. You can be a good and/or succesful writer and be a complete shithead, and thinks like kindness and open-mindedness will always be fundamentally more important than the ability to string words together in a pleasing manner. But she’s kind (perhaps kinder than I deserve, because I know sometimes I can be a real dick), and open-minded, and sweet in her own way, and brave, and confident, and so smart and cultured, and sharp, and funny, and interesting, and she seems to understand people a lot better than I do. And even when we’re just chatting, I’m not always sure I understand every layer to everything she says, I’m not sure I can keep up with her wit and her mind. The confidence I feel while writing evaporates and I feel slow and shallow and boring and dumb and wonder why she puts up with me, how she hasn’t realised she could be talking to her people more like her yet.

The worst thing is, it’s not even her doing anything to make me feel like this and I know it too well. I don’t even think she knows, and I hope she never finds out. She’s not just kind to me, but affectionate and supportive, and in a honest and genuine way, and I know it’s irrational and stupid to think I might have tricked her into behaving like that with me, or that she’s not being sincere, or that she just doesn’t care enough to  take a good look at me and find out what my brain thinks is the truth. I know it would be hurtful and ungrateful to tell her. 

I also know she’s not perfect, because no one is. She has her flaws, too, and sometimes she says things that make me roll my eyes or sigh in frustration. There are some things I know more about than her, too. And we don’t even live near each other so I’ve never even met her in person, so I know if that happened at one point, I’d probably find out a bunch of annoying things about her.

But when she compliments my writing, sometimes my brain either shortcircuits for a moment or starts coming up with all kinds of bullshit like, “She’s just saying that because you’re friends and she’s a very supportive person. You’re pretty much the only one writing for this ship, so this is more like when you’re desperate enough to run fics in Russian and Chinese through Google Translate and you still leave kudos even though half of it came out as gibberish. It’s like when you read something you know is actually not well-written or well-plotted at all just for a certain specific character or trope in it, she’s just the type who doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures. She’s using a very happy and pleased tone but that doesn’t mean anything on the internet, almost everything here is hyperbole anyway so her actual reaction must have been a lot more lukewarm.” And when she writes to me or says she enjoys talking to me, sometimes my brain will go, “That’s great and I appreciate it! ... but seriously, why.”

*sigh* I guess that’s another thing I’ll have to try and work on this year. Being more open about what I feel -- at least on a sideblog read by only *checks* fourteen people, none of whom are the friend in question or any friends we have in common or any of my regular internet friends at all -- instead of keeping everything bottled up inside at all times is another one, apparently. Let’s see if it’ll really make me feel lighter.

[ill-skillsgard]

The Wedding Ring - Henry Deaver x Mistress

Forgive me, for I have sinned heavily and will continue to do so until the day I am dragged down to hell. Y’all might hate me for this or not but we’ll see!

Warning: 18+ only. Contains mature themes/cheating/spousal conflict etc. Read at your own discretion.

Masterpost

You had grown used to Henry. His condo had familiar walls and you could walk freely throughout the place if you liked. The kitchen was open to you, his bathroom was yours to take advantage of. The jetted tub was one of your favourite features of the entire place. After a long Friday shift, Henry picked you up from the hotel and brought you to the condo and the first thing you did was fly up to his room, strip naked and jump into the tub to take a relaxing hot bath while hard streams of bubbles blasted away the tension from your muscles.

The counter in Henry's bathroom was home to a designer ceramic toothbrush holder, a half-empty bottle of cologne, tea tree facial scrub and a black folded facecloth that cradled a broad gold ring — his wedding ring. You wondered how long it had been sitting there and if Henry had put it there for a reason. You hadn't seen him with it around his finger in a long time. But it couldn't have been far from his mind if he kept it right next to the sink he used every day.

A gentle knock aroused you from the balmy waters of the bath and you answered to it just as placidly.

"Can I come in, babe?" He asked.

"Yes, but I'm naked!"

Henry opened the door, eyes seeking you out like a pair of missiles. A playful smile had already stretched across his face and you ran your palms over your breasts, giving him a little bit of a show when he stepped into the bathroom to see you. He ogled the water dripping down the supple mounds and shook his head in disbelief.

"Fuck."

"What's the matter?"

"Can't even walk into my own bathroom without getting instantly turned on."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"It's the best. Your tits look amazing."

You reached a hand up for him to grasp and when you had a firm hold of his fingers; you pulled him down. He snickered and lowered himself onto one knee, kneeling beside the tub so he could be at a closer level with you. Without prompting, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, reached one hand into the water and squeezed your thigh.

"Are you forever horny? I feel like you might be the horniest person alive."

"It's hard not to be when your man is so fucking sexy."

The words that left your mouth had a peculiar taste to them. Your man. Was it appropriate to refer to him as yours now? It was hard to tell. His wedding ring was just over on the counter and for all you knew, Henry still hadn't gotten around to admitting to his wife that he had been actively seeing somebody else during their separation. You tried not to feel sore about it, but it was difficult not to poke at the wounds.

Henry reached up between your legs, going quiet as he worked the pad of his thumb over your slit a few times, pausing at your clit to give you a look. "I wanna play with your pussy."

Your knees fell apart as though he'd spoken a secret password. But you stopped him before he could touch you again.

"Put on the ring," you said.

"What?" He pulled back like you had spit on him. "Why?"

"Put on your ring and tell me all the things you'd do to me that you would never do to her."

"Babe," he snorted. "Come on."

You gave him a weighty stare and his eyebrows rose. Withdrawing his hand from the waters, he stood up with a sigh and turned around to retrieve the wedding band camping out next to the bathroom sink. He held the circle between his index and thumb, presenting it like a half-assed project he certainly took no pride in completing.

"You want me to wear it?"

"Mm-hmm. Put it on."

He slid the ring onto his finger and wiggled them after, showing you what he was willing to do for your pleasure and then took his position on his knees next to the tub once more. He let his palm slide up your side, over your breast and up to your neck, making sure that you felt the metal gliding with him.

"This what you want? You want me to tell you how much I want to fuck you even though I'm married? You get off on this?"

You nodded eagerly and rose your knees up to encourage him to travel down between your thighs again.

"God, baby you look so good. I've never wanted her as much as I want you all the fucking time."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," the word was a drawn-out breath as he circled your clit with the tip of his ring finger. "Always wanted a little freak like you. Somebody that actually likes it when I tease her pretty little clit. Someone that will let me eat her pussy whenever I damn well please."

"Oh, I love it when you do that."

Henry shifted closer and prodded at your entrance only a little bit under the water.

"You know what else I love about you?"

"What?"

"I love how eager you are for my cock. She never liked having sex with me. But you... God, I can't get you off my dick. Not that I'd ever want you to."

"I can't help myself, sir. I know it's wrong but I can't stop thinking about how bad I want your cum."

Henry closed his eyes and purred at the sound of your dirtied words. "That's another thing... You're such a little slut for my cum. I love it when you let me bust inside you... Or when you swallow it all down and kiss me right after. She would never do that."

"Never?"

"Never."

"But your cum is so delicious, sir. I want it all."

"You can have it all, baby."

Henry was growing tired of fondling you in the bath. He hooked his hands under your armpits and hauled you out of the tub, dripping water all over the tiles as he sat you up on the counter and pried your legs apart. He stooped down again and shuddered after running his tongue up your slit, parting your lips to dip inside for a taste. The air, although vaporous from the hot bath, kissed your skin and made you shiver as he looked up at you from below.

"I want you to cum all over my face. I want every last drop of that sweet pussy on my tongue, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Henry penetrated you with his ring finger and watched with his mouth agape at the way it looked. You couldn't help but gush over the visual, as well. The flashing gold ring moved back and forth with his motions and filled you with a sick satisfaction you could get from nothing else.

"God, yes... Make me fucking cum you filthy boy."

Before Henry could make good on his promise to have you orgasming around his appendages, there was an alarmingly loud beeping noise that stole both of your attention at once.

"What's that?" You asked.

"Shit," Henry pulled his finger from you and absently popped it into his mouth.

"Henry?" You called after he left the bathroom as abruptly as the beeping had sounded. "What's going on?"

"Quiet for a minute," his answer had to travel through the bedroom as he was already nearly in the hallway.

Henry went to a flashing intercom, heart beating so hard in his chest that it left him light-headed and out of breath. He pressed the button and spoke into the receiver after taking in a gulp of air. "Yes?"

"Evenin', Mr. Deaver. It's Johnny from downstairs. Mrs. Deaver is at the front desk..."

"This is ridiculous, John. You know who I am. Why do I need to be paged in like a goddamn pizza delivery?"

Henry lost every trace of colour in his skin as the heavy onset of realization crushed him.

"Mrs. Deaver, I don't make the rules. I can't let anybody up that's not verified on the account."

"It's me, Johnny. His wife!"

"You took yourself off the registry, Mrs. Deaver. I'm sorry."

Henry listened to the exchange and panicked.

"You there, Henry?" Johnny asked.

"Tell him to let me up, now."

"Shit," Henry whispered before pressing the button to speak. "Uh... All right then. Let her up, I guess."

"Right away."

Henry dashed back into the bathroom with a look on his face so white and perplexing that you felt your own blood drain into your feet. "What's wrong?"

"She's coming up... My wife!"

"What! Why!? Why, why, why? Why would you let her up!?" You exclaimed.

"It would have been too weird if I said no. Fuck. Quick, quick... You have to hide," Henry flailed and nearly slipped on the water-slick floor.

You scrambled for your clothes even though your hair was still sopping wet and the counter was pooled with bathwater. Henry pulled a large fluffy towel out from a drawer and tossed it at you.

"Henry!" You hissed. "What do I do!?"

"Stay in here. She never goes into my bathroom. Just... Fuck. Just be quiet. I'll get her out as soon as I can but good god, don't make a single noise! She's got ears like a goddamn jackrabbit."

When Henry left and shut the door behind him, all kinds of retorts came to mind. If he'd have just sacked up and told her about you already it would be a non-issue. You suddenly cursed Henry for being a piss-poor pansy liar. Anger fell heavily over your face as you wrapped yourself in the towel and hid behind the shower wall next to a table where Henry presumably kept hand-towels and all manner of toiletries hidden away inside neat little drawers. The top of the table had an elegant glass vase festooned with fake blue flowers on it, a small brass globe and a framed picture of Henry and his wife on their wedding day. She had her arm looped through his and they were both looking down with smiles, mid-pace as her veil billowed out around her. In the background, you could see the blurred smiling faces of guests.

You gritted your teeth harder the longer you stared at the picture. The frame was dusty and you longed to chalk it up to laziness but something didn't settle well in your stomach after seeing the photo of their wedding day still very much on display. Anyone using the toilet could have looked over and seen the picture so it wasn't like Henry was unaware of its placement.

You could hear nothing beyond the closed bathroom door so you slipped out from your hiding place, carefully sidestepped the puddles of water and locked the handle. Before you stepped back, the sounds of talking could be heard and you concentrated on listening to what was being said without making a move. A plainly irritated voice grew louder and you could tell that they were approaching Henry's bedroom. You clapped a hand over your mouth when the voice burst into the room just beyond the bathroom door.

"Don't you ever try to keep me from my own property! I still have my grandmother's china here! You can't bar me from taking what belongs to me!"

"But you can't just come waltzing in here whenever you damn well please! You didn't even call!"

You heard a shrill feminine laugh. "Maybe if you weren't so busy watching pay per view porn you would have noticed that I called you five times!"

"Oh, fuck off. I don't do that," Henry's tone was riddled with irritation.

"Yes, you do. I know you do, Henry, and it's disgusting!"

Then a gasp ripped through the air and you flattened your back against the tiled wall, feeling every nerve in your body spark at once, causing an electric rush of nausea to hit you like the clap of a wave.

"Henryyy! My designer candles! What did you do!?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Footsteps pounded across the room, drawing closer to the bathroom door. Your eyes fell to the door handle, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't start to jiggle.

"What the fuck did you do!? You lit my designer candles!?"

Henry scoffed. "Isn't that what candles are for?"

That same patronizing laugh ploughed over his question. "Not ones that cost seventy dollars each! What on earth were you thinking?"

"I don't know, they're just candles!" He reasoned hotly.

"You just don't think, do you? So not only did I have to stand in the lobby like a stranger and get refused access to my own home, but you're now ignoring my calls, destroying my things and acting like a total asshole?"

"It's not your home, it's my condo. My name's on it. This is my goddamn bedroom. Can't I have one fucking thing in this world that doesn't reek of you!? You actually need to get the hell out of here right now!"

A tense quiet proceeded Henry's outburst punctuated by an appalled scoffing sound.

"Oh, okay. Sure, Henry. Wasn't it just two weeks ago you were begging me to stay?"

"Things change."

"Why? What changed?"

"We're separated. We're in the proceedings of a divorce. A divorce that you instigated!"

"Well, you're certainly going full speed ahead now, aren't you?"

"What else do you want from me? You want the keys to my car? Do you want the condo too so you can fill it full of worthless shit? Seventy fucking dollar candles that you can't burn? What else can I do to ease your situation? What else can I do to cater to you?"

"What the hell has gotten into you, Henry? I don't even know you anymore. Since when do you speak to me so disrespectfully?"

"Since you don't respect my privacy or give a fuck about how I feel."

"How you feel? You're on top of the world, Henry! You got the nice cozy job where nobody questions your authority and us little people have to work our asses off just for the bare minimum!"

Henry started to laugh. "Oh, you're so helpless. So hard done by. You got a four-bedroom house. You got the Lexus. You got the fucking job that I set you up to get. I've given you everything and more and you still couldn't even fuck me once in a while. But when we're in the office, you can't pry yourself away. You need everybody to know that you're married to me. But you don't care about me. You care about your status. And I'm done with that shit."

"You're seeing somebody already, aren't you?"

Her question stretched out between them in the longest silence you could ever remember experiencing.

"Please leave," Henry muttered.

"You're wearing your ring again."

"Please go. Please take your plates and just leave me alone. It's late and I want to go to sleep."

"You're fucking somebody. That's what it is. That's why the candles were used. You had somebody in here."

"Good Lord, woman... You need to get out."

"You're not denying it!"

"What do you want from me!?" Henry bellowed loud enough to startle you. You didn't think him capable of raising his voice. Hearing his anger rise in his throat made your heart stammer in place. "You won't fuck me! Won't touch me. You want a divorce. You don't want a divorce. You move out. You hate me. You call me. You don't want me to be fucking happy. The thought of me having needs sickens you to the core but if I want to finally get my dick wet for the first time in, oh, I don't know, an entire fucking year and a half, you have a problem with it. Do you want to put a fucking chastity belt and leash on me? What the hell do you want? What do you want!?"

"I want things to go back to the way they were."

"Well, I don't. So please go. I want to be left alone."

She must have agreed to leave quietly. You didn't dare budge until you were certain that they had vacated the bedroom. What you thought were water droplets from the bath turned out to be sweat that had accumulated over your forehead. Swiping at the moisture, you decided to dry off quietly and change back into your stale-smelling work clothes.

By the time Henry came back up to find you, you were standing in the bathroom doorway with your arms crossed.

"Babe... I'm so sorry. You okay?"

You shook your head. "You didn't tell her about me."

"Baby, come on—"

"No. You said nothing! You told me you would tell her!"

Henry's bones went rubbery for a moment as he groaned in frustration. "Please. I don't need to get reamed out by you, too!"

"Why didn't you tell her?"

He snorted with heavy sarcasm. "Why didn't I? Um, did you hear the woman? Hi, no, come in and start screaming at me. Oh, and, by the way, I have a girlfriend now and I was just fucking her in the bathroom, care to meet her!? Yeah, like that would go over well!"

"But you still haven't told her is my point, Henry. You've had all the opportunity in the world to tell her the truth and you still haven't."

"What do you want me to say? I don't want to talk to her. Every moment I get away from work I've been with you! Spending time with you, taking you out, making sure that you're happy."

"I'd be happy if you just cut the bullshit and told your fucking wife about me!"

"Baby," Henry approached you but you stepped back. "Please... I have to go about this delicately. If I tell her, I'll lose everything. She gets everything in the divorce if she can prove infidelity. Everything. I'll be ruined."

"Maybe that's what you should get for being a cheating liar."

"Weren't you the one begging me to tell you how much better you are than her? Were you not just getting off on my fucking ring finger? Why are you suddenly against me?"

You dropped your crossed arms to your sides and sighed. "I think I should go."

Henry's scowl softened immediately, and he reached out for you again. "No. Please, no. Don't go. Please, baby. Just stay here with me."

"No... I should. I just... I don't want to stay after all that."

Some frail string inside of him had finally pulled taut enough to break, and you watched his bottom lip wobble first and his nostrils flare to hold in a whimper. Then the shine that came over his eyes made your chest ache and he took one more step closer so he could reach you. He hooked his arms underneath yours and bent forward to rest his head on your shoulder. The embrace was desperate, and he clung tightly.

"No... No, no, no, no, no," he murmured. "Don't go. Please. I need you. I love you. Please. I don't want to sleep without you."

[belzinone]

Your Muse in Quotes :: Bel Zinone

Rules: Pick four to seven quotes describing your Muse in a way and briefly explain why they fit your Muse! Tag your friends!

tagged by @irrfahrer <3<3<3

“ Do no harm, take no shit “ & “ What do we say to Death? Not today “

// these are is her main characteristic quotes. the first one doesn’t have a clear origin. some sources say a book, a sassy take on the original hippocratic oath, ahimsa (an ancient indian principle of nonviolence), or a variation of the golden rule repeated in a fuckton of cultures. it’s pretty much a cliche often co-opted by badass nurses and the like. nonetheless, it’s pretty straightforward and captures her duality of being a health practitioner and with none of the docile stereotypes it can come with. the second is a quote i saw around from game of thrones. i don’t know it in context but it’s hella on brand so i use it for her medical officer verse tag now

“ DON'T EVER THINK THAT THE REASON I AM peaceful IS BECAUSE I FORGOT HOW TO BE violent. BEFORE THEIR mothers, BEFORE THEIR god, THEY CRY FOR ME. “

// this is the quote i have on her main page, which is a patchwork of targeted quotes i found in a combat medic google search. they’re cheesy as hell (and tbh idk if i still wanna be using them bc targeted shit rEEKS of incel akjsgnjkan) but duality is a recurring theme for her. though she’s everyone’s first defense against mortal injury and i’d like for her to reach head officer status eventually, this isn’t something she’d really say. it’s a bit too prideful for her but if she has to roll for intimidation, sure, she’ll talk herself up

“ Ist das der Zerstörer? Oder der Schöpfer? “

// another quote i repeat on her blog a lot. it’s also the most repeated snk lyric cliche that varies slightly in each song, but i got massive chills when i first heard it in bauklötze. personally, it relates to her mortal / playing god duality and echoes the struggles she faces throughout the narrative (is she a healer or a killer?) as a pisces, this is also pretty on brand for her haha

“ you’re gonna be ok “ & “ you’re going home “

// way back when, an old friend of mine was gifting edits for the ocs in orbit and when she asked me for a quote, this is what i gave her. it’s not monumental or original, but she repeats it a lot as a mantra to comfort scared soldiers (even if it’s a lie)

“ run “

// another quote that isn’t anything on its own, but holds a lot of weight on her mind. running is something her mother’s told her to do time and time again in the chaos of the underground. many a time she’s had to take off and find her way home while her mother fended off attackers. the word now follows (and haunts) her as a sixth sense whenever she’s in danger. the more seasoned a soldier she becomes, the less she listens to it. the melody from p!nk’s song “run” is also the one she uses to communicate via her messenger dove and serves as a lost anthem between her and her mother.

“ ℓєт мє ѕєє тнє ∂αяк ѕι∂єѕ αѕ ωєℓℓ αѕ тнє ℓιﻭнт —– ι'м ﻭσηηα ℓσνє уσυ ιηѕι∂є συт “

// a lyric i added to her garrison soldier art. i first heard this song through the spotify playlist heart beats, and it just hits me as the kind of lover she’d be. (tbh the album art probably had something to do with it too lol)

“                 I WANT to believe—                              No, I choose to believe            That I was made to become;                      a  SANCTUARY “

// this is a quote i pulled out of her musings tag that snatches her wig. i just barely listened to the song now (it’s so </3 ) and there’s a lot more in it that speaks to her. she’s always felt so personally inadequate, held a lot of prowess in her skill sets but but very grey in her personal identities as an aroace demifemme. she longs for a lot of things but struggles shaking the empty, so she convinces herself that her job’s not to have, but provide. it’s how she copes with her deep sense of inhumanity when left to her own devices.

//  also just gonna... lay out her whole medical officer musing tag bc she’s tired of me poking into her head like this ksajdfnakdfdna

tagging everyone on the dash ft. the last few peeps in my notes: @dieulache​ @nightmare-fantasia​ @athousandgxld​ @wolfstillhasclaws​ @midorigxrxge​ @themelleniasisters​ / @wingsofintxlligence​ @anhedonialunatic​ @huntsman-ash​ @the115project​ @houseofsxnner​ @feirn-vay​ @rulerofthesewalls​ @spiitfyres​ @mckeitbeautiful​ 

[simplythebestbug]

Day 2: Convention AU (Felinette)

AO3

@auyeahaugust

(Note: In this AU, Marinette and Félix are not heroes. In fact, The Heroes of Paris is just a large multimedia experience- there isn’t a real LB, etc.)

Félix sighed, straightening his bow tie. He stood outside the convention, already regretting the decision to come. He was dressed in a Marinette-brand Ladybug themed suit, and he was unhappy. Not with the suit, of course, it was practically flawless, as was everything she made. No, he was unhappy that he had been coerced into attending a ‘hero con.’ 

It was Marinette who found out about it, her parents catering the event, and Claude who had insisted they all attend. Félix was all too happy to decline the invitation… but then Marinette started talking about her Ladybug suit designs, and how they would be just perfect for him, and she looked so excited, and- well, he wasn’t a monster. 

Claude and Allegra were approaching, and when Claude spotted him, he broke into a sprint, “Fé! Baby!” He struck a pose, “I’m looking pretty foxy, don’t you think?”

Félix looked him up and down critically. He was wearing a Rena Rouge themed magical girl dress, with an abundance of ruffles and six inch wedge heels- how did he run in those? It was quite an outstanding dress (Marinette’s talent guaranteed that).

Claude was grinning, “Sexy, right?”

Félix raised an eyebrow, “Indubitably.”

“See, Queenie? I told you! I’m hot as hell!” Claude said, shooting Félix a wink.

“Yeah, yeah,” Allegra laughed, “Fé, what do you think of the outfits? Your girlfriend is pretty talented.”

He glared at her. The Queen Bee suit was impressive, and Félix could freely admit that. After all, it would be wrong not to compliment such beautiful craftsmanship. He was, however, growing unbelievably tired of Allegra’s not-so-subtle prodding of him towards a romantic relationship with Marinette. The nature of their connection was between him and her alone, and if there were to be a change of any kind, it would be a mutual decision on both of their parts. Allegra- and to the same extent, the rest of their friends- had no business interfering.

She poked his nose, ignoring when he recoiled, “Relax, darling, I’m just joking.”

“Don’t worry, Félix, buddy! I gotcha!” A green blur dashed in front of him, holding up a shield, “Shelter!”

“Allan! Rude!” Allegra pouted.

“I will not allow you to torment this civilian!”

“He’s not a civilian, he’s Ladybug! He can take it!”

Allan narrowed his eyes, “That’s just what an akuma would say.”

They broke down into laughter, meanwhile, Claude was eyeing the shield.

“You got your signature weapon? Lucky! Why didn’t we get weapons?”

“Oh, we did,” Allegra pulled out her spinning top.

“Well, Fé and I didn’t-” Félix gestured to the yo-yo strapped to his hip.

“What? I’m the only one without a weapon?”

Allegra shrugged, “Sorry, darling.”

“I bet Mari knew better than to give you a flute-sword-combo thing,” Allan shuddered dramatically, “You would have wreaked havoc!”

“Exactly!” Claude groaned, “This is biphobia at its finest.”

“Speaking of Mari,” Allegra began, looking around, “Where is that girl?”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Marinette yelled, rushing over to them. At the last step she tripped, falling right into Félix’s arms. 

He chuckled, “Hi, Nette.”

She stared up at him, blood rushing to her cheeks.

She was beautiful, in a sleeveless black dress with green accents, a staff strapped to her back. She was wearing fingerless gloves, her nails filed to emulate claws, and her muscles were on full display. Félix knew Marinette was strong, but he was convinced that actually seeing her biceps was almost a religious experience. The only thing more attractive than her arms, were her eyes.

Allan cleared his throat, “Are you two done staring at each other?”

Félix flushed, setting Marinette safely on the ground. He was glad she had opted out of heels.

Her eyes flitted away, “You look nice, Fé.”

His eyes widened.

“Not like, nice-nice!” She spluttered, “Just- you look good! I look good on you- no, I mean, I compliment you nicely! No! My designs compliment you nicely! Not that you don’t look good without my designs! You’d look good without anything- no I just mean that you always look good and-”

Allegra laughed, placing her hands on her shoulders, “Mari, deep breathe. In. Out. There you go.”

She smiled, nodding, “Do you all like your designs? You look amazing!”

“We love them!” Allan said.

“Same here, Mari! They’re gorgeous!”

“I’m the magical girl I’ve always wanted to be,” Claude said, eyes welling up.

“Oh my god,” Marinette gasped, “Claude, are you crying?!”

He wiped away a tear, “I’m just so pretty!”

Allegra leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek, “Yes, you are, darling.”

“Totally, bro!” Allan said, patting his back.

“You know who else is pretty?” Allegra said, “Marinette. Isn’t that right, guys?”

Félix was a fan of words, and yet knew of none that properly described Marinette. Pretty wasn’t nearly strong enough, but he supposed it would have to suffice. He had yet to tear his eyes away from the girl. He had known that he was to come as Ladybug, and her as Chat Noir, but it wasn’t until now that he fully understood the feeling of being cast as her other half- even in a fictional scenario. 

“What do you think, Félix?” Allegra asked with a sly grin.

“I- uhm. What was that?”

She blinked innocently,“Do you think Marinette is pretty?”

“Well, I- I mean, if you think- well, if by which you mean- I don’t really- um.”

“It’s ok, Fé,” Marinette rubbed her arm, looking away, “You don’t have to answer that.”

He froze. No. She didn’t think- no. He had to fix this, “No! I- that’s not what I mean, I,” He took a deep breath, swallowing his nerves along with his pride. He could do this. He straightened his shoulders, and said, “I think you look absolutely purrrrrfect.”

Allegra broke into a wide grin, and Allan was staring at him in shock.

“Did he- Did he just pun?!” Claude asked, “I’ve been trying to get him to pun for years! Years!”

If Félix hadn’t been so very preoccupied with the exact shade of pink currently occupying Marinette’s cheeks, he might have found it in himself to glare at them. As it was, however, he was far too busy staring in awe, as he watched the emotions racing across her face.

First, shock. Then, flattery, glee, and a giddy smile. Then- cunning? What was she- oh no.

She slunk towards him, brushing a thumb along his cheekbone, murmuring, “I am but a single star in the night sky, when compared to the beauty of you, m’lady.”

Félix couldn’t move.

She traced her fingers along his arm, pulling his hand to her lips, and pressed a single kiss to his knuckles.

He was almost certain that the entire universe had shifted to put her at its center, for he could not imagine anything of more importance than the smile she graced him with. He could not imagine anything at all, for that matter. At the moment, it was only her, and it was only him.

That was, until, Claude clapped his hands with a request for snacks.

Marinette broke away to show him to her parents booth.

Allan patted him on the shoulder, “Might want to close your mouth, dude,” Before trailing after his friends.

Félix snapped his jaw closed, his face heating up as he attempted to process the last minute.

“Félix, darling, you’re blushing up a storm!” Allegra said, laughing.

He was still staring fixedly at the spot where Marinette used to be.

She smiled, starting to walk away, “Come along, lover boy. You know Chat Noir doesn’t want to be away from her Ladybug for too long!”

Try as he might, he could not find it within himself to scowl at her- or anyone else, for that matter, for the remainder of the day.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, RACH! You’ve been accepted for the role of JULIET with an approved FC change to Ashika Pratt. Admin Rosey: I'm doing a happy dance right now because we finally have a Juliet back in our midst - our lovely, shining principessa has returned back to us again! Rach, your application was so enjoyable to read. It has the soft, melodic cadence of Juliana throughout the interview and laid a great foundation for her growth and development. There was an ease to it that I absolutely adored and I cannot wait to see how she will come to life on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Rach

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | 8.5 ; These quarantimes are doing  wonders for my activity levels.

Timezone | PST

How did you find the rp?  | See below!

Current/Past RP Accounts | Ahhh, so I actually played Delilah FOREVER ago @delilahbello and applied for Halcyon a while back! I know I’ve been in and out of rping for a while, but I literally have so much love for Diverona & it has such a special place in my heart I thought I might try my hand at another character. But if you wanted a more recent account I have @zubeidakhan!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Juliet; Juliana Arina Capulet  (Could I request a FC change to Ashika Pratt and an age up to 26? )

Juliana - “youthful.”

Arina - “peace”

Capulet- “determined, or head-strong”

What drew you to this character? |

I think there’s something to be said about characters that stand the test of time. The very concept of Juliet Capulet has transcended centuries, but I find there’s something particularly alluring about this modern iteration of her. In Juliana. I see this aforementioned transcendence. I see a girl who’s on the cusp of something big-- and I cannot help but be consumed by  a desire to sink my teeth into her complexities and uncover every nook and cranny she has to offer. Juliana is, after all, a girl who’s been forced to grow comfortable with toeing the line between certainty and the great unknown. Yet, beyond that line, I see something much sturdier. I am drawn to Juliet in that I see her as less of a dainty flower and more of a spider’s web (though it is fascinating how morning dew collects on both). It seems to be a recurring tragedy that girls who like flowers and pretty things are often mistaken for being merely that. But with Julianaa, I’m attracted to her haunting, persistent strength, a beauty that is equal parts aching, stubbornness, and gilded thorns. 

I am drawn to the weaving of Juliana’s web-- her paradoxes, if you will. Humans are, after all, paradoxical creatures.  She has loved just as much as she has lost (and she resents with equal rigor). She has the world in her hands, but remains uncontent, her heart bursting at the seams. Pride, compassion, loyalty, obsession-- they all coexist within Juliana manifesting in the form of her ambitions, motivations, and sense of self. Juliana is no stranger to blood and yet hate feels so foreign to her. Her sweetness does not precede her dedication nor her obedience. Juliana feels the weight of the world upon her shoulders, but charges forward unflinchingly. 

And above all, while perhaps cliche, it is love that draws me to Juliana. There is something Machiavellian about Juliana. Not the ‘ends justify the means’ Machiavelli that has been ingrained into our cultural misunderstanding of the man and his philosophies, but rather the Machiavelli who wrote and acknowledged the power of Cupid’s bow. The Machiavelli who loved his wife in a time where love before marriage was a relatively modern idea. The Machiavelli who understood the reach of a beloved leader. Needless to say, there are so many aspects of Juliana’s character that I adore, I would be delighted to play her if given the chance!

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | 

One. 

I imagine Juliana’s mother passed away when Juliana was quite young. Young enough for memories to futilely slip away, old enough to mourn and remember her loss. I see Juliana craving for good memories of her mother, just as she aches for the approval of mother’s ghost, a ghost which evades her like wisps of wind slipping through her dainty fingers the moment she's managed a secure grip. I see her as wishing she had more of her mother to replay within her mind like film-- the fire in her smile, the warmth of her embrace, her laughter like melody on a warm, summer day-- but alas, I think Juliana’s found herself trapped with something far more icy-- the frigid image of gaunt woman helplessly falling away from this world and into the next. 

Because of this, I imagine Juliana  still hasn’t come to terms with the fact that she will never know her mother in her prime. It remains the one hollow in her heart, so with all that said, I would love to explore how she attempts to fill that part of herself through her relationships with the other meaningful people in her life.  With her father, I think that she finds blood loyalty. I love the notion of delving into Juliana being both a daughter in the singular (Cosimo’s daughter) and the daughter of the collective (Verona’s daughter). Then again, perhaps it speaks volumes that she sees her father as Verona itself. With this, I want to explore what does blood loyalty mean to Juliana? This is blood loyalty, that very thing that constantly inspires the darkest parts of hers-- frustration, fury, and desperation. Perhaps it ought to be said that even desperation requires ‘lighter’ traits like hope and fealty, but is there a breaking point for Juliana? Does love bolster or shatter her loyalty? Either way, I think that the answers to these questions will guide Juliana’s actions moving forward and would provide an interesting challenge to her character.

Two.

As for the other major figures in her life, Vivianne is arguably her most obvious maternal figure, which is why I think it would be interesting to explore how she seeks a mother’s wisdom and experience from someone who isn’t her blood. I am fascinated by what drove her initial resistance to Vivianne-- was it merely a child’s mourning or perhaps was it foreshadowing that her loyalty is more complicated and pliable than what meets the eye. While I could envision Juliana being played either way (most likely a combination both ways), Juliana’s relationship with Vivianne is a fascinating fixture of her character that I would love to delve deeper into. I think there is much to be learned for Vivianne in the ways of both womanhood and business (though I suspect they are far from separate entities). Vivianne has been a fierce advocate for Juliana, something she’s immensely grateful for, but I would like to see Juliana learn how to advocate for herself. How does the Capulet heiress give weight to her words-- is it the fulfillment of promises? Or better yet, is it the threat of something dangerous to come?

As for Rafaella, Tiberius, and Priam (and possibly even Roman) I cannot help but root for Juliana in her quest to find understanding in this lonesome world. Here is Juliana Capulet, surrounded by people but still so incredibly alone. Such a sweet, vivacious girl ought not to be as lonely as she is. I think that there is a part of Juliana has equated love and understanding. But where love can be evasive and consuming, temporary understanding is achievable. For Juliana it is found in small, kind deeds and shared life experience, but I would love to explore this on a larger scale. How do these tangible aspects of generally abstract concepts apply to Juliana’s unestablished relationships? I think there are many themes to explore there-- generational similarities, shared loss, forgiveness, ect. How do each of these external factors affect her internal sense of duty and loyalty? 

Three. 

Finally, I would like to see Juliana confronted by her privilege. Juliana is a girl born heiress to an empire, free from any want, and while her life has been far from ideal, I would like to see Juliana in a position where her fortune and name loses its relevance. While I suspect that in such a situation. Juliana would be moved to cling on to her faith in love even more, I do wonder if Juliana would take such an opportunity to relieve herself of the burdensome weight of being an heiress, even if only momentarily.  Alternatively, on the topic of love and burdens, I do wonder, how Juliana would grapple with the choice between love and loyalty. Just as she has equalized love and understanding, one of Juliana's biggest blindspots is that she has mistaken love and loyalty to be synonymous, when in fact they are arguably quite contradictory. While she sees herself as loyal to love, I would love to explore Juliana’s mindset as she’s forced to reckon with the two as opposing forces. It’s niave of Juliana to believe her loyalty is enough and I think there’s a part of her that knows that, which would make such a choice all the more enthralling to unpack. 

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes, I mean after all, Romeo & Juliet did end in a very specific way...

IN DEPTH

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

What is your favorite place in Verona? | 

It’s begun to lightly drizzle in the garden. It’s a hazy summer afternoon, sticky and humid, but Juliana finds herself hard-pressed to move from the bench. Eyes closed, head tilted upwards, she finds she understands the thunderclouds, the raindrops, and the floods that rise to her knees. She’s become numb to the water’s presence, for it’s a cleansing experience to be drenched by the clouds in the sky. They do not know it yet, but she is one of them, a cloud—one moment an innocuous softness, the next a violent hurricane.

Opening her eyes, Juliana is shocked to find she is not alone, but rather in the company of an older stranger who eyes her with burgeoning curiosity. While mostly bare-faced, she still retains her aura of glamour, perhaps aided by the presence of her designer coat and untouched umbrella. Still, for Juliana it is strange to be regarded with such unfamiliarity. In her experience, perfect strangers were so terribly rare in Verona. She seemed to know everyone, or rather, everyone seemed to know her.

The stranger finally approaches her, taking a seat beside Juliana as the rain continues to pick up pace, drenching the garden and all its inhabitants in a light mist.

“Do you have a favorite place around these parts?” the old man asks, his voice deep and raspy, but not entirely unkind. His words are laced with a thick Italian accent, though she suspects he is not a native Veronian like herself. She had always had an ear for accents, an eye for details. His small talk was quaint and unusual, but who was she to deny herself some company and an exchange of words on this drizzly day.

She ponders his question monetarily, mentally tracing through the city in her mind, akin to skimming an elegant finger over a spinning globe. To choose a favorite place in Verona, Juliana thinks, is to choose a favorite child, in that even if one were to say they didn’t have one, they’d certainly be lying. This was not to say it was a particularly simple choice for her, as she liked to think all of Verona was her home. Her soul was old, her heart young, her mind fashioned from little snippets of the city’s vibrant history, forging a strikingly beautiful tapestry of a true Veronian girl. 

“Why, here, of course,” Juliana says, smiling a glossy-lipped smile that could stop lightning in its tracks. “The museum and club are both lovely, but I must admit I’m quite partial to the Twelfth Night’s gardens. When I was younger my father would always hand me a coin to toss into that little fountain by the pond and make a wish. It must be the luckiest, if not the wealthiest, fountain in all of Verona.”

It’s a response that feels breezy and challengeless, but lacks a certain levity that would make it wholly true. It is, of course, only partially true as Juliana had in fact, tossed many coins into the pond over her lifetime. As for the notion of luck, it was fair to say she had been met with mixed results and limited success, but given that her earlier wishes had begun in vain (first begging for her mother’s health and later, for her father to step away from Capulet business) she never found it in herself to fault the fountain entirely. Most recently, she’s begun her newest ritual, tossing in a coin for luck right before particularly dangerous missions, that is until Rafaella had caught her one afternoon, shattering her already precarious spell of belief.

“You do know they just collect the coins at the end of every week,” she recalls Rafaella telling her. 

“And what do they do with them?” Juliana remembers asking with genuine curiosity. 

Rafaella shrugs, “They donate it to the youth program-- they try and get unprivileged kids engaged with the art and history.”

Needless to say, she’s continued to wishlessly drop coins in the fountain ever since.

What does your typical day look like?

She turns her attention from the fountain back towards the stranger who sits beside her, ears engaged with her every word. 

“And you spend most of your days here? In the rain, signora?” he asks gently, with a small chuckle.

“Is this your way of asking what my typical day looks like, signore?” 

“As I grow further from my youth…I cannot help but wonder what it is like to be young in these times,” he responds, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Ah, so that is what this is, a recaputurement of his youth. While her instincts urge her to avoid such potentially revealing conversation, she cannot suppress her overcoming sympathy for the man. There’s a loneliness in his eyes that she recognizes, the very one she faces each time she peers at her own reflection. 

“If you must know, I do not spend all my time in the rain,” she clarifies, humoring his original query, “I spend most of my days working for my father...it keeps me busy enough.”

“And your father? What does he do?”

“He’s a--” Juliana pauses, as if to search for the right descriptor of her father’s work, that won’t immediately reveal her own identity, “--a businessman, of sorts.” 

She supposes if blood and bone were merely a form of currency, then businessman was certainly an apt descriptor. After all, it took a certain business-sense to run any sort of empire. While she may have inherited her father’s astuteness, she hasn't been rid her of all mercy, for she kills with a precision only a kind girl could have, pulls blood with an accuracy only one who understands pain could know. It takes a delicate touch to snap a neck, elegant restraint to pull life from body, a silken touch to strangle. She takes no joy from causing harm, but she is meticulous in her work, her fingers so soft, so stained with red, it sometimes hurts to say she’s done it all in the name of love. 

What has been your biggest mistake thus far? 

“Business…” the old man mulls, “It's a difficult way to make it in this world...so little room for error.”

“Indeed, mistakes can be lethal,” Juliana nods in agreement. If only he knew that the agreeable girl before him spoke of lethality in the actual sense, as opposed to the metaphorical one. 

“And you, signora? What has been your biggest mistake thus far?” 

Juliana looks at the man with surprise. What odd questions from a stranger. Still, she’s captured by the conversation, a chance to talk so deeply with a man she’s never known, who seems entirely content with listening. She doesn’t know too many listeners in her own life.

She is, however, unsure of how to respond. For one, did not like to dwell on her mistakes and misgivings. It was unbecoming of someone in her position to fail and furthermore, to brood on such failures. 

Nonetheless, her mind flits to one of her earliest missions where her merciful ways had gotten the better of her. She had hesitated a second too long and she quickly learned her lesson when the coolness of the marble floor pressed painfully against her knees, gun digging painfully into her head. She does not weep, for crying would be too easy. Instead, she refuses to let herself drown. Vivianne gives her second life and her father gives her a second chance. 

“I think my biggest mistake does not matter, signor,” Juliana replied, “what matters most is that I will never make it again.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you? 

“You are a very wise one, signora,” the man comments and Juliana surprised at the way her heart swells with pride in response to the compliment. He was a mere stranger and yet she already placed value in his approval. Old habits, she supposed. 

“And your father-- he is good to you?” the man asks, “Doesn’t expect too much of you?”

“He is good to me,” Juliana affirms, “Though I fear I am never entirely sure of what he expects of me.”

“In that case, what is the most difficult task that has been asked of you?” he inquires further.

Juliana knows the answer to his question, though she’s not sure if she prepared to reveal it to herself, much less a stranger. Truly, the most difficult thing that’s been asked of her had been to watch her mother fade away so brutally, so slowly. It was, after all, her first acquaintance with injustice. Her failure to do anything to save her mother was painful and lingering, but her salty tears could only last for so long. If only for a moment, she had thought of herself a killer then, unaware of the true brutality that festered within her sweet, blue veins.

Her father had responded to the grief by throwing himself into his work, and she too would follow for reasons entirely different, and yet, entirely the same. 

“To live with loss,” Juliana says with a certain finality, as if to clarify she had no desire to elaborate. 

“Indeed, it is the most difficult task of all. It’s quite strange how one is never explicitly asked to live with loss, and yet here we remain.”

“Here we remain.” Juliana repeats and as if on queue, the clouds begin to part. 

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“Signora, forgive me for prying, but I must ask-- living here, in this city-- what are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?” the man asks, a striking turn from his previous question.

And there it was. If all roads led to Rome, then every conversation led to the feud. What could she possibly say in response? My name is Juliana Capulet. This war is in my blood.

He seems to sense her change in demeanor.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I did not mean to startle you with talk of blood and wars, I simply imagined a Veronian girl such as yourself familiar with the tales of this land,” the man explains apologetically, deep frown lines of worry, forming upon his thick brow. 

“Worry not, signor, you do not startle me. I startle far less easily than perhaps it appears. I’m simply afraid I must be on my way now.”

“Of course, my dear. I cherish your time more than you know. May I at least catch your name, signora?”

She slides off the bench gracefully before turning to face the man one final time.

“Juliet. They call me Juliet.”

Extras:

Mock Blog 

Pinterest 

[kikizoshi]

may i request a fyogol drabble or short fic about fyodors birthday and how he doesn't think its important but nikolai uses it as an excuse to show him a silly magic trick and suddenly their day isn't going so badly anymore

Yes, of course! Thanks for the ask (and on Fyodor’s birthday, too; this really is such a treat)! I took a few liberties with the story, as you’ll see, because I thought it fit with their theme a bit better, but I tried to include everything you asked for. And, yeah, I hope you enjoy it! It was great having an outside reason to write, so thank you very much!

     The ticking and tocking clock mocks Gogol as he swings his legs, laying half off a new-smelling bed and utterly bored out of his mind. ‘Tick’ reminds him that there’s nothing to do. ‘Tock’ reminds him that he could make something to do. ‘Tick’ argues that he can���t do something out of the ordinary for his character designation of Secretary. 'Tock’ disagrees, because who’s going to be looking at Secretary, anyway? Gogol vaguely remembers the story of an angel and demon on one’s shoulder and groans out loud at the overused cliche.

     He looks over to the door and sighs. He doesn’t mind any of the other scenery around the room–he’d long since tired of the dull white walls and clean kitchen. The worn, polished picture frames and the new IKEA desk mean nothing if their owner doesn’t care for their contents. No, the only things of mild value remain tucked away in Gogol’s cloak, and so nothing catches his eye. It’s just the door that’s insufferable. A sort of freedom taunts him this time in the form of being so very close, and it’s maddening. Strangely, both Tick and Tock agree with him on that.

     Gogol sighs harder–as though that will relieve him of his tantalizing thoughts–and scratches at his black wig. He looks at the tiny slit of a gap between the door and the doorframe and imagines himself becoming as thin as paper (or maybe thinner?), slipping through that taunting crevice. He can practically feel it–the smooth, slightly rough but oh so satisfying slide against the door and doorframe until he’s out and the cool, near-winter air whisks him up, up and away from this melancholic, drab, caged act.

     The clock forgets Gogol’s even there, arguing with itself louder, and that damned itch won’t go away, so Gogol scratches more–only serving to irritate the skin, itching it further–stills his legs, and the free energy coils up in his gut, screaming at him to move. He jolts up and throws the wig across the pristine floor, dragging his nails along his scalp irritably. God, how do people spend their every day like this?!

     It’s terrible, yes, simply awful, so why should Gogol stay in their hell? No, he has better things to do. It’s a very important day, after all! A grin stretches his face at that, the thought instantly lightening his mood. He’d almost forgotten the speciality of this day, but how could he? When his dear, dear friend and coworker surely sits all alone, up to his neck in a pawn that won’t comply or coding that defies all logic or whatever it is that Dostoyevsky even does–for Gogol finds himself rather unaware of such things even when Dostoyevsky explains it to him, such is the work as enigmatic as the worker–what else can Gogol be expected to do if not cheer him up?

     And so, without even bothering to question whether or not his friend actually is in any sort of stress at the moment, Gogol shoots up and all but dashes to the door, only barely stopping to grab his cape before he goes. He does take careful pains to lock his door, however–unwelcome visitors are always troublesome.

     The breeze is … not as cold as he’d expected, though why he expected cold weather at all in Japan is perhaps a mystery not even he can solve. It is cool though, a pleasant breeze even if not a cold one, and Gogol’s smile softens at it. 'We should visit a park or something later,’ he thinks, 'or perhaps look on the city from one of those Mafia buildings?’ He looks up in contemplation to try to see the four tall shapes. Sadly, they don’t appear in his line of view, but that can be fixed! Gogol swings around, walking backwards now and garnering a few stares but that doesn’t matter much now. Now that Gogol can see those dark pillars–and the alley he’s looking for is half a mile away–he gets lost in his imagination for what they could do there.

     The breeze blows chillier than it does on the ground–much more akin to what the two are used to, picking up their capes and blowing them so far they look to be seeking escape–and the city lights twinkling below them could almost be pretty if they weren’t another sign of this world’s latent corruption. That doesn’t matter as much, though, Gogol is sure, since the wind still feels nice and his friend looks to be at some sort of peace for once.

     "Hey, hey, Dos-kun?“ A grin stretches Gogol’s face as he comes up with a marvellous new joke, “What’s the synonym of both 'essential to society’ and 'ignorance’?! I’ll give you three guesses, though I’m sure you only need one!”

     "There are many answers to that, how am I to know which one you mean?“

     "Why, that’s the point!” Gogol laughs, loud and free, “If I weren’t vague, my audience wouldn’t have to guess and the quiz would be no fun at all!”

     "That’s true.“ Dostoyevsky keeps his blank face faced towards the sparkling city as though lost in thought, but Gogol thinks it might just be less cold than usual. “Well then, in this case, your answer is 'the Port Mafia’, as they’re both essential to Yokohama’s society and incredibly ignorant for allowing us to slip onto their roof.”

     "Excellent, bravo, that’s exactly correct!“ Gogol jumps up from the edge they’re both sitting on to proclaim in a sweeping gesture, "It’s a perfect answer, and since you replied so splendidly, I have a special offer!” He holds a hand out to Dostoyevsky–whose hand is gloved, for once; a fact for which Gogol is incredibly thankful–that’s then taken, although the latter doesn’t move to stand. “IIIIIIt’s 'Double or Nothing Time’!!! For the price of figuring out one more trick, I’ll double the prize you would have gotten! Beware though,” Gogol’s voice suddenly drops to a dire whisper, “for if you get this one wrong, you’ll lose everything and be doubly tricked.”

     Dostoyevsky smiles slightly. “And do I have to stand for this new trick of yours?” he asks.

     "Hm, no, I suppose not. Only give me a second.“ Gogol lets go of Dostoyevsky’s hand and pulls his cape across the top half of his body, vanishing it in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes. Not for long though, as it’s back in front of him when he turns back to look at the city. And also a little too close for comfort. Dostoyevsky pokes Gogol in the chest, a signal for him to back up slightly, which he does with a laugh and 'floats’ there merrily in the air, simply grinning at Dostoyevsky for a moment.

     "So this trick of yours is …” Dostoyevsky trails off, waiting for Gogol to finish–a request to which he happily complies.

     "Yes! You see, I found this the other day,“ Gogol retrieves from his cloak a regular paper napkin, completely average in every way, and holds it out like it’s the Holy Grail, "and I just had to use it! So, my willing participant, if you would be so kind as to hold this for me,” Gogol rips the napkin in two and picks up Dostoyevsky’s right hand, placing one half inside of it, “and I’ll take the other one, see, and curl it up like so,” he crushes his half of the napkin into a ball about half the size of a tennis ball and holds it up with glee, “and viola!”

     "… Your trick is a ball.“ Dostoyevsky stares at him, unimpressed. Gogol laughs again. "No, no! Not a ball,” he cackles, “the ball is only the beginning! No, though the ball is very nice, it’s what’s inside the ball that’s important! If the magician can’t get the special component outside of the ball, then there’s not much point at all, and everyone’s left unsatisfied!”

     "And that is?“

     "Magic, of course!”

     "Of course.“

     "Yes, sooo,” Gogol sways the ball around in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes, “I want you to pay very special attention to this ball. Whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t, for even a second, let it out of your sight. If you do, then you automatically fail!”

     Dostoyevsky nods.

     "Alright! Now then,“ Gogol puts the ball into his cupped right hand, "as you can see, the ball is here now,” he closes his hand, “and now you don’t see it!” He laughs gaily, though sobers enough to continue when Dostoyevsky gives the ball an exasperated look. He opens his hand back up and takes the ball back with his left hand. “So now, when I put the ball in my hand for the second time and close it, you can be sure that, when I open it again, there will be only empty air! Ready?” Gogol grins wider at Dostoyevsky’s nod.

     Now, here’s the tricky part. Gogol holds the hand with the ball just high enough that a quick flick should be out of Dostoyevsky’s periphrial vision, then quickly brings his left hand down as if he’s putting the ball in. He closes his hand and looks back to Dostoyevsky and … and Dostoyevsky’s not looking at him.

     Rather than focusing on Gogol, like he’d wanted, Dostoyevsky had stayed true to his word and now looks towards the edge of the roof where the ball must have been swept off by the wind. Slowly, he turns his unimpressed expression back to Gogol, though Gogol doesn’t miss the tinge of humour in it. Gogol sighs. Well, it was worth a try. Though he’d hoped he’d get farther than that, it’s not like he didn’t expect–

     "Ah, I see,“ Dostoyevsky continues with a smirk, cutting off Gogol’s train of thought, "so I’ve already been caught.” He holds up the hand that Gogol had taken at the very beginning palm-up to himself and sighs. Right there, though he’d been too distracted to notice it at the time–something Gogol takes great pride in–is a small, flat cylinder, not unlike a poker chip, with a counter counting down from about a minute on it.

     Gogol makes a show of falling back out of his cape and laughs to the sky. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually! Though perhaps it’s too late?! After all, time’s running out and the release switch is who knows where.” Gogol grins mischievously, gloating over his assured victory. To his delight, it actually has the intended effect!

     Dostoyevsky stands, smirk still there although merging with an outright smile now, and walks over to Gogol. Nonchalantly, as though he has all the time in the world, Dostoyevsky reaches into Gogol’s right hand and presses the button on the switch.

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

     Dostoyevsky jumps, startled, at Gogol chuckles and confetti flies out of the disk on Dostoyevsky’s hand, said disk falling to the ground shortly after.

     "Happy birthday!“ Gogol shouts, throwing his arms up in excitement, "And may we wish for many more to come.”

     "So that’s why you brought me up here?“ Dostoyevsky sits back down on the edge, raising a hand to his head. "That’s a long way and a lot of time for nothing, Gogol.”

     "Certainly,“ Gogol says seriously, "That’s why it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing!’ If it was 'Much Ado About Something’ or 'Much Ado About Most Things’ then people wouldn’t be as interested! No, it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing’, and isn’t it such a luxury to have any ado not attributed to anything? I think so. And, wouldn’t you like to experience it too? If only for a little while.” Gogol smiles genuinely, taking a seat back beside Dostoyevsky and taking his hand.

     "I hate to be the one to inform you of this,“ Dostoyevsky says, "but your whole existence could be said to be 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ and therefore insignificant.”

     "Aah, but you see,“ Gogol leans in conspiratorially, "if I were to vanish from society today, it would have an effect. Not an immediate or noticeable one, perhaps, but an effect nonetheless. Therefore, even if you call my existence 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ my actions have to do with something! But anyway,” Gogol takes in a deep breath of air, suddenly becoming much calmer in the moment, “It’s true that I know how to have fanfare over trivialities, but you don’t seem to. It’s always the end or beginning of the world, but nothing ever happens outside of that. Wouldn’t you like to try, then, and take a step out of reality for even just a handful of minutes? Surely it wouldn’t be terrible.”

     "Perhaps.“ Dostoyevsky’s smile becomes only that, then, and he sighs a sigh that Gogol might almost venture to call contented. "I hope you plan on cleaning the confetti, because I definitely won’t.”

     Gogol laughs.

     Coming out of his thoughts, Gogol notices the alleyway to his destination and grins. It’s just about time, then. Even if things won’t happen exactly the way he’d imagined them, just seeing Dostoyevsky soften is more than enough of a goal for the day!

     With that in mind, he sweeps through his cape the rest of the way and ends up in a fairly cramped room. It’s a few doors behind an underground bar–'Lupin’ he remembers the sign said–that Dostoyevsky bought from the now-dead owner of the establishment. As such, the backroom that Gogol finds himself in isn’t too big, holding only a small group of pillows Gogol guesses could be called a bed, a single glowing bulb fixed into the ceiling, a desk, chair, and a few monitors. Why, exactly, Dostoyevsky decides to stay here, when there are plenty other–better–places to stay, Gogol has no idea. The former doesn’t seem to have a problem with the setup, however, as he’s … well, he’s doing something completely unexpected now that Gogol looks at him with properly adjusted eyes.

     Dostoyevsky looks up from his book, the stark pink colouring of it seemingly shining in the dark room as he lowers it slightly. “Gogol. What brings you here?” He asks.

     "My, you sound positively brimming with happiness at my visit! Can I not see friends when the boredom consumes me whole?“

     "No, it’s not that you can’t, but you never do things without even a minuscule reason. Humans don’t.”

     Gogol sighs. Working up to his fantasy will take time, but it’s time well-spent if it’s time with his friend. Or coworker. Dostoyevsky doesn’t seem to be in a good mood, after all. “Yes, and that boredom is my very reason! Usually you would get that … Oh no, is something seriously wrong?!”

     "No, I understood that. But you have another motive, too.“ Dostoyevsky sets his book on the table next to him and leans back in his chair.

     "Of course, of course,” Gogol relents, “because … No, but I’ll let you guess! What better way to get the mind working than a quiz?! And a quiz needs a hint! Let’s see, 'what rhymes with "calendar?”’“

     "November. You’re here because of my birthday too then, but there’s no need and even less so since you have to break character to be here.”

     "On the contrary, it’s very important! Even if not to you, then to the people around you, so,“ Gogol reaches into his cloak–and readjusts it while he’s at it. Had he really been so careless in throwing it on?–and pulls out a small-ish, lumpy yet neatly wrapped package, "I’ll let you guess what this is, and if you get it right, I’ll give you a second present!”

     Dostoyevsky takes the package–irritably–and feels it, squishing and turning and making a mess of the packaging. Gogol watches in anticipation. 

     After a few moments, Dostoyevsky answers. “It’s a new ushanka.” Promptly, before Gogol can announce the verdict, Dostoyevsky rips open the packaging to reveal a hat exactly like the one he’s wearing. He sighs. “I already have one though. What’s the point in getting a new one?”

     "Because!“ Gogol exclaims, "You were talking about that guy–”

     "Dazai?“

     "Maybe–you didn’t mention him by name–and I thought, since you were so peeved at him for wearing your hat, you’d want a new one that you could call unsullied by your nemesis!”

     "I see.“ Dostoyevsky removes his hat and replaces it with the new one from Gogol. Much to Gogol’s delight, his expression does soften some as he feels at it on his head. "It’s softer,” Dostoyevsky says.

     "Of course, your other one was getting rather old, too.“ Gogol smiles and pats Dostoyevsky on the head through his cape. "This one should be warmer as well, although I still don’t know how you manage to wear such furry clothes in the heat–”

     "Thank you,“ Dostoyevsky says, smiling, "it’s nice.”

     Gogol smiles back and moves closer to Dostoyevsky. “I haven’t forgotten about your second present either.” Slowly– to give Dostoyevsky enough time to move away if he wishes–Gogol slips his arms around him in a semi-awkward embrace and says simply, “Happy birthday.”

     Dostoyevsky returns the hug, “Still, I can’t help but think this should be a time of mourning for you, too.”

     When Gogol pulls back, Dostoyevsky is smiling cunningly. Gogol mildly worries. “E-Eh? Why would I mourn the day of your birth?”

     "How about a quiz?“ The smile stays, and Gogol feels himself cornered before the conversation has even ended. "Since you like them so much, I’ll provide one this time.”

     "Why thank you,“ Gogol laughs, pulling away completely to sit on the pillows across from him, and thinks aloud, "Let’s see, a reason to mourn Dos-kun’s birth … Because it’s bad for the world? But I don’t believe that! His existence hasn’t caused me any pain not of my own making, has been very beneficial, yet I have some reason to mourn it …” After a few moments of silence, Gogol finally throws his hands up in defeat. “I have no idea! I give up, so you’ll have to tell me.”

     The now-smirk grows, “Because,” Dostoyevsky begins, as though explaining something to a schoolboy, “now you’ll no longer be able to make jokes of being the older one of us.”

     Gogol’s eyes shoot wide open as he processes the new information. “Oh no!” He screams, “How could I have forgotten such an important detail?! You’re right. This is terrible, utterly awful! But alas, I must endure it … Yes, I’ll endure it for a few more months, and then all will be right again!”

     "But you won’t,“ Dostoyevsky says, "because you won’t have the chance.”Gogol tilts his head in confusion. “What? Of course March will get here eventually! So why wouldn’t–” Just then, as though the realisation strikes him with a staggering force, he leans back onto the wall and his smile falls sad. “Ah, of course. I won’t be here for March.”

     Dostoyevsky nods. “Precisely.” His expression becomes grim too, and he comes to sit next to Gogol. “So perhaps we should change the plan–it’s what I was thinking when you came in. There are a few ways about it, although the boss won’t like it very much, it’s not as though they can do anything about it if we decide not to go through with 'Sunday’s Tragedy,’ as you like to call it.”

     Gogol shakes his head, a resolute smile on his lips. “No, that’d be no good. The whole point of Sunday’s Tragedy is that it happens. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it went differently, so of course, we can’t change it. Don’t you already know that?”

     Dostoyevsky sighs. “Yes,” he says simply, resting his head against the wall and looking at nothing in particular. There’s nothing else to say, Gogol supposes. Still, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Dostoyevsky wasn’t supposed to end up depressed by the end–Gogol wasn’t either.

     "It’s,“ Gogol says, "It’s going to turn out fine. After all, we’ve known each other for, say, about nine years now, and most of the plans you worked on came to fruition. Even if these plans are shared amongst others, I believe in the things you create, so you can believe in them too.” He takes Dostoyevsky’s hand, “I’m sure of it. You don’t have to worry.”

     ” … You put a mechanised party popper in my hand at a moment like this …“

     "Ah, drat! And here I thought I was sneaky this time!” Gogol laughs nonetheless and takes out the release switch. “Well, since you figured it out so quickly, I suppose I’ll end it myself this time.”

     Dostoyevsky’s eyes widen. “No, wait–”

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

[albionscastle]

Man or Beast Reprise

I have failed as a human, I posted the first part of this fic over two years ago and NEVER posted this second part. I honestly thought I had...I’m a dunce.

So anyway Part two of the best BATB fic I wrote back in the day.

NSFW

Part One Here

Masterlist

MAN OR BEAST REPRISE

The day dawned fresh and bright for your wedding. Flowers bloomed everywhere the eye could see and from your tower window you watched birds searching for their morning meal. Dusk was the appointed time for the ceremony, a small party planned for after...a fraction of the size the last celebration had been. Both you and Adam had been adamant that this most important of events be spent only with those closed to you, your loyal and beloved friends and your father. Humming under your breath you dressed and ate from the tray Mrs Potts had left. Your hands shook as they smoothed your skirts and tied your boot laces. You weren't afraid, far from it in fact but the fact remained that today….and tonight….would change you forever. The early morning sun was streaming into the library, you knew Adam would be there, sitting in the window like a cat. He sought sunlight and warmth now and after so many years in the cold and dark of the curse, you more than understood why. Looking around, you found him, stretched out on a chaise placed in the window just for him. For a moment you simply watched him, the sunlight glinting off his golden hair, his lips pressed together in concentration as his eyes scanned the words on the page. He forwent the garb he had once demanded as his former self, instead he was almost always to be seen in simple breeches and a billowy shirt. Stockings and shoes were reserved for meals or walking outdoors and waistcoats and jackets only donned for company. He had completely left that prideful, preening part of himself behind and instead was content to be a simple man who took pride in his people. “You know we aren't supposed to see one another before the ceremony.” he chuckled without looking up from his book. “ Do you really believe in that?” you queried, climbing the ladder to the landing where he lay. “It's tradition, but to be fair I think we have exhausted our share of bad luck for a lifetime, don't you?” He sat up long enough for you to take a seat before laying back down, his head resting in your lap. “I think it's all good luck from here on in.” you smiled down at him. “Well since we are throwing caution to the wind, will you read?” Taking the book from his hands you looked at the spine with a chuckle. “Shakespeare? This is getting to be a theme.” “At least it isn't Romeo and Juliet. Besides, I guess a little romance doesn't hurt.” He smiled widely up at you and your breath caught. Adam’s eyes were bluer than the sky outside the window and as a man, he was quite simply the most beautiful creature you had ever seen. Opening the book of sonnets you turned to your favorite and began to read, even though you knew it by heart. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove:” Absently the fingertips of your free hand traced over his jaw, revelling in the feel of his stubble. He had not gone so far as to grow a beard, and despite your initial joke about it you were glad. You had to admit that the feel of his rough jaw against your skin sent shivers down your spine every time. “O no: it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his          Height be taken.” Absently you caressed the line across his forehead, threading your fingers into his hair. You stopped reading at Adam’s slight shudder, your fingers stilling in his hair. The past weeks had done wonders for your comfort with one another, Adam no longer avoided the tough of others and in fact many times acted rather like a puppy when you touched him, which delighted you to no end. After so many years of being denied even the most basic of human touches, Adam now leaned into every one of yours with relish and you were in no mind at all to deny him any enjoyment. There had been no repeat of the interlude you had shared the night of the celebration ball, not from a lack of want, rather more because of. The feelings that had stirred between you had not abated and if anything you found that you longed for a repeat, to feel his lips against your skin, his hands. Oh you had laid awake so many nights imagining just how that night could have finished, wishing that you would hear his knock on the door to your room in the dark hours of morning. There had been moments, of course. Whispers in corners, stolen kisses in the library and long days like this, reading, with always some part of you touching him. Such comfort and security as you had never felt before. His voice took up where you had trailed off, apparently he too knew this one by heart. “Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and                            cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and                            weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.   If this be error, and upon me prov’d,   I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.” You smiled down at him in the sunlight as his hand lifted to graze your cheek. Leaning down, you pressed your lips against the bridge of his nose. You were rewarded with a growl, much like he had given you that evening, a sound that sent a jolt through your body to settle warmly in your belly. “I can see us like this, years from now.” He murmured, wrapping a strand of your hair around his finger. “Sitting in the sunlight, reading to our children, our grandchildren.” “Can you see my grey hair and lined face?” you laughed. “You will still be just as beautiful to me as you are now, even more so because of a full life together.” Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes as you pressed your lips to the palm of his hand.

“There you are Dearie! You know you aren’t supposed to see one another before the wedding!” You and Adam both flew up from the chaise looking guilty as Mrs. Potts dashed into the room. “Come along, Belle, time to get you ready.” You descended the ladder with a sheepish look back at Adam. “Will it really take 6 hours to get me into a dress?” you laughed as she took your hand and pulled you from the room. “It might, but there’s also a bath various other things to take care of, so hurry along now.”

It really had taken 6 hours, you thought later as you looked at yourself in the mirror. And 6 hours well spent, if not a little awkward. The gown was exquisite, simple as you had hoped, a stunning, graceful fall of bright blue with gold embroidery. Adam hated white now, the color reminding him too much of the parties he had once hosted. You would wear no veil, no extra trappings, nothing at all that would remind anyone of the life once led. This was a new life now. Mrs. Potts had taken it upon herself to act as your mother and your bath and subsequent drying had consisted of a conversation about what to expect later that night. After reminding her that you had, in fact grown up in the country and that you weren’t ignorant of the mechanics she simply laughed. “There’s a big difference between knowing a thing, and experiencing it, my dear.” she tutted as she brushed your hair. “It can be very overwhelming.” “I’m sure it will be,” you knew that to be true, his kisses alone left you breathless and trembling. “But I believe I shall manage well.” Mrs. Potts drew her lips together as if she had something unpleasant on her mind. “You know of course that, before….before the curse,” Mrs. Potts broke off. You understood immediately. “I understand, he had….lovers.” “If you can call them that.” she muttered. “In my reckoning his experience should make things go a little more smoothly.” your cheeks flamed, you didn’t like to think of Adam’s past, but in this case the idea was….strangely intriguing. That thought stuck with you for the rest of the afternoon and by the time you stood on the stairs by the gazebo you were in a quiver of excitement and anticipation. Adam stood there, looking splendid in his pale blue coat, his golden hair tied back with ribbon his smile wide. Everyone you loved stood around him and as you walked toward him they each handed you a white rose, a symbol of everything that had led you both here to this place. Such a rocky and terrifying start, to have such a happy and wonderful ending. You gave your vows in a daze, smiling and crying the whole way through. When Adam slid his arm around your waist and pressed his lips against yours you felt as though there was nothing on the earth that could ever be happier or more perfect that that moment. You were his wife. For better or worse, and forever. The evening party came and went in a whirl of laughter and dancing and before you knew it the candles had been doused and you stood with Adam outside the doors of your new suite. There was an awkward silence between you, a thick whirl of tension in the air. You shivered as his breath brushed your neck, his arm reaching across you to push open the door. “I hope you like it.” he whispered against your ear. “As long as I am with you.” “With me you shall be.” The tone in his voice caused a tremble to run down your spine. With him. Visions danced in your head as he followed you through the door. Visions that would soon become a reality. Very soon. The room was stunning in its simplicity, he had worked hard to make it perfect. Your father had been put to work painting a mural of summer trees and white roses along the walls which were interspaced with well stocked bookcases. A large canopied bed occupied the space in front of a large window, draped with royal blue and gold fabrics. A fireplace stood waiting for wintertime with rugs and chairs nestled snugly beside. “I don’t think I will ever want to leave!” you exclaimed, looking around in delight. His arms came around your waist, his nose grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. “If you like we can at least hide away here for a few days, I don’t know that I will be willing to let you leave.” His voice was deeper than usual, more as it had been in the early days. “Do you intend to make me your prisoner then?” you breathed as his lips pressed against your neck. “A willing one I hope, and a rather more lovely cell than before.” You allowed your head to fall back onto his shoulder as his teeth worked at your earlobe, his fingers trailing down the length of your arms to tangle with your own. “Very willing I would say.” With a groan Adam’s lips found yours, stealing your breath and bringing your heart to pounding in your throat. He devoured, took and gave in return. Your fingers left his to reach back and tangle in his hair, your skin breaking into goosebumps as his tongue slid across your bottom lip. You had wanted this, a kiss like this, a touch like the one moving across your shoulders. You wanted so much that you couldn’t put into words. His fingers met at the laces for your gown, pulling them free with practiced ease all the whispering in your ear. How much he loved you. How beautiful you were to him. How happy you had made him. Your gown loosened, you turned to face him, your fingers pulling gently at the snowy cravat he wore. You hated it, you told him so now as you struggled with the knot. Adam chuckled, grasping your hands in his and placing them at the buttons for his waistcoat. He, naturally, had the cravat untied in moments while your fingers shook against the fabric of his clothing. He noticed and his eyes shone with concern and desire both, boring into yours with an intensity that made you shudder. “If it's too fast we can sit for a while.” You shook your head. It wasn't too fast, it was your concern that your inexperience was going to make this...awkward. You wanted to stop thinking, to stop overanalyzing and just feel.

“We can wait, I won’t mind. We can read.”

You looked at him, standing a foot away. His cheeks were slightly flushed, lips swollen. He looked at you with such love, need and concern. The snowy cravat twisted in his fingers as his front teeth worried his bottom lip. He would do anything for you, no matter what, but what now the only thing you needed from him was to take control and ease your anxiety.

With a split second flash of intent, you stepped forward, thrusting a hand into his hair and pulling him down to you. You pushed all your need, want and love into your kiss. It was your tongue against his lips and teeth as you pressed yourself against him, never close enough.

His arms came around you and he groaned against your mouth, loud and low enough for you to feel the rumble of it in his chest. A shiver of delight ran through you as his lips met yours measure for measure, slowly easing himself into control. Your fingers untied the ribbon in his hair, tangling through the strands.

He broke away gently,his cheek resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged in your ear.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” he whispered, growling under his breath when you tugged at his hair. Pulling his head back he gazed at you, his hands sliding over your shoulders, knuckles running up and down your neck. There was a question in his blue eyes, a look of desire and even fear. Even now, a part of him still feared rejection, and loss. The Beast, your Beast, still lived on inside him. Your answer came as your fingers trailed over his jaw, down his neck and under the collars of his coats. Your palms slid over his shoulders and arms as the fabric slid away, leaving him standing in much the same condition as when you had first seen his human form.

His own hands followed suit with your gown, his eyes flaring as the silk pooled on the floor at your feet, leaving you in only your shift and a petticoat.

There was a moment, two deep breaths where time stood still and then…. He scooped you up in his arms like you were a feather, carrying you swiftly over to the bed. You were deposited on the edge so carefully and gently before he knelt on the ground at your feet.

He looked up at you with a smirk as his hand slid over your ankle, sliding off first one shoe and then the other. Rising up slowly, his fingertips blazed a trail up the back of your calf, your knee and the outside of your thigh. Lips marked damp spots along your shoulder and up your neck before crushing against yours in a kiss so full of want that it stole your breath away.

Wrapping your arms around his waist you pulled him with you as you fell back, giggling when he broke his kiss long enough to position you both fully on the bed, before capturing your mouth again. Languidly he pressed at your lips, opening them so he could slide his tongue deep into your mouth. Moaning into him, you felt the smooth, warm, wetness of his tongue stroking over yours, the heat and weight of his body as it pressed down onto you. Your hands tugged at his shirt, freeing it from his breeches so you could stroke the smooth skin of his back.

Adam shivered and growled as your palms caressed his bare skin, pressing his lower body more firmly against you, his hand on your thigh moving higher, adjusting your leg to cradle his hips. Your remaining clothing now felt cloying and cumbersome against your skin and you almost itched to have it removed, to be able to breathe, to feel his skin against yours. Almost desperately you pushed his shirt up his torso, unable to put into words what you wanted from him.

He knew, his lips brushing their way to your ear, his fingers easing apart the laces of your shift to expose more and more skin.

“God, I want you.” his voice was low and raspy in your ear, strands of his hair falling over your neck.

He rose over you, thumb rubbing your bottom lip, eyes catching yours. The intensity of his look made you shiver, your whole being ached to be closer, though you suspected that with Adam, you could never be close enough to ease the ache.

“Adam.” you murmured, your body moving restlessly beneath him. “I...I…”

“Shhhh.” he whispered, sliding the sleeve of your shift off your shoulder, fingertips following the path of newly bared skin across the swell of your breast, down the front of you to your waist and back again.

“This petticoat is in my way.” he chuckled. “Don’t move.”

He rose up, your hands slipping from under his shirt to lay helplessly on the duvet. Smirking, he pulled the shirt off over his head, tossing it to the side.

“That too.”

“Your eyes raked hungrily over his bare skin, golden in the candlelight. The muscles in his arms rippled as he unlaced your petticoat, pushing it down your hips. The offending garment found its way into a heap on the floor alongside his shirt.

Adam’s eyes blazed over you, from your bare thigh to your face, a languid look of heat and want that made your insides clench and your cheeks flush. He moved over you, catching your hands in his and lifting them above your head. His look could only be described as predatory...beastlike, his teeth bared in his famous smirk as he pounced.

On a gasp your breath was stolen as his lips came down on yours, tongue filling your mouth as his lower body pressed against yours. One hand held your arms in place, his other clutching at your thigh, hitching your leg over his hip. You shifted beneath him, the few inches that he held himself above you seeming like an ocean of separation.

His hips ground against you, his palm sliding over your waist, ribs and bare shoulder. You felt him, the hard length of him pressed between your thighs, still not close enough, but sending a dull throb of pleasure throughout your body.

Your back arched as his palm pushed aside the fabric of your shift, closing over your bared breast. You sucked in a ragged breath as lips and tongue traced the line of your jaw up to your ear. He sucked the lobe into his mouth gently, his fingertips grazing the swell of your breast, nipple hardening under his touch.

“I want you so much.” He growled in your ear, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Do you want me?”

You wanted him. For the first time in your life you truly understood desire, and need, at least the physical aspects. You had needed Adam when he was still a beast, wanted his presence, his voice, his arms. With Adam it was all that and still more. You wanted his skin on yours, his hands and his mouth, his body inside you. You wanted to give him every part of you and take every part of him in return.

“Yes.” you managed on a moan, his breath loud and hot in your ear, his fingers stroking and plucking at your aching breasts. “Yes Adam, I want you. I love you.”

“I love you too, my Belle.” he murmured,  freeing your hands, which came to rest on his shoulders.

You felt emboldened by the look in his eyes, the love, the desire and the invitation. Pushing at his shoulders you manoeuvred him onto his back, straddling his hips to feel his length hard against that one aching spot. Even through his breeches you could feel the heat of him and you ground against him slightly, rewarded by the sharp hitch in his breath and the purring rumble from his chest.

His hands slid under your shift, palms stroking the bare skin of your thighs. He watched as you drank in the sight of him. His golden, smooth skin, the scattering of darker hair across his chest and down his stomach. You allowed your hands to explore his torso, the hard lines and soft, warm skin. He moaned when your fingers played with the hair on his stomach, his back arching when you traced a line from his navel to the laces of his pants, dipping under and back again.

He muttered your name under his breath, eyes widening when you pulled your shift off over your head, leaving you completely naked to his hot stare.

“Good God!” he groaned as you felt a twitching movement beneath you.

A feeling of purely feminine satisfaction came over you as you leaned forward, tasting his neck with your lips and tongue, biting gently at the flesh of his jaw, then sucking his lower lip between yours.

“Belle, Belle, Belle…” he almost chanted your name as your hand slid boldly down between your bodies.

The laces of his pants were simple compared to that ridiculous cravat and your fingers took seconds to loosen them. Adam was practically panting, his hands stroking your bare back, along your spine. You brushed your lips across his, your fingers following the dark trail of hair. You felt the heat of him, his back arching as your fingertips traced his length. You reveled in the way he moaned against your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you against him. Your breasts grazed against the roughness of his chest, shivers of pleasure running through you.

You ached between your thighs, an empty, yearning aching that you instinctively knew could only be eased by the feeling of him inside your body. Your hips rocked against him, your fingers exploring but unsure of what you needed to do to progress to that point.

“Adam.” you moaned against his tongue, breath ragged. “Adam….what…”

The question remained unspoken as he let you pull away. You took one another in, swollen lips, flushed cheeks and hooded eyes filled with need. His hands shifted, one gently easing yours from his pants while his other arm wrapped around your back and waist. He smiled, a wolfish, predatory smile that sent a shudder through you. Before you knew what had happened he had pulled you over and under, your back hitting the bed with a whoosh of breath as he came down on top of you, holding your arms above your head.

His mouth closed over your breast, tongue raking hot and wet against your aching nipple. A cry left your throat as he started to suck gently, sharps points of pleasure shooting down between your legs where his length ground against you. Hie free hand pushed his pants down until he could kick them off, his nakedness against yours feeling so….right.

His mouth worked magic on your breasts, alternating licking, sucking and biting as you writhed beneath him. His hand slid from your ankle, up the inside of your leg, pushing your thigh down to open you wider beneath him.

“Adam!” it was your turn to pant his name as his long fingers moved between your thighs, stroking gently until he found the hidden spot where your aching want lay coiled. One finger rubbed and slid over that tiny spot as your toes curled in absolute ecstasy. The aching deeper inside began to throb insistently, bringing with it a feeling of heat and damp. At that, you saw him smile against your skin, his fingers moving down, thumb stroking while one fingertip teased the entrance to your body. For a moment you were embarrassed as his fingers slid in the wetness that had escaped you, until with a groan and a muttered ‘yes’ he slid one finger inside you.

Your eyes flew open, back arching with a cry of pleasure and desperation. Your hips writhed against his invasion, wanting still more. Adam licked and kissed his way up to your lips, letting your arms go. Your fingers threaded into his hair as he drank from your mouth, thumb stroking, finger moving slowly in and out of you.

He was met with a mewling whimper as another finger joined the first, stretching you slightly, moving deeper. It felt so good, but you still wanted so much more. You arched against his fingers, begging for something you didn't have words for.

Adam chuckled against your mouth, his teeth scraping across your lips.

“Easy, my love. This can’t be rushed.” his fingers moved leisurely, keeping you on the edge of….something.

“Adam!” His fingers curled slightly inside you, sending shockwaves through you.

From head to toe, your skin felt as though it was humming, vibrating. You wanted to burst.

“Please...Adam…..please.”

His fingers stilled ass he heard the pleading in your voice, the desperate need.

“There’s so much more my darling.” he whispered gently.

“I need….I feel like…”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!” your answer was loud and raspy as he shifted himself fully over you, fingers pulling away and leaving you feeling even emptier than before.

You pushed your hips against him, begging. He nodded, his expression one of tenderness and adoration.

“It will hurt.” he whispered. “I wish I could spare you that.”

“Only for a moment.” your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs grazing over his lips. “I trust you.”

The amazement that was etched across his features brought tears to your eyes. Still, after everything, Adam still found it hard to believe that someone could care, could trust, could love him. He continued to wrestle with the man he had once been and the beast he had become. He had whispered to you one evening by the fire that he felt unworthy of your love, of anyone’s after the way he had treated people for so long. You would make sure you spent the rest of your life ensuring he knew that he was loved and trusted, unconditionally.

You nodded your head, pulling him down to kiss him gently, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers stroking the smooth, warm skin of his back. He moved slightly, hard heat nudging at your entrance. As his hips pushed forward slightly you gasped against his mouth. There was no pain yet, but the size of him inching inside you felt impossible and incredible. For a moment you felt trepidation, mixed with a feeling of completeness and pleasure you could not have even begin to describe. He felt you tense and stilled, looking down on you with wonder and concern.

“It’s better if I do this part fast, it won’t hurt you as much. Just watch me, don’t take your eyes off mine.”

With a deep breath you relaxed, staring into his bright eyes as though he was your lifeline. Which he was. Fingers moved between your bodies as he adjusted and your hips rocked slightly, bringing him further inside you.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry darling.”

With a loud, animal groan he pushed forward hard, breaking through the barrier quickly. A tear escaped at the sharp pain, worse than you expected and you had to fight the urge to buck him off of you. He lay still, buried deep inside of you and the pain receded into a dull throb as you regained your breath.

He kissed you again murmuring apologies against your skin. You could feel the tightness of his body as he fought his natural urge to move. You felt sore, but not pained and even that sensation was quickly being overtaken by another one as you raised your hips experimentally.

Adam hissed as you moved, sweat beading on his brow with the exertion of trying not to hurt you any further. He moved inside you, just a tiny thrust and waves of pleasure radiated throughout you. You didn't feel that ache, that emptiness anymore but rather, full, stretched and whole. It was pure bliss. It wasn't enough.

“Let go, you won't hurt me.”

To encourage him you shifted your thighs open wider, causing him to slide in even deeper, his palm sliding over your sweat dampened skin to pull your leg over his hip. That movement tilted your hips differently bringing him closer as though you could feel the burn of him all the way into your stomach.

Hands slid down his back, tracing the line of his spine. He smiled gently, testing as he pulled back, leaving you panting, your body not ready to relinquish the sensation of him inside you. He slid forward again slowly, too slowly but this time you could fully enjoy the feeling of him filling you without the pain. There were no words that could describe the sense of completeness, the mind numbing pleasure of having him inside you. But he was torturing you, keeping you on the edge, always wanting, aching and needing.

“Belle.” he growled, leaning over you, his elbows resting above your shoulders, his hands tangled in your hair.

He positioned his body flush with yours, the roughness off his chest and chin rasping against your heated skin as he began a rhythmic rocking motion in and out of you.

“Oh.” you breathed in wonder as every smooth thrust of his hips brought you to new heights.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him even closer, almost his full weight on you. Your lips found his as you tried to drink in the taste of him on your tongue. Hips rose and fell together, instinct drove you as your fingers ran over every inch of his skin that you could reach.

He growled in your ear, his shoulders shuddering as your fingers ghosted over his hipbone. When your hands clutched at his rear his whole body clenched up, his teeth grazing your neck.

“Oh darling...heaven, you are heaven.”

The movement of his hips was faster now, less controlled, his lips kissing wetly across your collarbone as you both panted and moaned. Heat radiated from inside you, from him, from every inch of his body that touched you. Your eyes fluttered shut, heels digging into the bed as you pushed up to meet his every thrust.

One hand left your hair to slide down the front of you, palming your breast before trailing to where your bodies met, easing his fingers between your thighs he stroked, sending hot shivers throughout you.

“God yes!” he purred against your neck, your muscles clenching around his length.

Your fingernails dug into his skin as you writhed beneath him, the pace of his thrusts becoming erratic, faster and more powerful as he lost control.

You never wanted it to end, your toes curled as his fingers worked magic, the deep, hot slide of him inside you setting fire to your senses.

“Adam!” His name was ripped from your throat as a pressure built, radiating from between your thighs, encompassing every part of you, every nerve ending, every hair on your head exploding as waves of bliss and release surged through you.

Your back arched high off the bed, muscles clenching and relaxing as stars seemed to burst behind your eyelids. Adam’s breath was hot against your skin as he moaned and growled harshly in your ear.

“Yes...Belle.”

His body stiffened with one last hard jerk of his hips, his mouth mashing against yours as he cried out against your tongue. He shuddered and you felt a rush of wet heat inside you.

You held him tightly as his head collapsed against your shoulder. Fingers traced patterns over damp skin. You felt his breath return to normal along with yours and the air began to feel cold on your bare skin. You shivered, clutching him tighter. His head lifted, long golden hair tickling your skin. Your fingers found their way to his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, his cheeks even his nose, giggling when his teeth nipped at you playfully.

Your heart swelled with so much love for him you felt certain there was no way to contain it.

“Tell me I didn't hurt you.” his thumb was trailing through the tear that had escaped.

“No. Adam, you didn’t hurt me. I'm just so happy and I love you. “

He kissed you gently, smiling down at you.

“I love you too. That was…..amazing.”

Your cheeks burned as images of your lovemaking flashed in your mind. Adam chuckled at the sight.

“I never expected it to be quite like that.” you admitted, shivering again.

Deftly, Adam shifted from you, repositioning your body under the duvet and curling you in snugly beside him.

“That was just a taste, my love. There's so much more that we can explore together.” he whispered in your ear. “I did mention that I planned to keep you as my prisoner in this bed.”

“I believe I said that I would be willing.” you smiled, stroking his chest.

“Well the,” he smirked. “Let's talk about what I can teach you next.”

[reconditarmonia]

Dear Trick or Treat Author

Hi! Thank you for writing for me! I’m reconditarmonia here and on AO3 (and have been since LJ days, but my LJ is locked down and I only have a DW to see locked things). I have anon messaging off, but mods should be able to contact me if you have any questions.

Far From the Madding Crowd | Simoun | Spinning Silver | The Strange Case of Starship Iris

General likes:

– Relationships that aren’t built on romance or attraction. They can be romantic or sexual as well, but my favorite ships are all ones where it would still be interesting or compelling if the romantic component never materialized.

– Loyalty kink! Trust, affectionate or loving use of titles, gestures of loyalty, replacing one’s situational or ethical judgment with someone else’s, risking oneself (physically or otherwise) for someone else, not doing so on their orders. Can be commander-subordinate or comrades-in-arms.

– Heists, or other stories where there’s a lot of planning and then we see how the plan goes.

– Femslash, complicated or intense relationships between women, and female-centric gen. Women doing “male” stuff (possibly while crossdressing).

– Stories whose emotional climax or resolution isn’t the sex scene, if there is one.

– Uniforms/costumes/clothing.

– Stories, history, and performance. What gets told and how, what doesn’t get told or written down, behavior in a society where everyone’s consuming media and aware of its tropes, how people create their personas and script their own lines.

Smut Likes: clothing, uniforms, sexual tension, breasts, cunnilingus, grinding, informal d/s elements, intensity; stories whose resolution isn’t the sex scene.

General DNW: rape/dubcon, torture, other creative gore; unrequested AUs, including “same setting, different rules” AUs such as soulmates/soulbonds; PWP; food sex; embarrassment; focus on pregnancy; Christmas/Christian themes; focus on unrequested canon or non-canon ships.

—

Fandom: Far From the Madding Crowd

Character(s): Bathsheba Everdene

One thing that always sticks in my mind about this novel is the way Hardy calls Bathsheba “the young farmer” just as he refers to the men as farmers - which, just saying, is more than most people writing about this story can do - and so, that being the case, what I’m most interested in is something about Bathsheba as farmer. One day in the life or four seasons in the life or five plantings/harvests in the life, or pseudo-academic fic about a case study of a woman farmer in the Victorian era, or a conflict between the farm and nature that Bathsheba has to decide how to solve.

Feel free to bring in other characters if it suits what you’re trying to do, but what I’m really looking for is a focus on Bathsheba’s work, determination, and process of learning. (I like how Bathsheba's relationship with Gabriel ends up playing out in canon, but I don't want shipfic.) Other ideas: something like a merchant ship AU (as the first alternate setting that came to mind where it would be not exactly the done thing for her to captain her inherited ship and make commercial decisions herself - although I do have to point out that contrary to popular belief, there were a lot of women on shipboard in the age of sail, may this be useful - but also where nature and luck/fate are as influential as they are in the original setting), or something in which the land, superstition, and ritual are more overtly magical.

I've only requested treats for this fandom, so I would prefer that the outlook of the fic, including if you decide to incorporate non-canon magical or spooky elements, be ultimately positive. A seasonal treat would be right up the alley of this request. I'd also be into interactive fiction.

—

Fandom: Simoun

Character(s): Neviril, Paraietta, Mamiina, Rodoreamon, Yun, Dominuura

This is a perennial request for me and anything would make me very happy. I'm so interested in how the war changes all the characters and their relationships with one another, how Everything is Beautiful and Then Shit Gets Real but amidst the war-is-hell there's still the creation of bonds of trust and loyalty and chances to do what's right (the bits with the Plumbish priestesses, for instance). Every character gets a chance to develop and make choices that are all brave in different ways. Would also be curious about post-canon (what happens if Neviril and Aeru make it back to the main world when war is brewing again, but Neviril has no one from the old cohort to lead because they can’t fly anymore?) and/or about magic and time weirdness retconning character deaths or disappearances.

I've requested either tricks or treats here. For tricks I'd prefer "dark" to "cynical" - throw as much shit at them as you want in terms of war-is-hell and weird magic and time horror, but I believe that the characters mostly want to do what they believe is the right thing and help each other. My treat preferences are, I think, more about thematic focus than content - if it's slice of life, how is that life striving towards their ideals even in small ways? (Helping the war orphans, flying the Simoun, growing a garden?) If it's more about Things Happening, in the war or whatnot, what do those things show about their growth or the changes in their relationships? I would also be super into interactive fiction.

As far as ships go, I'm on board with most of the canon ones (no romantic/sexual Dominuura/Limone, please) but have a small soft spot for postcanon Paraietta/Rodoreamon as well.

—

Fandom: Spinning Silver

Character(s): Miryem Mandelstam

I love hard-headed, practical, ambitious women who get into adventures because of, rather than in spite of, those qualities, and so I love Miryem and her good sense, pride, and rules-lawyering. I’m really interested in what the book does with power - Miryem’s real-world power of accounting and hardheadedness becoming magic in the Staryk world, being a queen in one world while belonging to a disenfranchised minority in another. What happens when Miryem is back in the human world, post-canon? I never got the impression that she’d be happy just avoiding the whole question of the town’s contempt for her by finding power elsewhere - what’s it like if she comes back a queen? (Can she use the mirror from Irina to do an end run around the whole Persephone setup and travel back and forth whenever she wants, and if so, what sorts of plot would make that fun to play with? If not, that’s still fine.) Or, what are some adventures in the Staryk world where she could use her Accounting Powers, other than the post-war rebuilding the book talks about? Or tell me more about Miryem practicing Judaism in the Staryk world, and the application of Judaism to that world and those customs that we get some hints of (that’s a hell of a diaspora - what would the rabbis think of it?).

I'm very uninterested in Miryem's romance with the Staryk Lord unless you feel like making it f/f, so while I don't require you to retcon it or break them up, I don't want a fic focusing on it. If you're interested in shipping her with Irina or Wanda, I have some previous prompts for them in my "dear author letters" tag. (These may also be relevant to platonic fic that includes Irina or Wanda - like Wanda becoming a magical gatekeeper to Miryem's land or having the "magic" of reading/writing that Miryem gave her become magic-magic in the Staryk land, or Irina and Miryem's different ideas of who their commitment as queen is to - but there's more detail and prompts in the tag.)

I'm happy to receive either tricks or treats for this fandom. I'm explicitly okay with a story in either category involving anti-Semitic prejudice, but would prefer that the dark/scary elements in a "trick" fic come from supernatural horror rather than the human capacity for racist violence. I suppose treat fic would be about finding or making one's place in the world, the place where you can use the powers that you've got and make your world safe for yourself and others around you.

—

Fandom: The Strange Case of Starship Iris

Character(s): Sana Tripathi, Arkady Patel, Krejjh, Brian Jeeter, Rumor Crew, Agent Park

I just want MORE of any or all of these people because I love them - Krejjh's dashing pilot thing ("feast on my leavings, mortality! I am danger on wheels and those wheels are rooOOOOLLING!") and what it masks, Brian's geekery and humanist passion, Arkady's tough outside and squishy center and Sana's soft outside and iron center, the crew-as-found-family, Park's fifth-cup-of-cold-coffee burnout and wry edge. Slice of life? Their backstories? Things they like or get excited about? (More about the music they like to listen to/sing/play!) Arkady and/or Sana (or other crew members) on missions off-ship, or the crew all facing a problem or a heist together? Dwarnian customs (and Krejjh introducing Dwarnian customs to their friends and how they maybe pick some of those up - or adopting human customs and how they're different)? Park adjusting to the crew and them adjusting to him (and what's his role going forward)?

I've requested treats only for this fandom, no tricks - I'm totally fine with characters' angsty pasts and angsty present feelings being included, but I'd prefer that the overall mood of a fic that involved angst be one that focused on a better future, bonds with others, a cause to believe in, etc.

I ship Arkady with Sana (that loyalty kink!), but I don't mind if a fic includes Violet/Arkady (after all, it is canon) as long as it's not shipfic/focused on their romance. Brian/Krejjh is good too.

[quartusbellum-blog]

SARA for the role of REGULUS BLACK using the faceclaim NICOLE MAINES. 

I am very excited about your portrayal of this character! Not only have you given life to the plots hinted at in the skeleton, but you’ve threaded new layers of meaning into Regulus’ story. I can’t wait to see them explored on the dash! 

ooc details

Name: Sara

Age: im a fandom grandparent

Pronouns: they/them

Activity Level: I’m around every day and enjoy making a mess of things in game

Other: No triggers though my character might end up triggering others. I’ll make sure to tag.

Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that the themes of this game may include triggering elements. I also acknowledge that my character may be harmed, coerced, or even killed (with player’s consent) during paras/events or may cause harm to or kill others during paras/events. Yep here4themess

                                                 ჻    ჻    ჻   ჻

general ic details

Name: Regulus Arcturus Black

Age: 19 | January 23rd

Ships: Regulus is rather aromantic in manner so a romantic is unlikely. Even still, I’d be happy to try any ships, any nonromantic ships etc.  Warning: please read the whole app prior to seeking a ship with Regulus given that any sort of romantic/nonromantic/sexual ship might contain triggering experiences.

TBH my dream ships are probably more found family/family oriented… polyamorous with an asexual asshole who is a little skew?

Gender/Pronouns: publicly Regulus is still he/him but there will be a blending and fucking up of pronouns as Regulus explores and comprehends her gender (likely ultimate ending but nonbinary is also possible). This is different then how i sometimes write trans characters because in this game one aspect of her narrative will be the concept of growing up and understanding she can be who she wants to be. Even if Regulus knew from a young age (which not all trans people do), Regulus would have innately rejected the idea because of the pride his mother has(d) in having the two heirs at a cost. This became even more pressing when Sirius left his role as heir and it landed to Regulus–suddenly Regulus’ choices shrank even more. Its only in death that she has started to comprehend that there are choices now.

So pronouns will be flying ALL THE WAYS but mostly reflecting how the character is presenting EXTERNALLY to others. FC will remain static but may not be used all the time due to the lack of stable presentation.

For this app He/Him were used exclusively as up until perhaps the past year Regulus presented exclusively as he/him.

Headcanon for transitioning Attisgalli Corrective Draught.

Face Claim: please provide two face claim options.

Nicole Maines

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bio questions

Please note, while this game is “canon” up until the start of the Wizarding War it does not stay canon and it’s quite divergent at the start of the game.

biography:

The Black Family is too old of a family line not to have gotten… muddled (never muddied) in the past. It shows on the family tree in little notations (a dark red swirl like an ink blot on their shoulder for vampire) or in burn-marks where a person used to be (for scum of the earth traitor). Sometimes, Regulus’ mother sniffed when explaining this, certain family members couldn’t do what needed to be done.

A little pruning never hurt anyone–not any more then a little cultivating did.

Regulus and Sirius Black might have been half brothers but that was simply the most prudent action their parents could take to make absolutely certain the bloodline continued. Sure, children that shared both parents blood would have been ideal but with Druella only providing girls and Orion not providing any… Walburga Black was always very good at problem solving. Perhaps the only problem she failed to solve was her eldest son Sirius–or maybe she almost fixed it with Regulus.

If Sirius Black was loud and brash and bright–Regulus was the opposite. He was a late talker and when he did start talking it was almost always a last mumbled as a last resort. It wasn’t that Regulus wasn’t intelligent but that he struggled to organize his thoughts and provide them to others–something that continued through childhood, through Hogwarts, and beyond. He preferred chess and finding patterns within potions, charms, and even Quidditch to social obligations.

Prone to being misunderstood when he did attempt to make friends (he wasn’t threatening that girl, he was warning her so she wouldn’t be hurt), Regulus over values any and all friends or family he has. As such, any disowning, death, or friendship breakup has been taken incredibly personally. Its no excuse, and Regulus knows that now more then ever, but the need for connection and purpose helped drive his passion for Voldemort. Regulus believed in what Voldemort was fighting, becoming a Death Eater would provide a structure that Regulus knew he would need outside of Hogwarts while learning how to manage the Black family vaults and investments, and there was a social aspect, too.

For all that Regulus was good at strategy and understanding how seemingly fragmented pieces of information fit together: he was too slow to understand what Voldemort’s real goals were and what they ultimately meant for his family (and the wizarding world, but his family, of course, was paramount). Regulus Black never woke up one day and started believing muggleborns were ‘okay’ or that his innate belief system was wrong. He woke up one day and realized that the few people he cared about were in danger in a way they did not, could not, understand.

The vampire blood was easy to get, although he hardly thought it would work. He had long since been in the habit of visiting Narcissa and feeding the prisoner James Potter. Adding a fail safe into James’ layers of memory charms was not easy but necessary. Most likely, even with the blood, even with over a month of planning, Regulus was certain he was going to die.

Which he did. It just didn’t stick.

It’s been almost a year since then and Regulus isn’t sure if it was the potion, the vampire blood, the way he died, or if he’s finally just turning into his mother’s child in ways he never wanted to–but Regulus Black can’t seem to get a grip on his emotions, or his tongue, the way he used to. In some ways, though, its a relief–like finally being able to peel off an ill-fitting skin for something new.

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my character is:

Please Provide the Following

A Belief that is Wrong

Please Describe a Belief your character has that is wrong. It can be something we, as players, know is wrong (ex. prejudice against werewolves ).  Alternatively: How is your character lying to themselves (and how is is it shown externally).

Regulus has always had something about organization and if he thinks about it too much even he would have to acknowledge that it’s a lie. But Regulus generally doesn’t pay that much attention to the reality surrounding these habits, only the relief it brings him. His clothes are always pressed–even in his closet of a space with the Radical Alliance. The robes are cleaned, and charmed pressed, and hunt up in a very specific order. His bed is exactly one inch from the left wall. The trunk he keeps things in is under the bed and must not touch any of the posts or the wall. He keeps things perfectly separated inside the trunk. He counted the flur de lis on the carpet between his and Sirius’ bedrooms over and over and over again as a child. He can tell anyone how many panes of glass are in the windows at Hogwarts and even differentiate between wings of the castle. These habits (because, of course, that’s all they are, all they will ever be) didn’t start out so all encompassing but as Regulus grew up, as life became more complicated, choices too limited, finding ways to control it (even illogical ones) seemed to be the only answer.

If things are clean enough. If things are the right number. If he stops counting at the right moment, if he taps the right pattern : everything will be fine. There’s arithmancy in everything, he tells himself, because life has always been more bearable when he believes it to be true.

Job

Is Regulus Black Doing Anything? He isn’t sure, really. Certainly he doesn’t have a job–he’s never worked a traditional job a day in his life! He’s no longer a Death Eater. Can he continue to look after his family’s finances if he is, in a sense, dead?

Does he want to be alive? –Regulus wonders this sometimes, believing it not to be any sort of suicidal ideation but a simple, obvious question. Should he be alive? The answer is no.

Does he want to be–he doesn’t know.

As far as anyone knows (particularly Remus but also Marcus and Narcissa), Regulus Black has no job and is doing nothing but trying to pour his scrambled eggs of brain and impulse control back into some semblance of viability. Underneath that, Regulus Black is trying to pour his scrambled eggs of brain and impulse control back into some semblance of viability…and remember just what his next steps were supposed to be regarding the horcrux.

ooc questions

Writing Sample:

He’s at the stairs. Not the grand stars at the front of the house that fork and twist along the side of the foyer–but the back stairs. Servants stairs his mother would hiss if she saw them except none of their family have ever employed household staff.

House elves are bad enough, his mother says in his ear and Regulus jerks, expecting to feel her breath on his cheek but–nothing. Its nothing.

“I’ve food for the prisoner.” He says but its pointless because no one is listening. No one has been listening since Peter Pettigrew. Since Dumbledore. Since James. It is a mistake but they haven’t realized it yet.

He’s stood too long, frozen above the narrow staircase with a silver tray. Someone will see you–the thought hisses through his mind and Regulus knows, suddenly, with a clarity he’s been lacking: its not real. It’s not a part of this. A dream? The idea s fleeting and wilts under a brush of light as the curtains behind him are pulled open.

“Then go ahead, darling.” Narcissa says.  

The memory jerks, skitters, speeds up.

“I’ve food for the prisoner.” He says. “I’ve food for–”

Regulus is down stairs and the food is gone, shoved to the side. The lip of the tray is pressed into his ankle but Regulus ignores it because–James.

“Listen to me,” Regulus is saying. It’s strange, like none of this is real because he can’t feel any of it. The words fall from his mouth because where is his tongue? His wand is tight in his left hand, the swirls carved into its handle cutting into his palm. He should smell blood, he thinks.  

There’s nothing, though. The room is bleary with weak autumn light from a small window about ten feet above them. There’s a bed but James isn’t allowed to use it. He’s on the floor. Regulus is on the floor. No, he’s straddling James–James can’t move during this or else–or else.

James tenses under him and Regulus grabs a fist full of James’ fraying robes. “This is serious.” The robes are too tattered to bruise when Regulus’ jerks them. He can’t strangle James (and wouldn’t even if it would be a mercy)

“Why should I?” James, the fucker–it had been a month and he still had that smirk except there’s blood at the corner and this time (not the first time) Regulus can feel his stomach growl at the sight of it.

“It’s important.” Regulus has his wand pressed at James’ temple and his mouth brushes James’ cheek when he leans in to whisper. “You’ll thank me later.”

Regulus Black has never been good at mind magic.

When Regulus wakes up, he tastes salt water and bile.

Exploration:

Please share three things you’d like to explore. This could be a character changing sides, darker themes, or basic fiction tropes.

Family Lines: I think this game provides a particularly interesting set of circumstances regarding possible family lines. First there’s Narcissa and her condition–how did that happen? Possibly Regulus, trying to manage his life post cave and fucking up again ( or maybe it was a blessing?) I like to headcanon that maybe Alphard was a vampire and thats where the blood came from (open to other options). Speaking of, how has Walburga doing? And then there’s, of course, Sirius and all the brother’s baggage which is made even more complicated as (if this set up is accepted) Regulus sort of used Sirius’ best friend as a last will and testament–not that James remembers it yet. Last, … does Regulus even count as a live anymore and if not who has inherited ?

A Family Curse: The Black family has never exactly been known for its cool head and steady hands but Regulus, for all his somewhat muffled anxieties, has mostly stood out as awkward but not particularly memorable. In fact, it’s safe to say without his last name (and grades) Regulus probably wouldn’t have gotten much notice at all. That has largely changed now, although Regulus has trouble pin pointing why and how. There are a lot of factors, many of which no one else knows, and Regulus should care about that. He should be highly concerned–but those concerns evaporate before he can even generate a game plan to consider addressing it. Most seem to assume that its just Regulus taking after his mother. TLDR I’m interested in seeing what information he drops (likely not entirely clearly) without thinking it through and how the changes in demeanor and method impact both those who grew up with Regulus Black and those who didn’t. Don’t worry about wangst, I’m much more interested in throwing weird or intense tings at others then have Regulus mope.

Choices mixed in with all of that, Regulus has found himself well and truly on his own about making choices for the first time in his life. Sure, Remus might have ideas on what he should do, and Sirius, and Marcus, and Narcissa—but all of them have different goals, different expectations of what Regulus could do and in the end, Regulus doesn’t have to do anything. At the onset the only thing he does know is that he must do something about the horcrux…but how? When, where, and why? I want to see how different interactions with various characters might influence those choices and how Regulus handles managing his own reigns ow for better or for worse.

Gender: its so easy to boil gender and trans experience into one narrative but so often things are far…messier then that. Regulus is a character who hasn’t felt the ability to think overly hard (or pursue if he has thought of it) alternatives to gender even if the Wix Community at large is accepting (people turn into frogs, after all). This game provides a unique chance to explore gender through the lense of a character who is learning and failing and not overly confident (or overly feminine) but genuine in that (at least) if nothing else. Also, does being a vampire effect Attisgalli Corrective Draught?

Extras:

Anything else you’d like to provide?

[diamond-song42]

Pone Reviews 109: What Lies Beneath

Happy Autumn to you (because I don't know what day you are reading this on) and welcome back to Pone Reviews! I'm back, baby! There's been a lot going on in my life and I've needed a bit of a break. I'm hoping to nail down a new writing schedule soon. Nevertheless, I am ready to share my thoughts on this episode. What happens when the Young Six find a strange floor grate in the library? We'll find out in "What Lies Beneath!"

Let's start with the moral. "Any creature has friendship in their nature." Sweet sentiment. It's nice to think that a creature of any race, gender, sexuality, national origin, disability, and more can be buddies. But it ends up feeling like one of those morals that I think falls a bit flat on the relatable side. This doesn’t have the same anti-racism overtones as the moral in “School Daze," and that's where I think it's faulted. It's not implying a majority race can be friends with a minority race - it's suggesting more interspecies relationships. Today's kids know that races different from theirs are still humans just like them! So does that mean interspecies friendships are a good thing? With a dog, cat, or fish, maybe... but not an alligator or a lion! A friendship with an alligator or a lion can only happen in a Disney movie! The episode was entertaining, don’t get me wrong, but this just leaves me so... confused.

Onto the plot. As the Young Six are studying for a History of Equestria exam, Cozy Glow puts doubts into their minds that friendship is in their respective natures! Will their minds be changed when they discover an underground part of the School seemingly no one knows about? Here we are, another Young Six-themed episode. And a cute one at that! We know they have insecurities about things, but they're finally explored here. Sandbar is suffering from a classic case of hero worship. Silverstream is terrified that the Storm King isn't entirely gone. Yona is freaked out by spiders. Gallus hates being in enclosed spaces. Smolder doesn't want to admit she can be cute. And Ocellus is ashamed of her past and fears she'll revert back to it. And yet they are only concerned about their friends when they get past their respective challenges. The friendship lessons have made an impact! I adore the bond these six creatures have formed. It feels different from the Mane 6's bond since they're all different species with different backgrounds. A pony used to the simple life in Ponyville (save the occasional bugbear). A hippogriff that spent years underwater so as to not be threatened by the Storm King. A yak with a rich, prideful culture. A griffon who grew up in arguably the least kind land in Equestria. A dragon with nerves of steel who wasn't ready to embrace pony culture. And a changeling who fed off love for most of her life and has only recently learned that there's so much more to experience. Friendship brought these six together and it has been such a great thing for the show. Oh, and as for Cozy Glow? Something is... definitely up with that filly. Can't say why. I just know it.

Here are some more strong points in this episode:

*If anything, my favorite part of them all is when Smolder and Gallus - the characters most stubborn and resistant to friendship - admit they aren't like others of their race and genuinely want to help their friends. They've come a long way.

*I also really appreciate how Sandbar looks up to the professors - all women. Our society won't allow boys to like playing with Barbies or Disney Princess dolls. It's refreshing to see a boy with a real appreciation and admiration for his female elders.

*Whoa, the Tree of Harmony can become sentient?! Awesome! It took over 1,000 years for it to do that, so now I'm curious how long it took to gain its other powers (especially that one where it MELTED CHRYSALIS'S CLONES).

*Holy cow Sandbar's face when "Rainbow Dash" and "Rarity" tell him they need him is SO ADORABLE!

*This is gonna sound weird, but it’s a bit of a relief that Smolder actually likes traditionally cute things like dresses and tea parties. This show likes to stress that the “macho” characters (Rainbow Dash, for example) can’t be associated with cute things when we all know that is a damn lie.

*It's actually pretty interesting that Yona's fear is spiders because you wouldn't think there'd be many spiders in a cold habitat like Yakyakistan. Or... MAYBE THAT'S WHY THE YAKS MOVED TO YAKYAKISTAN IN THE FIRST PLACE! TO GET AWAY FROM THE SPIDERS!

*eeeeevil. Eeeeevil. EEEEEVIL. (You know who I'm talking about.)

And here are some weaker points from this episode:

*Let's be real here: How do the Mane 6 (or at the very least, Twilight) NOT know about that floor grate? It's not like it's very hidden. You'd think somepony as meticulous as Twilight would comb every inch of the school to make sure it was perfect before opening. Or... maybe Twilight did know about the grate and didn't tell the students on purpose knowing something like this would happen?

*I have to ask, what's the timeline here? The Young Six are exhausted after exiting the cave in the early morning. But they seemed to be in the cave for... a few hours, at most? Let me deconstruct this: Cozy said she'd give the Young Six her notes and mentions she returned with the notes to find the students gone (notes she does visibly have when the Young Six return). The transition between Cozy's words and the Young Six studying irritably can't be more than a few minutes long. Considering each of the Six must have been going through their trials relatively simultaneously, it realistically must have not been a 7-8 hour period as we're led to believe. (Yes, I do have problems with weird timelines. Remember my complaints about "A Health of Information?")

*Aww sweet more Chrysalisoh it's just Ocellus. (Not that I'm complaining - Ocellus is my sweet little cupcake - but damn I miss Chryssy.)

*As cute as Silverstream's love for plumbing is, it's making me ask questions about hippogriff/seapony plumbing that I didn't want to ask.

*Cozy Glow climbs a ladder when she can very well fly. (And her wings can carry her weight, unlike Scootaloo!)

*The Storm King and Storm Guard rock formations are a lot scarier than the actual Storm King and Storm Guards. :/

*Okay, I’m officially starting to question some of Twilight’s curriculum. She’s teaching her students about the Tree of Harmony and its history. Yet she told the CMCs that they couldn’t attend the school because they’ve practically aced the curriculum and they need Cheerilee’s lessons. Does the Tree of Harmony’s history not count as a needed lesson? It was planted 1000 years ago and has certainly done a bunch for Equestria in nine seasons.

In short: An adventurous episode with a really flat moral and friendship is zzzzzzzz. EEEEEVVVVVIIIIIILLLLL! 4 out of 5 rainbows 🌈🌈🌈🌈

It feels good to be back. Thank you for reading. I'm gonna nail down a new schedule for myself soon and I hope you guys will bear with me. Let's just say that the next review will cover my favorite episode of the season! Diamond out!