#i wrote them cynically! i still tend to take them that way! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liskantope · 1 year

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Oh wait, same sender again...

I just remembered another psych-out that I've become over-familiar with:

"When we finally over-throw the patriarchy, then women can be happy and live freely!"

Nevermind that free is often a state of mind. A person can be free in body, but shackled in spirit and mind. A person can also be shackled in the flesh, but free-spirited.

I feel like this particular psych-out actually contributes to the transtrender psych-out. People get so tired of 'waiting for the patriarchy to crumble'.... that they just try to deal with this truly-fucking-imaginary obstacle in a different way.

Don't get me wrong... sometimes women get shit for stupid fucking reasons, but at least in America... women are free in the law. (Other than the dumb fuckin recent overturn, but I don't recognize that.) I just really feel like the way that a lot of feminist bloggers on tumblr express themselves... is with a lot of despair and cynicism. The problem is not with the act of sharing the statistics of violence and discrimination.

The thing I have a problem with is how they 'frame' it. I remember that it used to be common tell little girls that they were strong, and capable of handling anything that life throws at them if they believe in themselves and work hard. At least, that it's better than doing nothing and falling into atrophy.

I think actually, you wrote about this sort of stuff, and I really, really enjoyed that.

If I looked at those statistics alone, I would see a challenge.

But looking at it with added tumblr-feminist commentary is like..... I think they are trying to prove 'how bad they have it' to men (or conservatives). They're not thinking about the effect their words might have on other women (or women of different dispositions). I just don't like all this 'despairing in attempt to be taken seriously'.

When I think about that behaviour, it makes me want to tell someone who is doing that: "Hey, if someone isn't going to take you seriously the first few times, they aren't worth groveling for. Stop asking them to care about you, and just live your own life! It's yours! No one else can make you live it a certain way! You have to choose to comply!"

I don't know, I feel disconnected from this strain of 'underground women's culture'. It's something from the past, from when women were considered unequal to men. I can put forth my own opinions like a big boy. I don't know, I feel like, in the women's world... I'm living in 3000 AD, and these types of women are still living in 1805 AD. It's probably a cultural thing, because most of these women were probably raised in religious families (which tend to have stronger gendered expectations). I just feel like they'd resent me for not having to go through the pain that they did... which is tragic, because feminism is supposed to be uplifting women. Instead, these types of people use it to tear other people down. Then at least.. we're all living in shitty ruins. Ha ha!

I find it kind of depressing how many times I've seen this type of feminist get this critique, and they turn around and accuse the critic of either being A MAN (thus unable to COMPREHEND the intricate inner-workings of a woman's mind. [HOW.... OLD-FASHIONED!]), or of just not reading enough of their literature, or not being exposed to the right stuff.... or not 'having the spirit of women's liberation'. "Hey! Maybe I don't need to tear myself down like you, to build myself back up. Maybe I can just keep building, and building, and building...

Maybe more girls should keep building, instead of focusing on other people's opinions of them. Maybe what other people say shouldn't be important to your sense of self!"

I don't know, damn... shit's depressing. One day, you care about feminism... next day, someone's telling you, "YOU'LL NEVER BE HAPPY BECAUSE YOU WERE BORN A GIRL, AND WE LIVE IN A MAN'S MAN'S MAN'S WORLD! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I guess it's also funny that if you pay attention to feminist blog circles, you can see the trends of them despairing... but then you can also see other feminists denying that any feminist would ever wallow in despair. It's like, "you don't speak for every other feminist out there. Feminists are individual human beings, and thus subject to human faults. Feminism does not make someone freaking immortal or faultless. It's not a fairy-tale. It's real life." Idk, idk. I feel like they deal in symbolism... rather than reality.

This is another one (from the same asker as previous) that I feel I have to post because it makes good points -- many of which I've tried to make over the years -- in a fresh way. (Actually, ironically, even after so many very lengthy asks regarding gender stuff, I'm unclear on your gender, and it's okay if you don't feel comfortable sharing, but if I had to make a guess it would be that I'm hearing from a woman's perspective here?) I wouldn't put everything the way you do: I'm not at all sure of the connection you suggest between frustration that the patriarchy isn't crumbling and eagerness to affirm a different gender identity, although it's an interesting suggestion. And I do think there are plenty of problems that even Western women face that should be treated as important (even though a lot of feminists appear to come from a West-centric mindset that lacks the perspective that some far more severe forms of oppression are happening in other parts of the world), and there are forms of sexism still embedded in our culture that hurt men as well as women, so I'm perfectly on board with We Still Need Feminism. But yes, under the law (arguably apart from restrictions on reproductive rights, of course, as you say), the right for equality has pretty much been won for a while, it seems.

Which I think has a lot to do with the evolution of feminism and other forms of (lowercase-s-and-j) social justice movements over the decades from a high-agency-ist mindset ("since group X is unequal under the law and the rationale is that they need to be treated like children, we need to show that they have agency") to a low-agency-ist mindset ("since what we now have to focus on for group X is ways that they're still oppressed which are invisible to some outsiders, we need to show ways in which their capacity to do certain things is limited"). It stretches to a ton of areas other than feminism, of course. It's been a recurring theme in my writing since 2016-2017. But the only time I recall making a full-blown effortpost focusing only on how this can be applied to feminism is in late 2018 with "'Can' vs. 'can't' feminism" which may be my previous discussion of the topic that you said you enjoyed (and here's a briefer follow-up on the same theme). I'm kind of proud of the just-linked effortpost because I think it was well liked, although that may just mostly be because "women-can feminism" vs. "women-can't feminism" seem to go down well as conceptual handles as opposed to the very closely related "high-agency-ism" vs. "low-agency-ism" which I always perceive to instigate subtle eye-rolls.

I feel like they deal in symbolism… rather than reality.

Well, yes. That sums up a lot of my beef with a whole ton of activist rhetoric in general.

#social justice #feminism #the patriarchy #trans issues #high vs. low agency

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futurecorps3 · 1 year

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Hi. I’d like to get 🩸, please. I wrote this beast of a description some time ago and don’t really have time rn to be so kind & shorten it, so I don’t mind the potential wait/your refusal to do it. Either way, congratulations on your follower count, I look forward to interacting (in a more digestible form)

Looks: I’m in my teens. I look close to Mia Goth, though I have gray eyes. My hair is blond and thick, an overgrown wolfcut I always take care of myself. I’m 5’7, somewhat athletic. I switch between dressing like Bella Swan, dark coquettes (most often) and this masc casual style. I have a diy tattoo I did a few years back. I also have a few noticeable scars, don’t like them but the stories can be interesting. One big on my chest (sword fight), between eyebrows, left chin (knife), big few on the right arm (ironically, a crow). I wear dark fem makeup or coquette. My dominant hand is a little messed up bc it was broken in a fight as a kid and I never did anything with it so it didn’t heal well

Personality: Im an entj, he/she (male/female bigender), bi. I’m social, hardworking, brave, optimistic, ambitious, motivated. People tend to get frustrated with how closed off I can be. I’m careful with my words and I don’t talk about my life if I don’t need to. Actually, I’m not very honest at all, though if I care about someone it can change. I see it as valuing my privacy and looking after myself. Romance is a nice concept, love the books, but I tend to dodge all attempts people make at forming relationships. And the amount of people who see friendship w me as a degrading means to an end made me a tad cynical about it. Doesn’t mean I don’t like the occasional flirt though. In the right company I like to make friends laugh, unwind, be the life of the party. Doctors said I don’t have empathy and show many sights of npd. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s a part of me. I still can be decent to friends (where empathy fails I still have common sense). Honestly,I’m softer than I’d like to admit. I get on with kids nicely and I’d like a few on my own when I grow up. I’m protective of my family, my older brothers mean the world to me. Another thing that’s important is my faith. I’m polytheistic and very religious (but I respect other beliefs). I like to befriend local animals too, in my free time. People call me stubborn, I’m the kind of person to push until I succeed, even if it hurts. Privately at least. In any kind of structure I know my place and I help the team/my boss/other superiors dutifully. I try not to be very emotional, but sometimes i fail. Usually I turn to anger, though I wouldn’t turn on my loved ones. I try to be fair in my actions. Many say I’m comforting, though I see myself more as a problem solver. And yeah, perhaps I am filled with (rightful) guilt about the loss of my close family member. But that’s mine to know and for others to never find out. I have shared more here than I did (or will) with anyone irl. In private I believe I can be a little funny and silly, nonchalant even. Also soft, as my friend calls it, ‘homely’. In the end, I did manage to fit myself into quite a list of friend groups so I’d like to believe I’m not too bad to hang around

My type: I’d like someone I could relate to. Someone who would understand my ambition and drive, my issues, inspire me to try harder, but also someone who would understand my anger (even if by enabling my worse parts). Maybe even harder than me. As bad as it sounds I don’t care for morals all that much, not in a “I like bad girls/boys” kind of way. It’s just that if they don’t hold harmful beliefs (racism, sexism etc) I don’t look much further into it. Someone who wouldn’t jump on the whole romance thing right away and smother me. They have to have their own thing they do, other than love. My love language’s acts of service. And when they notice details, learn about me. It’s a running joke among my friends that I’ll end up in a rivals to lovers kind of deal bc of how stubborn and averse to romance I am. I need someone who would understand that my family comes first (before me too) and I do anything for them. And I will call my s/o out if needed too

Likes: physical activity (I used to do a ton of sports from cheer and dancing to basketball); money - having it, making it; romance novels; dogs; birds; writing stories, poems, making music, painting, though I’m not so open about it; parties; family; social interactions; my job (legal or not, anything that involves bulshitting ppl and supporting myself is nice, sry); taking care of others; cooking and baking; acting/performing; giving gifts; fashion; snow and the cold (my hand be damned, I view winter as a gift from gods); shows like Bridgerton (I’m so fine after watching Kate/Anthony storyline I swear), books like soc, pjo, the cruel Prince, dps;

Dislikes: losing/failing; deep bodies of water; whole concept of death, even if I know what comes next I can’t stand it; feeling useless; people with no drive; quitters;

Facts: Im Slavic; had basic medical training; my family would call me something akin to ‘little merchant’ in our language, bc of my talent for bargaining and talking ppl into things; normally I don’t flex half as bad; dark eyes r soo attractive to me, but if I like your goals and motives, I’m into you either way; like Hannah Montana I have the best of both worlds - I was born in the capital & I’m well versed in the life there but I spent my formative years helping on a farm (which I miss), I still more so identity as a country guy; I think revenge driven ppl are attractive but that's less of a preference, simply a thought

-💎

My guy you had me thinking for this one! It screams Kaz Brekker BUT that could also be problematic since reading your description gives a very similar vibe to his and he might not like it. ALSO YOURE THE OPPOSITE OF WYLAN AND INEJ SO THAT COULD WORK OR ABSOLUTELY NOT.

In the end, I decided… (cue drumroll)

WYLAN HENDRICKS! (Van Eck? Who?)

Your type description gave me the gentle love Wy gives <3 he’s patient, understanding and is his own person before being a lover. I can see you both reading together all the time as well as you cooking for him! I think we all perceived him (in the beginning of the books) as a soft and fragile boy but he’s a badass, he’s mature, and he’s always there to support you if you need it. He’s a sweetheart, you know him, you love him<3

#🩸kir royale #Lola’s 800 follower celebration #six of crows #shadow and bone #grishaverse #grishaverse x reader #wylan hendriks #wylan x reader

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the-missann · 1 year

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The stress of posting a story is still weighing on me and on this particular day, I'm feeling it in the form of restlessness.

Even though I am knee deep in Tears of the Kingdom, it can't occupy me 24/7.... Well-

Anyways, in an attempt to calm myself, I'm gonna talk about my new story so I don't feel overwhelmed with not doing anything.

So, 👏, the name is normalities, I'm posting it on Wattpad (check it out here) and it's a coming of age, romance with an anxious girl who's trying to understand why she stands out so much when she finds herself no different than anyone else.

I don't know if I'll do this for every chapter, but I wanted to talk about why I wrote the story/chapter since there's always some big reason behind anything I do.

In this case, I decided to write normalities because it's very rare for media to get anxiety right. While there is no "correct" way to write anxiety, as it's different from person to person, most shows and movies have anxiety as the person who passes out when faced with a difficult situation. While that can happen, most people who have anxiety just wouldn't show up somewhere if they felt that stressed about it. At least, I wouldn't.

So, I wanted this story to better represent an anxious individual, to see the spectrum of how it can present itself. It's also to showcase that it's not simply "get over it" to overcome anxiety and it also doesn't get solved in one day after a inspirational speech lol.

The friend she makes is also very important. It's to give an example of how to respond to someone who has anxiety. Again, it's different from every person, but I tend to be more receptive when someone is patient and understanding. When someone realizes I talk like a cynic because I'm thinking of the worst case possible, and they don't take offense to my words, I'm the most calm.

In my experience, I overthink someone's reaction to what I'm going to say, but if I can voice my concerns and not hear "that's not going to happen, calm down" then that's all I can ask for.

I really enjoyed writing this whole story, but very specifically certain parts later in the story. Getting to write a character who actually shares my concerns and irrational worries was something I never thought I'd do!

Oh, and if anyone does check it out, for one thank you and I hope you enjoy reading ❤; but, while it is done, it's pretty much just a 1st draft. So feel free to leave some constructive criticism because I didn't have it beta read and there may be some things that are major issues. I wouldn't be opposed to editing them even after it's published.

But, I'll thank anyone who read this whole post!

Check out the story if you want!

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undiscovered-horizon · 2 years

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Mafia!Billy Russo Headcanon Part 2

Author's note: There are still some more things I want to say. Mafia!Billy is my fictional husband bye

[Part 1]

Your friends are jealous and it's quite obvious

To them, you live some rom-com dream

Especially when Billy picks you up with a bouquet and some cheesy line like "they're nearly as pretty as you"

You take your friends to a spa and a restaurant and all of the staff addresses you as Mrs.Russo and asks how things have been.

Would you like your usual order, ma'am? Should we put it on the tab? Today the chef recommends Wagyu beef salad with raspberry vinaigrette and lobster linguini with white truffle alfredo sauce. The chef will be glad to make a special dish just for you. We have also received a delivery of rare wines for sampling, should I bring a wine flight?

One of the many upsides of having the name "Russo" is that there is always a table for you. You didn't book one?

We're sorry, we can't sit you...Oh, Russo you say? If you would just follow me, we might have a spare table.

You're one of the very few people who can actually pull off the "Do you even know who I am?" move

The weirdest moments, for your friends, are when some rich officials stop by your table to say their greetings and ask about some upcoming gala. Then they ask to pass their greetings to your husband

But this lavish lifestyle has brought negative reactions too

Some are calling you a "gold digger"

But make sure Billy doesn't know about that or those people might just disappear or show up missing a vital part of their body

You used to know a girl whose boyfriend called you a gold digger and because it was the first time somebody called you that, you told the story to Billy, absolutely upset and confused that someone would see you that way

I'm saying "used to" because the next day that guy lost both of his hands and the girl refused to talk to you again

Although those comments sometimes do get to you and you ask him whether you actually are a gold digger and Billy is beyond confused

Because you refuse so many of his gifts??? And you accept maybe a third of what he wants to give you??? And you're genuinely upset when he showers you with expensive gifts???

If you're not bathing in hundred-dollar bills, it's not enough for him. As I have mentioned, he doesn't know how to express his love towards you, so he settles for buying you gifts.

All this money! All this money and resources and he wants to give it to you! Because he doesn't think he has anything else of significant worth

It's a hard concept for Billy to grasp that he could buy you frozen pizza and you would love him just as much

Because he has lived in a world in which money and power are the only useful resources. Those are the only things people wanted from him so when you tell him that it doesn't change anything about your feelings, he's not sure what to do or think

At first, he doesn't believe it and thinks you're just trying to be polite and that he can buy your love like he's done with a few women before, but then he learns that you actually mean it and Billy ends up in an uncharted territory of genuine intimacy.

Be understanding, he needs some time to open up and speak in a tone different than cynical

I wrote before that he tends to keep you safe through inconspicuous means

But there are moments when things get a bit more complicated and dangerous and those are the moments when your bravery is less than welcome

He knows you're strong but he also knows that his rivals are ruthless and shameless. So when he shows up sweaty and bloody, telling you in an imperious tone to pack your things, you don't argue. He literally does know better how to act in such a situation.

Billy is willing to get shot and stabbed multiple times to make sure you're okay. Not that you want him to.

"I brought you into this life, it's my responsibility to keep you safe."

Only once did he get in the way of a bullet meant for you and you still feel guilty about it, while he wears that joking smugness saying that he loves you so much he got shot for you

Sometimes he says that you owe him for that bullet but he doesn't mean it. He only cares about the fact that you were alright although seeing you cry over him was a good ego boost

You kiss that scar any time you have the chance and although Billy knows it's a way of you expressing your gratitude and guilt, he never stops you. I mean, he would have to lose his mind to ever stop you from kissing him, no matter the reason

Talking about touch, I like to think about mafia!Billy as a man who sleeps on top of you. Just in case someone barges in and tries to hurt you, they have to go through him first. Literally.

He always waits for you to fall asleep first, no matter how tired he is

Billy lives for both the deep and dumb questions you ask him while you lay in bed

"Do you think it would be fun to be a llama? I mean, you live in Peru or Nepal, or somewhere like that, spit on people and have the softest fur."

Do you have any idea how close he was to buy a llama back then?

Mainly because it feels like you're opening your vulnerable heart to him and saying "this is what I'm thinking of and I want you to be part of it, even if it's weird or cringy". There is a heart-warming element of trust in sharing silliness with someone.

That's the moment Billy realized what people mean when they say that your spouse should be your best friend.

You have made the mistake of mentioning one or two painters you absolutely love and now you own quite a few original paintings.

"So your husband bought you an original Roerich because he thought you might like it? Mine doesn't buy radish when I ask him for it."

Quite obviously, your friends' husbands don't like Billy and you can't help but feel kind of sorry for them. I mean, who wants to listen to their spouse marvel at somebody's husband?

He's the boss so his hands are, technically, clean. All the dirty work is done by his people

That doesn't mean he's a saint. He has done unspeakable things, even if through somebody else's hands and it's a bit of an open secret in your relationship.

You know but don't say anything and it's not like he starts the conversation by listing off all the human rights he has broken

But, as I have said, you know. And that means you realize he is capable of destroying lives without batting an eyelash.

You've never admitted that but he had realized it with time - there are moments when a seed of terrifying doubt appears inside you. I mean, what makes you so sure he won't do something awful to you?

You've seen him angry and you know that whatever happens to him when his patience is running thin, it makes irredeemable atheists pray to every deity they have ever heard of.

When he comes home angry, he can see the spark of fear in your eyes only when it's too late, when you minimally move away from him or remain silent

That's when he leaves your shared house for a few hours, doing God knows what, God knows where. But when he does come back, his anger is gone and Billy seems a little more round-shouldered, a little smaller than when he left.

But your hidden fear has sparked a barely-tamed standup quite a few times. He tries to, angrily, reassure you that you shouldn't be scared of him.

"You know damn well I wouldn't hurt you."

"You knew what you were signing up for when we got married."

I think what angers him the most during those exchanges is that he knows your fear is, to some degree, reasonable. It's common sense to be afraid of a man who drilled through someone's knees just for a name

And that realization makes him question himself whether he really doesn't have it in him to hurt you.

So although he appears angry, he is actually afraid, a lot more than you. Because what if your fear is not baseless? What if his moral spine is flaccid beyond recovery?

He knows what he's personally done to people threatening your well-being. And he shudders at the thought of being in their shoes.

You jokingly call him "tiger" and that's the excuse he uses when he gently bites your shoulder, your ear or your neck (when he bites your thigh you're a little too busy to call him that)

Speaking of the more explicit side of your relationship, you have definitely done it in his office, to the horror and mortifying awkwardness of the employees.

But he's the boss! So no one dares say a word or look when you're leaving

There have been employees who made a comment between themselves regarding your "promiscuity". When somebody told them they should pray no one else had heard that, they just laughed

Good thing (or bad, depending on the point of view) that Anvil's employees generally like you, mainly because you take your time to engage in conversation and ask how they're doing. And that you never act like you're better than them in any way, shape or form.

The only question they don't want to ask is how they like working at Anvil. That's the one inquiry that sets off primal fear in them and so everyone just nods along and says how great things are.

So someone snitched and those company "gossip girls" showed up to work heavily mutilated and no one questioned that

Let's just say that an example has been made and the employees tell new hires that story like some old folk legend

You are, partially, Billy's partner in crime.

All those fancy galas and egotistic people you meet, sometimes Billy wants a second opinion and asks or tricks you into helping him

Mostly he just inconspicuously asks you what you think about someone or the suggestions they have made

But other times he makes you (one way or another) talk to the said person alone and turns out you're the perfect bait: beautiful, young, unavailable and on top of that, unavailable because you're married to the man they envy or see as their rival

Everything that makes proud, egotistical businessmen going.

Most of the time it's enough to pretend to be impressed and quote Plato

And that's the story of why Billy sometimes makes humorous allusions to you being an undercover agent

"It's 3am, Billy, where are you going?"

"Is this an interrogation, agent Russo? Would you like me handcuffed?"

Billy always chooses his tie according to what you're wearing.

Most of the time when you're going somewhere alone, Billy sends one of his most trusted men with you. It's a compromise you have settled for.

And they're the only ones allowed (literally) to address you by your name

Once it has nearly ended in a disaster when someone informed Billy that the man, you were currently with while running some errands, was a rat

After that, it was difficult to convince him to let you out of his eyesight for a few weeks

When it comes to having lunch with your family and friends, you had to slowly explain to Billy how weird and suspicious it would be if you showed up with some random man and claimed it was your bodyguard or a butler or anything.

Because, honestly, what goody-two-shoes businessman sends his wife off with a bodyguard? Everyone would just think you're cheating on your hard-working, veteran husband while spending his money.

(Which did become a rumor at some point among people you used to know)

The compromise was that the said man just sits a few tables away and the waiter regularly updates him on what's going on

Speaking of restaurants: you can't just eat in any restaurant. Many people intertwined with shady businesses have died during meals of very natural causes like arsenic poisoning.

So the only places you eat at are within Billy's part of the city

Which, in turn, sometimes requires you to make up lies on the spot, like when random people on the street tell you good morning or bow their heads slightly

"Oh, they're just Billy's work friends."

If "work friends" could mean "criminals and thugs employed as his workforce"

As family and friends are, sometimes they want to come over and that's when Billy and you have to play Easter egg haunt except it's not Easter and the eggs are guns.

It's one of Billy's habits that he has quite a few hidden around the house so you have to either find them and hide them somewhere else or "babyproof" them, so your guests can't find them, like jamming the drawers

"Okay, that should be all of them."

"I think I might have one in my pants. You sure you don't wanna check, sweetheart?"

Speaking of guns, he definitely made you carry one but something really small like for 2-3 rounds. He'd rather you stay away from all things sharp and explosive but he also knows that the world he sucked you into is grim and ruthless

Truthfully, both of you didn't want that but both of you knew that it was a necessary prevention

And it sometimes requires a really inventive thought and good acting to not make it known to your blissfully unaware friends and family

You have definitely made Billy watch The Godfather and ask him for a "professional" opinion. His side-eye was quite telling.

_______

@restingbitchsblog @intothesoul

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thenewromancer · 3 years

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What is Noir?

There is a certain type of feeling I always find comforting when I am lonely or depressed. The best thing about it is that it's not a happy escape, like a comedy or an adventure story. It is a dark escape. It gives you a taste of romance but smashes any pretense of "happily ever after."

This feeling is in music, recently by The Weeknd, but really any band that makes songs that sound like a doomed romance. The Cure comes to mind. Joy Division.

Most famously this feeling is in the films that I love. Many people think that it originated in film, but I know the truth. Like all great story ideas it originated as literature. But it's roots extend all the way back to the beginning of drama..

This feeling is beloved by the french, from whom it derives it's name. It means 'black'... Noir.

Origins of Noir

Noir is a story all of us have heard in our lives. A person we know has committed a crime and landed themselves in jail forever. We can imagine why. Not for reasons that the media dreams up, like being driven to the point of insanity. But for commonplace reasons, like love or to alleviate a desperate situation. That's noir..

Noir was derived from hardboiled detective fiction in the late 1920's and 30's. Many of the first Noir authors made their living being published in cheap pulp magazines. Detective fiction magazines to be exact, because Mystery was a popular genre at the time. But I honestly think this was just a means to an end. And if it was a different genre that was popular they may have wrote about different subjects. But detective fiction allowed some great authors to explore the nature of crime, morality and the darkside of human relationships.

However, I do not think that Hardboiled detective fiction and Noir are the same thing. Noir is a reversal of the Hardboiled detective genre. A creative leap that seems inevitable. This series of posts aims to point out just how creative the leap really was.

What is Hardboiled?

Hardboiled: an attitude derived from soldiers in World War 1. A world weary cynicism caused by the hopelessness of lost causes and corrupt institutions.

Noir: differs from the hardboiled attitude in that it is not cynical. It could be a cynical attitude, but it is strangely hopeful. Because the character has found love, and he has a scheme to fuck over the corrupt institution. So, in essence, Noir is more of an erotically charged desperation.

So, here is the set-up, the basic Hardboiled story, from which the Noir plot is derived from:

The Players

The Knight: The detective. In hardboiled fiction, the main character.

The King: The Kingpin. The lead gangster. His downfall is imminent.

The Queen: The femme fatale. The wife of the King. Her downfall is imminent as well.

The Pawns: Accomplices to the king. Thugs, killers and gangsters.

The Hardboiled Detective Plot

Hardboiled is a story you never hear in life. A white Knight takes on a powerful person or a corrupt power structure. His determination makes him win.. Their corruption does them in.. You never hear the story because it has been suppressed by the powerful and because the Knight seeks no fame

Hardboiled is classified with the mystery genre. But it differs from regular Detective fiction, because we are not looking through evidence to discover the identity of the criminal. Often we know who the criminals are, it is just a question of how the Knight will take them down.

The crime is usually murder. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. The murder is a glimpse into a corrupt institution that needs to be taken down. The gateway into the underworld is usually a woman..

The Femme Fatale

A moll, a gangster's girlfriend, a semi-trusted accomplice. She is strong, beautiful and duplicitous. She plays both sides. Sometimes she is secretly the villian.

However, she is not evil. We are meant to fall in love with her, even if we don't love the things she does.

Femme fatales have been played by every great actress in the hollywood golden era. Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Lauren Bacall.. The femme fatale is the star. Most of the interest for the viewer is the sexual tension between the Detective and The Femme Fatale.

The function of the femme fatale is to give the detective key information, and to provide distractions that lead the detective astray. A very dynamic character. Central to the plot.

How is Hardboiled Different than a Thriller?

Thriller: a story that keeps you on the "edge of your seat." Typically a mystery or spy story. The story turns on suspense, meaning the characters know more than the audience. Important information is revealed that changes the direction of the plot. For example, there is a killer hiding in the darkness. Neither the main character nor the audience knows when the killer is going to strike. Anticipation of the strike, that is suspense.

Thrillers are very similar to the Hardboiled genre (when they are detective mysteries). The main difference is that Hardboiled crime fiction doesn't employ suspense as it's principle tool of interest. Hardboiled stories use dramatic irony to hook the audience, meaning the audience knows more than the characters.

In Romeo and Juliet, we know that Juliet is only asleep, not dead. But Romeo thinks she is really dead, so he kills himself.. That is an example of dramatic irony.

The Other Difference

Both Thrillers and Hardboiled stories tend to end well for the protagonist. But a Thriller tends to give you hope for the world. Hardboiled stories don't give you the satisfaction. The bad guys die, but the world is just as corrupt as ever.

The Noir Plot

When a story becomes too familiar, a good author will innovate. The first writers to innovate become famous and influence the authors who come after. This is why it is important to master one genre before trying to create an original story. Every audience has expectations. We set up those expectations with the Title and the branding. Being a good writer means working within limitations but still finding creative ways to give the audience what they expect. That is art.

And this is how Noir came to be. Noir authors told the same story as Hardboiled. But instead of focusing on the detective, they focused on the criminal. This changed the plot from one of admiration of a hero, to the tragic downfall of a charismatic anti-hero.

In the next post I will teach you the genre conventions and roots of Noir, starting from the very first Noir in American literature: James M. Cain's "The Postman Always Rings Twice".

#future noir #noir #film noir #writeblr #writer #writers on tumblr #screenwriting #cyberpunk #cyber punk #a e s t h e t i c #writerslife

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ironlime · 3 years

Text

60 Years After

So somebody in the tumblrverse posted about their headcannon in which Ned Coats was Sam Vimes' kid having traveled through time. I am a fan of this. It explains a lot. So when I read it back in... April? I then sat down and wrote up this little fanfic thing. And assumed that I could not only get it posted today, but also edit it so that it's not filled with so many of my own headcannons. And is closer to the original material. But L-Space is my job, and it really does do crazy things to time (and space.) On top of that I was really hoping I could post this to that original headcannon post but... I can't find it. So, OP, if you come across this... Well, I'm sorry. I'm more sorry to Sir Terry (GNU), though.

Quick note: my friends and I have found it easier to call Vimes' kid "Wee Sam" than "Young Sam" because "Young Sam" is one of the names (along with Vimesy and Lance Constable Vimes) that Vimes calls his younger self and... yeah. We find it confusing when nerding out about a single series with two different characters called 'Young Sam'. So we Feegle it up. Even though I wouldn't be surprised if 'Wee Sam' is actually a bit taller than his dad.

~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~

“What happened just then, Sarge? You blurred.” Wee Sam said, while he thought Oh so that’s what that looks like.

“You only get one question, Ned,” The man who would be his father looked a little seasick, and Wee Sam knew exactly how he felt. “Now, let’s show Snapcase where the line’s drawn, shall we? Let’s finish it--”

To the majority of people there that day, Sergeant-At-Arms John Keel stood, turned towards the enemy, and charged. To two people, Commander Sam Vimes ran towards Carcer, ready to drag him kicking and screaming into the past. Or the future. Depending on who you asked.

That was what gave Wee Sam his frame of reference, actually. He remembered hearing stories about Carcer, about how his dad had arrested the bastard the day Wee Sam was born. But was this actually May 25th for his dad? Was this weeks before the arrest? Hours? He couldn’t ask. Not yet.

“Glad to see you’ve joined us and are getting along with the Sarge, Coats.” Fred Colon said, touching him on the shoulder as they ran towards the fight.

“Yeah, Fred.” Oh, Fred. Fred Colon had died a few years ago, happy and surrounded by great-grandchildren. But here and now he was young and actually capable of running. And he was running towards the fray.

Sweeper had told Wee Sam to stay away from the center of the fight, and to try not to actually kill anybody, so he stayed on the edge near the unconscious Lance-Constable Sam Vimes who had been hidden by his older, more cynical self. Three men in a battle with the same name, and two of them were the same person. Good thing Wee Sam was the only one who had to really keep track of which of them was where. He certainly didn’t trust anybody else to.

So he fought, in a very curbed way, knocking his adversaries unconscious when he could and doing his best not to step on Nobby Nobbs, who was doing his best to very slowly inch away from the battle while simultaneously pretending to be a corpse. Over by the Watch House, Reg Shoe was doing a much better impersonation of a corpse, seeing as how he was one, but in a couple of hours he’d discover that it just didn’t work for him.

“You’re nicked, my ol’ chum.” It was probably because he had been listening for it, but his father’s whisper carried. Nobody else seemed to hear it, and nobody but Wee Sam turned in time to see the two men vanish. In the same instant, a single body appeared on the ground near where they had been. So, now that he had seen that through, there was one more…

A dark grey-green shadow passed by his shoulder, and his mind registered Uncle Havelock before adding the word Young.

Havelock Vetinari ran into the fight, cutting down Carcer’s men much more brazenly than the Assassin's Guild would like, a lilac bud between his teeth. Even in Wee Sam’s time, when Vetinari’s wardrobe consisted entirely of black and everything he did was in moderation, the Patrician indulged in a little drama on a regular basis.

He chose to have Commander Sam Vimes in his life, after all.

There was a sound to Wee Sam’s left, which he recognized though his mind didn’t associate any words with it. It was a sound any human would recognize, even those who first approached the Delta where the Ankh River met the Circle sea thousands of years ago. If Wee Sam had to find Morporkain words for it, and as a Vimes he did like to use his vocabulary, they were Confused, followed by Hurt followed by… wait for it… there it was. Anger.

Wee Sam could make that noise, though he rarely did. His father’s upbringing, on the other hand, had been considerably less balanced. The kid who was the source of the sound ran into the center of the fight, and Wee Sam deftly stepped out of his way while pushing an adversary in his way. The boy chopped down the Unmentionable with one graceful movement, and Wee Sam felt that he could safely say that he hadn’t been the one to kill the bastard. And nobody had been so foolish as to tell him to prevent his father from killing anybody.

Vetinari didn’t pause, but he did turn to look at this vengeful newcomer. Vetinari hadn’t been there when young Sam Vimes participated in the first part of the battle, and Wee Sam recognized the young assassin’s look of interest.

Tell me, Uncle Havelock, will you recognize him in 15 years? Or will you need to get him well and truly angry to realize you’ve found him?

Wee Sam knew this wasn’t the first time Havelock Vetinari saw Sam Vimes, but this was probably the first time he saw the potential. That he was more than just That Kid Who Follows Keel Everywhere. I bet you didn’t actually expect him to be so damned smart. His father still didn’t think of himself as intelligent. It was infuriating, especially when he and his father were having a disagreement. A drawn out, decade-long, disagreement.

Young Sam Vimes sent a lot of the Unmentionables running, and Wee Sam cut down any of them which could be seen as ‘coming towards him with a drawn weapon’. Since they were escaping a fight, that was anyone who came within reach not wearing a lilac.

Time travel really can get to a man. He thought, feeling a little cold. There would be no arrests here, just death and fleeing and at the end of the day Sam Vimes, Havelock Vetinari, Fred Colon, Gaskin, and, less literally, Nobby Nobbs and Reg Shoe would all be left standing. That was all that mattered.

He saw Vetinari turn away from young Sam Vimes, who then spun, and for the briefest moment they had their backs to each other, and Wee Sam wished he had his paints. It was a gods awful place to paint, there was a reason battles were always ‘immortalized’ after the fact, but the color and everything was just perfect--

And then the color faded.

“You should have fallen by now.” Sweeper observed from behind him.

“I wanted to see them fight together.” Wee Sam admitted, not turning. He had a notebook on him, and a pencil, but he knew that even with Time paused he didn’t really have it. Not to sit down and do a proper preliminary sketch. He was just going to have to remember.

Vetinari had a stiletto, an assassin’s weapon used to kill up-close. Young Sam Vimes hadn’t learned to dual-wield yet, but he had good instincts for the sword. Wait until you discover the axe.

Sweeper sighed. “Fine, and now you’ve seen it. I’m going to put the time back on and you had better be prepared to drop.”

“Yes yes alright.” Wee Sam shifted slightly, so he could seriously inconvenience the man who he was blocking before he dropped.

“Oh and stop killing people.”

“I’m a Vimes. You knew that when you hired me.”

“Indeed.” Sweeper said, and it took Wee Sam a moment to realize it was an attempt at a Vetinari impression. Before Wee Sam could reply, the color came back, and his adversary frowned in confusion.

“Oi, you blurred!” The man cried.

“This just isn’t your day.” Wee Sam gave the man a wound which might heal, if somebody tended to it within the next 10 minutes, and then fell over in a needlessly complicated way, specifically so he wouldn’t hit Nobby Nobbs.

And when he landed, the boy was looking right at him, frowning. Damn, Nobby was always the brains of Colon & Nobbs.

“You ain’t injured.” The boy hissed at him.

“Try to pick my pockets and you’ll regret it.” Wee Sam whispered back. Of course he wouldn’t dream of hurting Nobby, but the kid didn’t know that. Besides, picking the contents of his pockets back would be a relaxing way to end the day.

Nobby was still frowning at him. “You got eyes like the Sarge...”

“Nobby, get out of here before you get stepped on.” Wee Sam growled in his best imitation of his father, the Sergeant, within the past three days. The kid’s eyes went wide, and he took off running. Wee Sam glanced over to where Vimes and Vetinari were taking care of the last of Carcer’s men, and the color faded once more.

“I hope you are pleased with yourself.” Sweeper said, which Wee Sam took to mean he could stand up and dust himself off.

“Young Vimes and Vetinari live to grow up and become two of the most powerful men in Ankh-Morpork history, Carcer went back to his time more or less accompanied by my my dad so the one can be arrested by the other, your rogue ‘Time Vigilantes’ have been sorted out, oh and I don’t cease to exist either. My work here is d--” He stopped, and watched as Q and some other Technical Monks lay down a man about the same age, size and coloring as Wee Sam. “Wait, so there really was a Ned Coats?”

Sweeper had walked off without him, and Wee Sam jogged to catch up. The old monk didn’t turn to look at him when they were side-by-side, but he did start talking. “Of course there was. He was also from Psudopolis and knew the real Keel.”

“How’d he die?”

“The Agony Aunts, on his first day here. He was the real reason the real Keel accepted a job in Ankh-Morpork. The real Ned Coats was not a good man.”

“Keel... left his home to track down a criminal…” Wee Sam slowed. “That’s what my dad did! As Keel! Only, it was Carcer he had to catch.”

“Time likes continuity.” Sweeper nodded, and thanked Wee Sam quietly for holding the door open as they entered the monastery. Once in the building, color returned, with motion and sounds and smells. They were back in the Present.

The walk through the building was in relative silence, the rumbling of the procrastinators keeping it from ever becoming truly quiet here. Wee Sam could sleep almost anywhere, but the rumbling reminded him of the steam engines back home and Susan’s offer to help him find a job in Sto Lat ‘if he really couldn’t stay in Ankh-Morpork’.

Not long after his parents first met his dad had gotten fired for a couple of days, and his mom had offered to get him a job working for Susan’s parents. Susan had been young then, and sometimes he wondered what kind of person she would have grown up to be with his dad as part of her household staff.

Of course, with his parents living in two different cities, he would have never been born.

His mother would have never left Ankh-Morpork.

Then again, his father had chosen not to leave. He had stayed on the case. He… sorted it out, more or less. He kept Vetinari from getting killed. Had he done that during the battle? Young Sam and Vetinari had been facing opposite directions, had Vimesy blocked any blows aimed at the future patrician?

There was the crunch of stones under his feet, and Wee Sam consciously acknowledged they had arrived at the Garden of Inner-City Tranquility. His eyes swept the space, falling on and acknowledging the Cigarette Pack of Air, the Cat Doings of Disharmony, the Sonkie of Organic Harmony, the Cabbage Stalks of Dim Comprehension, the Discarded Fish-And-Chip Wrapper of Infinity, the Beer Bottle of Pissing Off Sweeper, and….

“The Cigar of Capriciousness is still here.” Wee Sam said, stopping between the door and the bench Sweeper always went to. He tilted his head slightly. “Or… Another cigar. Same brand, same style, smoked the same amount, probably by the same man, at the same angle... but it’s wrapped just a little differently.”

“Is it? I’ve stopped noticing.”

“You haven’t noticed the cigar that’s been smouldering here for the past month?” Wee Sam turned to Sweeper in disbelief. “I understand not paying attention to the condoms and cat doings, but time passes in here!”

Sweeper shrugged. “There is always a cigar. Even if we get rid of it, a new one shows up. If the new one lands closer to the wall, the garden always pushes it to the center.”

“Always? Since, what, the dawn of time?”

“Oh no. Since the day you were born. Or thirty years before. It’s hard to say.” Sweeper was looking at him evenly, and Wee Sam suddenly realized his reaction was being gauged.

“My dad. But…” Wee Sam looked at the cigar. “He doesn’t smoke them anymore.”

“He does. On special occasions.”

“Like what?”

“Your birthday. And when he pays certain visits.”

“He talked you into not keeping me on?” His gaze moved swiftly from the old man to the cigar, and with purpose he stalked into the middle of the garden and brought his foot back, prepared to give the thing a swift kick.

“You did that just fine without his help.” Sweeper’s voice was quiet, but it froze Wee Sam where he stood. “Corporal, we both know you don’t want to do this.”

“The mission is over. Coats is dead. I’m not a corporal anymore.” His foot fell heavily, not coming into contact with the cigar but still sending a spray of stones ahead of them. He scowled as they came sliding back towards him, settling where they had been around his foot. “This job is the closest I’ve ever gotten to what I was made to do.”

“I realize that. I’m sorry.”

There was some silence as the last of the stones slid into place. The procrastinators here were small, used only for the bathrooms in the far right corner, even though the city’s sewer pipe system now meant that they were just inconveniencing themselves in exchange for saving very little money. Wee Sam had done the math.

“Did you tell Susan?” Wee Sam didn’t want to be the one to tell her, but he also didn’t want anybody else to explain that he had squandered this opportunity.

“No. That is your problem, my boy.”

“Good.” Wee Sam squatted down, getting a closer look at his father’s cigar. The smell brought him back to his childhood, and it was comforting if not at all healthy. His mother had never allowed them in the house, but his father smoked them all the time outside and in his office, so the scent clung to his uniform like… Well like Wee Sam had back then. “Please don’t hold… me... against her. She was just looking out for me. She does that. Wish I knew why.”

“She is aware of your potential.” Sweeper said, and Wee Sam was so surprised he looked over his shoulder at the old man. “You’re good at investigating and putting the pieces together. And, some day, you will once again make a very good cop.”

“Someplace other than Ankh-Morpork.” Wee Sam grunted, but the old man shrugged, and he asked, hopefully “In Ankh-Morpork but in the future?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“No, it’s for my father to say.” He glared at the cigar, and then pushed himself to a standing position.

“You know, I didn’t just take you on because Susan asked and there happened to be another Vimes-shaped opening.” Sweeper said as Wee Sam turned towards the door.

“No?”

“I wanted to get to know the man the Theives Guild deemed ‘too dangerous’ for membership.” Sweeper sounded amused, and Wee Sam turned to look at him.

“I keep killing people. Assassin's school graduate, and all.” Wee Sam reminded him, but Sweeper waved the comment away.

“We both know neither of those things are relevant to today’s theive’s guild.” Sweeper shook his head. “Your father is afraid of you becoming him; and, well, so is everyone else. Vimeses walk in and take control. Especially under Vetinari’s influence.”

“And how do you know what my father is afraid of?” Wee Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. He was choosing to ignore the comment about Vetinari’s influence because it was true. After 300 years of cops and / or drunks it took Havelock Vetinari telling his father ‘not’ to investigate three deaths to bring his family name back to the list of the city’s gentry.

“You should ask him.” Sweeper did not ignore the narrowed eyes, but he did meet them evenly. “What he’s afraid of.”

Wee Sam turned towards the door, intending to stalk out, then thought better of it and spun so he was completely facing the old man. “You know what? I think I will.”

Then he ran, took a leap to place one foot on the bench beside Sweeper and jumped so his hands easily grasped the top of the wall. His own momentum brought him sideways, and he hurtled over the top. There was an alley on the other side, and he landed lightly. He was exactly where he expected to be, of course, and took off at a run towards the Cemetery of Small Gods.

And slowed to a walk before he reached the gates. It would not do for him to be out of breath when he arrived at the graves.

Twilight was falling, so his dad would be there, but so would Uncle Havelock and maybe Reg Shoe. Wee Sam was less concerned about how Reg saw him, especially now that he had seen Reg alive, but as far as his family was concerned he wanted to take steps towards appearing dignified. Even though they had known him his whole life, and knew better.

Sure enough, he passed Reg first. The Zombie was carrying a long-handled shovel over his left shoulder, and nodded in acknowledgement. Wee Sam managed to nod back before they passed each other.

He had expected Reg to recognize him. Reg had never noticed him behind the barricade, his father never noticed him behind the barricade, but Wee Sam had been playing Ned Coats for a full month before Sam Vimes had shown up as John Keel. Maybe Reg had never noticed that his father was Keel? How did Zombie memories work, anyway? Their brains certainly weren’t making new pathways… Did vampyre brains make new pathways?

This train of thought kept him pretty well occupied, along with the question of how he could politely go about getting some answers, when he noticed Uncle Havelock and his ‘cane’ striding silently towards him. A simple nod wouldn’t do.

“Good evening, Uncle Havelock.” Wee Sam called, since his mother had drummed into his head that you always greeted your superiors first. Admittedly, this sometimes meant that he approached his uncle with a question about what he would call the color of the sunset above a specific building at that exact moment, or if there was a poison which exploded in a particularly satisfactory fashion, but the patrician never complained. Nor did he complain if Wee Sam wandered in his office and started talking about alternative methods for coding clax messages or an unusual bird he had noticed riding the thermals above the University. And, thank gods, Havelock Vetinari knew that a formal greeting from Wee Sam Vimes meant that he didn’t want to talk.

“Happy Birthday, Wee Sam.” His uncle replied, “I trust you’ll be on time for dinner?”

Oh. That was a reminder. And a warning. “Thank you. Yes, we won’t be long.”

“Good. See you then.” The Patrician nodded, and then passed him.

“Yes.” Wee Sam muttered, and then reached for his pocket watch. When he pulled it out, he saw the time was all wrong and swore quietly. Well, from the graves he would be able to see the Tower of Art, and set his watch to the present. The battle of the lilac boys had been in the mid-morning, and it was most definitely not a quarter to noon.

John Keel’s grave marker was wood, and though it had been replaced often it had never been strong enough to support the weight of an average-sized man. Reg’s, on the other hand, was granite, and he apparently didn’t mind that Commander Sam Vimes leaned against it more and more every year.

Wee Sam didn’t make any noise, he never made any noise, but he could never sneak around his father. Commander Sam Vimes turned his head ever so slightly, and Wee Sam tooka good look at him.

Oh gods, he was so old. When had that happened? True, the last time he had seen his father he must have been about 50, but before that Wee Sam had spent three decades watching his father age and yet… It had never struck him so hard. He never could quite reconcile his memories of young Sam Vimes, that kid who had joined The Watch for three square meals a day and a little extra cash for his family. But he hadn’t thought his father had changed so much.

The old man looked him up and down. “How’d the battle go? After I left?”

Wee Sam stopped abruptly, and looked down at his outfit. He had forgotten to change into the clothes he had left at the monastery. This outfit was a uniform the Monks had given him, so he wouldn’t have the problems ‘accidental’ time travelers experienced with their clothes and meals and things staying in the time they came from. He even still had his lilac, somehow, even though that had come from the past.

“Don’t you remember?” You kicked ass.

His father shook his head. “I remember the original timeline, when Keel died at the barricade. I was pretty sure Coats wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he was, either.”

“I guess Vetinari showed up?” His father smirked. “Had a lilac in his teeth and everything?”

“I thought you didn’t remember it.” Wee Sam frowned.

“I don’t, but he tells me about it sometimes. I think he’s waiting for me to remember, or maybe now he’s wondering why I don’t.”

“Because time travel is a mess.” Wee Sam turned away from his father and looked across the city. He could see his family’s house from here.

“So Sweeper explained it to you?” The interest in his voice was practically tactile.

“No, but I had to run around for a month foiling somebody who had been sent to kill Havelock Vetinari. And it gave me time to wonder.”

“Why it was different the first time around?”

Wee Sam shook his head. “Would I have survived being born if you didn’t go back and meet Lawn?”

There was absolute silence between them, until Commander Sam Vimes quietly swore.

“Sweeper told me you have to think of things as one event in front of another, which is fine, except if you hadn’t gone back in time you wouldn’t have known Lawn was competent. You had heard of him, sure, but he would have never crossed your mind.”

“So we owe your existence to the damn time monks?” There was an angry edge to his father’s voice, but Wee Sam already knew his father was protective as hell. That was how he had gotten into this mess. Sort of.

“No. As far as I can tell, we owe it to some modern young idiots who thought they could go back and kill Vetinari. Time tries to fix things, and so you were sent back in time, to meet Lawn and Carcer went with you and killed Keel so there was a place for you to be and when you were done my life got saved and the monks were able to send me back to save Vetinari’s life and… Time is what it should be. Go us.” There was something about owing his life to terrorists that made him feel sarcastic.

“For all we know Vetinari or Rosie Palm might have recommended Lawn.” His father pointed out, which wasn’t a bad alternative. But it wasn’t what had happened, and there wasn’t really anybody they could ask. At least, nobody who they could ask who would give them a meaningful answer. They both knew Vetinari was a capable doctor, but apparently neither of them could imagine Vetinari getting involved in a problematic birth when there were other competent people around to do it.

More silence. Wee Sam noticed the time on the Tower of Art, and pulled his watch back out. If they were going to avoid talking about the massive argument they had that morning, he may as well take the time to re-set his watch.

“There was the sound of dice.” His father said so quietly that it didn’t initially register.

“Hm?” Wee Sam pushed the pin in, and watched with satisfaction as his watch and the tower struck the time at the exact same minute.

“Before the Library got struck by lightning. There was the sound of dice. Were the people who wanted to kill Havelock associated with a specific god?”

“I… Don’t know. They didn’t say anything about one.” He shut the watch, and shoved it in his pocket. ‘Havelock’ meant his dad was worried. “But there was a thunderstorm, right? Was the sound of dice rolling at the exact moment as the thunder?’

“Yes.”

“Io!” They both said it at the same moment, and Wee Sam felt his heart fall to his stomach. The self-proclaimed King of the Gods had been trying to subjugate their family for a long time. The only reason he had eased up lately was because Wee Sam had trained with the witches in Lancre. And so, to a lesser extent, had his father. It made them harder targets. But Io was still The Thunder God because he had murdered all the others. And then there was the question of who he would be forced to answer to. And how. Neither of the Vimes men had an axe sharp enough for that.

“Damn, why didn’t I realize that?” His father asked the night at large.

“The gods are always playing games. And besides, you had no reason to think Io was responsible for… Well he’s probably not responsible for the Dragon Incident, at least. Or the Goblin Incident.”

“Yeah, but we’ve been operating under the assumption that he was involved in that Dam Slam.” He was rubbing his thumb thoughtfully over the inside of his left wrist, where the Mark of the Summoning Dark had been. When Wee Sam was 8 it had changed, to a symbol generally called the Guarding Dark by anyone who cared to reference it. His father never talked about either Mark, but Wee Sam didn’t blame him. The Marks were indicative of 7 year period which did a number on his view of magic, and his identity.

Speaking of.

“I haven’t told Susan yet, but the monks kicked me out.” He tapped his toe against the grass, bringing it down as softly as he could so it wouldn’t damage the grass. Leggy would be so mad if he damaged his precious ‘terf’.

“Do you want to be a Monk?” His father asked quietly.

“No, I want to be a Watchman.” He whispered. Today was his 30th birthday, though technically he was a month older than that. He felt so much older than that. “But you’re apparently so terrified of me getting myself hurt that you’ve been doing Every Damned Thing you can think of to get between me and that and so I went ahead and tried to join almost any guild in the city and quite a few refused me and I’ve been kicked out of Each. And. Every. One. which would take me and now the only thing I can think of is taking Susan up on her offer to put in a good word for me with the Sto Lat Watch unless you’re going to step in and mess that up too and I wish you would knock it the hells off because as much as I love mum and her dragons I cannot spend the rest of my life working at the damn dragon sanctuary so--”

“Corporal.” His father’s voice was conversational, and somebody who had spent less time listening for the Commander’s voice probably wouldn’t have heard it.

“I’m not finished! Will you--” Wee Sam stopped abruptly. “Is that why you made me a Corporal? You couldn’t have recognized me. I hadn’t been born yet!”

“I recognized potential. And I was right, though you didn’t have as much control as I originally thought. Was all that sparring really necessary?”

“You’ve been standing between me and what I’ve been made to do!”

“And how would 50 year old me have known that?”

“It was easier to fight… him… than you.” Wee Sam grumbled, then realized he was starting to dig up the sod with his toe. Feeling bad about the grass, he brought his toe down in the other direction, to flatten it back down.

“Easier? I kicked your ass. I’d probably have a harder time of it now.”

“I never wondered if I should hold back.” Wee Sam admitted.

“Ah.” The 80 year old nodded. “I know that feeling. I’ve often wondered what it would be like if Vetinari and I had a proper fight when we were young.”

“You could sell tickets and solve all the city’s financial problems.” Wee Sam shifted his gaze to his father. “Actually you probably still could--”

“No. Your mother would have a conniption.”

“Oh right. Yeah, she would. Shame.”

“Do I want to know who you think would win?”

“No.”

“Your faith in me is staggering.”

“Well I figure either it would be a draw or he’d kick your--”

“Yes I understood your answer to my question, thank you.” But he was smiling ever so slightly.

And then the city’s clocks started chiming 9 in the evening. His father pushed himself slowly to his feet, and Wee Sam offered his arm. Cheery had offered to get his father an axe to use as a cane, but Commander Vimes would not hear of it. He did touch Wee Sam’s arm briefly, but once he was standing straight he let go, and the pair of them headed towards the exit.

They didn’t bother to try talking until the clocks had stopped, about five minutes after Wee Sam’s watch struck the hour.

“Did those people who tried to kill young Vetinari have any friends who stayed in our time?”

“I believe so.” They were walking slowly, and Wee Sam waited a full block before he added. “You want me to turn all my information over to anyone in particular?”

“I’m not afraid of you getting hurt.” It didn’t seem like a related response, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. “I mean, of course I am, but that’s not why I’ve been saying no.”

“Really?”

“I don't want people treating you like a target for their hate for me. If you could join the way Carrot or Angua or Cheery did, that would be fine. But it’s gotten so big since they joined up.”

“Ah.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t think it would be any better if you joined anywhere else within the Clacks network.”

“Which is pretty much the whole world at this point.”

“And there’s all this scrying now.”

“Which doesn’t need towers.”

His father glared at him, but didn’t tell him to knock it off. “So I suspect your joining a Watch anywhere would ultimately be just as risky.”

“Which is your reasoning for why I shouldn’t bother with Sto Lat.”

“No, my reasoning for why you shouldn’t bother with Sto Lat is that we pay better and have the best medical benefits on the Sto Plains.”

Wee Sam stopped abruptly. “What.”

“You survived the Watch I started out in. As far as I’m concerned, you can handle today’s watch.” The old man stopped and looked back at him. “You’re going to be the oldest cadet though. Because I’m not going to let you jump straight to Corporal. We’re not at war.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s fine.”

“We’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

“Right.” Wee Sam managed to keep himself from skipping, so the pent up energy became a jog to his father’s side. They walked in silence, Wee Sam’s mind racing as he wondered if there was some way for him to accidentally mess this up.

“You should give your mother two week’s notice though. It’s only fair.”

“You didn’t run this by her first?” Wee Sam turned to him, shocked.

“Oh we’ve been talking about this for years.” The unspoken word ‘decades’ hung in the air between them. “Her, Vetinari, Carrot, Angua, Cheery--”

“Cheery?”

“She and Igor think you should be in forensics. I mean, it’s your choice of course-- after you pass the tests.”

“Forensics would be great.” He agreed, and thought about how fun it could be to put his Medical and Alchemical and Assassin training to something useful for once. Which reminded him “You know, there is a smouldering cigar in the center of The Garden of Inner City Tranquility at the Monastery.”

“Yeah, it hit me after you left. I had called you ‘sunshine’ during our fight, and Vetinari basically asked how you were handling turning 30, and seeing him standing there with the lilac pinned to his shirt it hit me.” He paused for a moment. “He wore it in the original timeline too, you know. I wish I had asked, but we didn’t get along as well then.”

Wee Sam felt his mouth tug into a half-smile. For his father and the patrician, ‘getting along as well’ involved an increased number of arguments. Also, he remembered ‘Keel’ using that ironic term of endearment during their spar. “You realized I was Ned Coats.”

“So I… walked as fast as I could… to the Monastery and… knocked on the damned door… And threatened to make one hell of a scene if Sweeper didn’t let me in.”

“So of course he did.”

“Of course.”

“And he took you to the garden. And… you told him what you worked out?”

“Actually I just told him that if anything happened to you I was holding him personally responsible. I knew Ned Coats died. I just didn’t know if he died the way John Keel died. I hadn’t stayed long enough to find out.”

“And what did he say?”

“He asked if my holding him responsible was more or less lethal than Susan Sto Helit holding him responsible.”

Wee Sam laughed. “Sweeper hasn’t met mum.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” His father chuckled quietly. “Anyway, Susan will be at dinner so you can tell her all about how the monks kicked you out with an audience. Your mother will find it interesting, I’m sure.”

“Does mum know about you going back...”

“Oh yes. Vetinari can’t keep a secret from her.” And neither could her husband.

“Will there be anybody at the dinner who doesn’t know?”

“Hm, no. I don’t think so. You were the only one who wasn’t in a position to make conversation then, and while Susan wasn’t involved in my adventure as far as I can tell…”

“But with Susan who knows. In any case, I think I’ll wait until we can get some privacy.”

“Suit yourself, but be warned. Everyone knows I told you I was ok with you joining the Watch. They’ll make a big deal about it. You know how they are.”

Wee Sam looked up at the big, brightly-lit, house as they waited for his dad to fully get his breath back. “I’ll try to be strong.”

Commander Sam Vimes snorted. Wee Sam opened the door, held it while his father entered the house, and followed right behind him.

#the glorious 25th of may #night watch #discworld #sam vimes #gnu terry pratchett #fanfiction #john keel #terry pratchett #writing

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michyreadsthenwrites · 3 years

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Plain Bad Heroines - Let Me Give You My Thoughts On This (Character Analysis)

**major maaaaajor spoilers ahead**

(Here we begin with the handful of characters from Danforth’s sophomore novel that have found their way into my heart and apparently, this Word document. It didn’t hurt that they were all women that love women. And I mean, they really loved women.)

· Merritt Emmons is easily my favorite character. She’s got that dry, sarcastic humor and air around her that makes it really easy to love her and hate her guts all at the same time. (If she were here, she’d tell us that this was a talent, not a flaw.) I felt personally affronted when characters in PBH didn’t like Merritt, like they were overlooking the diamond in the rough right in front of their faces. Then, like most things, it became pretty clear: Merritt Emmons could be one hell of a bitch at times. But it really only made me love her more. I realized that I identified with her. Yes, about being a queer woman that really fucking loves other women, but also because she was a writer that wanted her writing to stay true to how she wrote it, especially with so many people traipsing all over it and trying to make it into something it’s not. That was where I realized I loved her early on; when she pitched a genuine fit over who was to play Clara Broward. It was something so petty and childish, something so very me to throw a fit in a packed room of professionals when you have no idea about that kind of world and what it demands. But she fought for what she believed in, alright. Until she didn’t. This made me love her some more, incidentally. We got to see Merritt’s character development throughout the novel, and more specifically, we got to watch her bounce back and forth between the person she was too scared to be but wanted more than she could ever admit, and the person she spent twenty long years being; the person she was oh-so-tired of introducing to people. This constant shift between new-Merritt and old, crabby, prickly-Merritt was a very raw and vulnerable thing for us to experience as an audience. Merritt was certainly a lot more refreshing than every one of the overdone-Hollywood-types we became acquainted with within the book. She was mean and arrogant and wildly insecure, yet somehow confident and sure of herself, when it came to her work or her knowledge or anything that had to do with any book written, ever. A walking paradox, that one. Merritt was a good way to remember that real people, not built-and-put-together-by-Hollywood-people don’t always have their shit together, and they can’t always get it together by the end of a novel, albeit a long, six-hundred-page one. I think I’ll cut myself off here, friends. Not that I want to, but I feel we have a lot to get to in these pages, and Merritt Emmons can’t be the star of all of them (lord knows I’d let her, though). To sum it up: Merritt Emmons was the star of this book, for me at least. And I hope for you too. (This means go get your ass over to your closest B&N and buy the damn thing).

· Harper Harper is somewhat of a mystery to me. She was a major character in the story, as well as one of our three protagonists, our three heroines, and yet I have trouble finding her as authentic and outlandish as she tries to come across. What I’m still having trouble deciphering is if this is an intentional character flaw created by our Miss Danforth, or if Harper Harper really has nothing to her besides being completely reinvented and marketed by Hollywood. Even in saying this, I know I have to give Harper credit where it’s due. She’s a proud queer woman in the movie industry, as well as openly queer online and really with just anyone and everyone she meets. She’s known for various flings and love-interests of the week, which is still a gross misrepresentation and stereotype of (masc?) lesbians and how they’re emotionally unavailable and unfaithful, which again is a possibility of the author’s intentional writing, something that we can leave for further discussion. We do get a bit of a glimpse into Harper’s life – her real-life – about how her mother is struggling with her sobriety, how her little brother seems to be caught in the middle of her mother’s messy relationships, and how she really has mixed feelings about how she fits into her new movie-star life. That’s about all we get from Harper, though. And it really is almost enough realness to take away from the fact that everyone else in the world sees Harper as the face of Hollywood, as this thing of beauty and money and badassery instead of a real person. But still not enough. And I could be wrong, friends. I could be pulling all of this out of my ass because Harper Harper is a badass queer woman that took over the movie industry with barely any experience under her belt. Harper Harper took every room she walked into by storm, and she made everybody pay attention to her, and she became the character we had a little crush on, simply because she was that big of a deal. But nothing of substance, not really. Not ever. But perhaps she had been her most real self with Merritt Emmons, in between the quiet pages that we didn’t get to read entirely. Merritt, our dry and arrogant and favorite heroine, had been Harper’s favorite, too. The most credit that I find myself giving Harper is her aid in Merritt’s character development. She brought Merritt out of her shell in a massive way, though at times she did have a hand in driving her back into the said shell. It was flawed, their relationship, which is another authentic Harper Harper insight we saw, as little of it there was. They were hot and cold, on and off, but always so enthralled with each other. And while Harper seemed to have had an impact on Merritt (among other factors), it doesn’t seem like Merritt had the same effect on Harper. I could be wrong and do feel free to correct me, friends, but Harper Harper did not come out the other end of PBH a changed woman. She was not burdened with the weight of a life-changing revelation. She was Harper Harper, as she always was, floating and untouchable, the kind of woman you wished to know, maybe to be, but also the kind you see right through. They’re transparent, friends, that’s what I’m trying to get at here. And they tend to stay that way. And I realize as I’m nearing the end of this, that I sound harsh in my critiques and analysis of Harper. I don’t mean to come off that way, friends, I really don’t. The truth is I love Harper, she’s everything we wish we could be. She’s gorgeous and sought after, can land any girl she wants with the bat of her eyelashes and a lazy smile. But you have to remember, she’s everything we’re not. I can only speak for myself, friends, and I encourage you to speak for yourselves if you find you have anything to add. I never related with Harper the way I did with Merritt’s character, but that doesn’t mean that Harper isn’t a beautiful enigma waiting to be unwrapped. I just don’t happen to be the kind of reader that would know where to begin unwrapping her, if that makes sense. And because I’m afraid it doesn’t, I do believe it’s time to stop with the metaphors and wrap this up nicely for you, friends: Harper Harper is number two on my list of favorite characters from PBH, and that is not something done lightly or by accident. She was one of our three heroines, after all. And a proper heroine she was, friends. Don’t you ever forget it.

· Libbie Packard broke my heart more times than I count, friends. You’ll notice I have kept her maiden name, then. This is intentional, friends, for our Libbie never wanted to be a Brookhants, not really. It wasn’t towards the end of PBH that we learned much of what we now know about Libbie, and how it came about that she had been married (to a man no less!), as well as the very young principal of an all-girls school. Throughout their chapters in the book, Libbie and Alex, her Alex, were seemingly at each other’s throats constantly. There seemed to be a mysterious tension that we as an audience weren’t privy to – but it didn’t stop us from speculating. I found myself drawn to Libbie more than I did her counterpart, and I still can’t point my finger as to why. Libbie seemed sad, right from our first introduction, and Alex always seemed angry and cynical (as a queer woman in 1902, is there any other way to seem?). This might serve as a dual character analysis yet, friends. I’m not sure how much I’ll have to say about our Alexandra Trills, but Libbie Packard deserves a long sentence, or two. You know when something finally clicks into place and you can’t help but just let out a long “ooohhhhhhh”? That’s a recreation of how I looked when I read the explanation of how Libbie Packard became Libbie Brookhants. Learning that she had become pregnant with a baby she didn’t want was mind-blowing enough, and it filled in the blanks of how young, gorgeous Libbie had become the wife of a rich, old, old man. Libbie gave up her child was because she didn’t want to be a mother, and she had originally rejected Harold Brookhants offer of marriage because she didn’t want to be a wife, regardless of false the marriage was. And for a while, Libbie’s new life was amazing; she got to live with her Alex in a beautiful house and became the principal of a promising school. This was the life she’d always wanted. Or was that just what we wanted to believe, friends? Only at the end did we learn that Libbie had rejected Harold Brookhants offer (to live a quiet, queer life with her lover and without the child she clearly didn’t want) because she didn’t want to be tied down; not to Harold, not to anyone. If you think about it, friends, this was exactly the life that she had been living for years to come now. The tension with Alex had much to do with the circumstances surrounding them at Brookhants and the evil that was unfolding before them, but it seemingly had even more to do with the fact that Libbie Packard felt smothered. She was hiding secrets from Alex, secrets that she felt could destroy this already fragile relationship that they had between them. How vastly different it was to read and experience their relationship at the beginning of their love; playful and full of joy, both women giddy with the promise of something new and exciting. To compare that kind of love to the broken, tight-lipped, empty vessel of the relationship they now pretend to have is heartbreaking. And yet, completely understandable. Alex had fallen in love with the Libbie she wanted her to be, not the Libbie she was. Our Libbie wanted to be eternally young; playful and happy, bouncing from city to city with Sara Dahlgren in a sea of eligible bachelors (and bachelorettes!). It was almost a shock to discover that this life Libbie tried so hard to defend and protect was not a life she had ever wanted for herself. Despite this, she loved her Alex and her students, and devoted her life to them. There was that whole business with cheating on Alex with Adelaide the housemaid (don’t even get me started on that broad) but I’d like to extend to you, friends, the fact that I won’t comment on this. Queer relationships in 1902 are definitely not what they are now, complete with century-old curses and dead schoolgirls. Libbie Packard became the 1902-lesbian-headmistress version of our stereotypical bored housewife, stuck in a marriage that she secretly wishes she could be free from. And my heart broke for her, friends, it really did. But she was a heroine all on her own. A deeply intelligent and remarkable woman. Make no mistake, friends. Libbie Packard and Libbie Brookhants differ by more than just a surname. Our young, vivacious Libbie disappeared the moment she accepted Harold Brookhants’ offer, and this is indeed the sad truth of it, friends: Libbie Packard was gone before she could ever find herself. But Libbie Brookhants was our gorgeous, brilliant, queer heroine that never got what she deserved. So, friends, let’s all have a moment of silence for our dearly departed Libbie Brookhants… wherever she is.

· Alexandra Trills is a character that I don’t know where to begin with. Her end is not one that I saw coming, at least not in the gruesome and deranged circumstances that came to surround it. Or maybe, friends, I just didn’t want to acknowledge the clear downwards spiral that our Miss Trills had seemed to be heading towards. Her steadfast and growing obsession with the death of Florence Hartshorn and Clara Broward was apparent in every page we turned, and the following death of Eleanor Faderman did not aid in absolving Alex of her obsession with the one, single copy of a book they had all possessed at one point: The Story of Mary McLane. Alex grew hysterical in her investigation of the novel and whatever evil she believed it had brought to the students of her school. I remember feeling a bit hysterical myself at times, following along with Alex’s scrambled train of thought that never seemed to find a place to stop. She was right, you know, my friends. And now what does she have to show for it? A gruesome death and an eternity of haunting the same grounds, day in and day out? I may not have liked her, and felt like she had been the reason Libbie was so unhappy and stuck in a life that she did not want, but the way Alex’s story had ended really did take me by surprise and break my heart. She deserved a better ending than what she got; she deserved to reconcile and fix her strained relationship with Libbie. Damn it, they deserved to live quiet, happy lives with each other. Neither of them got the endings that they deserved, and God, did they deserve plenty. This, friends, is the hill I choose to die on tonight.

Alright, friends, this is it for my character analysis of Emily Danforth’s Plain Bad Heroines! I have a special place in my heart for book characters that you can relate with (or characters that just really make you love them). The way that Emily Danforth brought our heroines to life was remarkable and highly impressive (I say this because it’s decidedly been a while since any book character(s) have weaseled their fictional way into my little heart). It’s rare that I give a book five stars (check out my Goodreads reviews) (oh god, please don’t), and yet halfway through PBH, I knew that this book deserved it. Good book characters are the ones that stick with you long after you’ve closed the book on them, and our heroines are stuck with me. And believe me, friends, I’m certainly not complaining.

#plain bad heroines #emily danforth #book review #book reviews #character analysis #books #literature #lgbtq #wlw #queer #writing blog

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kurosara · 3 years

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Hongjoong x Reader

I didn’t proofread this or anything. I just wrote some middle of the night comfort I needed.

Angst, sad

I felt my spine unconsciously shiver as yet another cool breeze fluttered heavily past me. A quick glance at my phone told me it was nearing 3 in the morning. The dim light of the screen faded, as my eyes cast back to the bare sky. It was a new moon tonight, and there weren’t many stars out either. There wasn’t anything interesting in the chilly fall weather, unless you counted the never slowing raindrops falling down my cheeks.

Why was I even crying again?

I couldn’t remember. I’d been crying that long. It hadn’t felt like it, but I’ve been sitting on the balcony of my bedroom, suffering in the chilled air, for nearly 6 hours. How long could such an overwhelming feeling last?

An eternity…

A cynical voice taunted me further with evasive thoughts similar to this. It’s dark, and lonely. I’ve whispered curses and wishes to no one. I’ve replied to… no one. Because all I could wonder was if anyone was really listening. The neatly decorated interior, fit with (f/c) furniture and various art pieces and large photos of me and my boyfriend hanging on the wall, felt eerily cruel the moment I walked in. The fleeting thought of my boyfriend stuck for a moment, like the breath hitching in my throat as I visualized his soft smile, a bit of nervousness from smiling at me for the very first time. The happy thought turned sour, the smile fading into a blank stare.

“I’ll be home late…”

The image dissipated with his words. I could barely taste the remnants of the ramen bowl I’d forced down before coming out onto the balcony. The taste was bitter and dry as I forcefully swallowed the growing lump of anxiety. My fingernails, or rather the remaining nubs since I’d chewed off all my nails earlier, felt sticky as they scratched nervously at the cold concrete I was sitting on. I could only assume it was blood from the scraping contact. The balcony’s railing taunted me similar to bars of a jail cell. But at least in prison there are other people.

But here? In this dark and lonely space I created for myself? There is no one. I’ve self-isolated. And every attempt to escape has never been followed through. If I unlocked my phone you’d see the contact pulled up where I’ve nearly called him. And before that a lengthy text that boiled down to one thing; I need you. The text was never sent of course. However, even now as I describe these feelings and sensations, I don’t feel them. They aren’t processed in my mind or my physical body. I simply sat in the corner of the balcony, knees pulled to my chest, staring into pure dark, as my body and the world continued past my racing thoughts of how this is where I should be.

I deserved to be alone.

Keys jingled in the background and it was painfully obvious the individual tried being quiet, but it wouldn’t matter. He could’ve kicked the door in screaming, and I wouldn’t budge an inch.

Hongjoong removed his shoes and hung up his coat on the nearby rack. His bag made a soft sound as he tried to gently slide it onto the couch, hoping his partner was sleeping peacefully, and trying not to disturb that. As he typically did when he ended up home this late, he trekked to the kitchen for a bottle of water to carry to bed. As he exited the kitchen, a cold breeze caught his attention.

Where’s that coming from?

Just like Hongjoong. He knew how much I hated being the slightest bit cold, so the house was always a warm temperature. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he gazed around the empty living room, noticing the cracked balcony door. Cautiously, he approached the door, peering out just the slightest bit and hoping there was no intruder lurking around.

Though he’d really hoped for that to be the case right now versus the sight he was met with.

His eyes barely made out my trembling figure in the corner, huddled against the wall. Immediately Hongjoong turned on the outdoor light and rushed to my side, carefully kneeling beside me.

“Y-y/n?” The worry was so thick in his voice, yet sweet. Like honey.

There he was. My boyfriend. Acknowledging my presence as he always does, yet I hadn’t heard a word. There was no light, though he very clearly turned one on. For a moment Hongjoong panicked. His eyes worriedly scanned my body, searching for any signs of hurt or reason for my being like this. He saw the bloody fingers and the tears still flowing. He knew what was happening, for sadly he’d seen it too many times even before they were dating. At least more times than I’d like. By now though, Hongjoong knew almost how to help. He adjusted his position to sit in front of me, his knees pulled up like mine. He touched his knees to mine, gently pulling my hands from the concrete as he rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs.

I felt the tingling of sensation from the touch, still all I saw was a never ending tunnel of darkness. Hongjoong brought my knuckles to his lips, placing gentle kisses on them before resting them onto our knees. His thumbs didn’t stop caressing the top of my hands as he simply stared into my eyes and mustered the kindest smile he could as he looked at my broken state.

“I know you probably won’t process what I’m saying right now, and that’s alright. Just focus on my voice ok?” He took a shaky breath, feeling his own tears well up, “You’ve been having a hard time lately haven’t you? I know you’ve been eating well and everything because I’ve seen it, but that doesn’t mean you’re alright. And it’s ok to not be ok. It’s not your fault.”

There was a flicker of light, like a shooting star passing across my vision. I swallowed another lump, feeling a bit of warmth from the original tingling sensation.

Hongjoong squeezed my hands, trying to urge warmth into your shivering body. Just the thought of how long you could’ve been freezing made him sick to his stomach. Nonetheless he continued to talk as calmly as he could.

“Just remember that there is someone here for you. I know you don’t always believe that, but it’s true. I am here. Right here.” A single tear rolled down his cheek unwillingly. “I’ll help you pick up the pieces you feel are broken and hold them together for you. I’ll be here to hold you steady when you’re shaking and keep you warm when you’re cold. I’m sorry I was late this time. There’s no telling how long you’ve been here.” Another tear. “But I’m here now baby. I love you.” He squeezed my hands gently once more.

Like a thread, his words formed a silver lining in the dark tunnel. My vision corrupted from pure black, to blurry shapes and images. The feeling of being frozen to my core was slowly warming in the places where his body touched mine. And finally, his beautiful, kind smile. So bright, and such a contrast to the dark space I’d been suffering in. There was a soft ringing that slowly got louder, as I realized his lips were moving. Hongjoong was speaking, yet I could only hear the ringing. Hongjoong saw the way my eyes scanned his face just the smallest bit. His smile grew a bit.

“There you are. It’s ok. Take your time.” He leaned forward, never breaking eye contact as he kissed the back of my hands lovingly.

I squeezed his hands gently, the feeling, or void of feeling, was quickly fading, and in its place a crushing weight on my throat and lungs. My chest heaved at my increased breathing pace, worrying Hongjoong as he realized the anxiety was setting in more than the previous emptiness. Without releasing my hands, he scooted to sit beside me. He let go of one hand to wrap his arm around my shoulder, leaving a gentle kiss on my temple as he whispered sweet nothings.

His voice trickled in like a small river, every other word registering before his kindness fully processed. My beating heart didn’t slow, but it became easier to breathe as I buried my head in the crook of his neck silently. He pulled me closer with one arm, resting his forehead on my hair.

“Do you want to go inside and get under the blankets?” The first full sentence I’d registered in my mind.

I absentmindedly nodded, but before I could attempt to move, Hongjoong was picking me up bridal style, careful like I was an expensive glass or diamond jewelry. Once in our shared bedroom, he placed me on the bed before tossing back the covers and tucking them around me like a child. With a reassuring smile he left the room. Although I knew where he was going, I gripped the covers tightly anxiously waiting for his return.

In a matter of minutes Hongjoong returned with two cups of hot chocolate with small marshmallows, and a pack of hershey’s kisses tucked under his arm too. He set one cup down and offered me the other, which I had to fumble from under the covers to shakily take the cup. The warm liquid felt comforting, with just a splash of caramel the way I loved it. A soft melody played as Hongjoong connected to the bluetooth speaker on the dresser, playing soft instrumentals he had been working on the days prior. Hongjoong climbed into the bed, careful of me and my drink, and opened the chocolates, feeding me one as he grabbed his own drink.

He took the drink gently from me, and pulled a small first aid kit from his pocket, beginning to tend to my wounded fingers. He tried to be as gentle as possible, though I couldn’t stop the involuntary flinching everytime there was direct contact to the broken skin. He continued mumbling soft apologies and comforting words nonetheless. Once he finished wrapping my fingers, he continued with his early motion of serving me my drink and feeding me hershey kisses.

I’m not sure how long we sat like that. Hongjoong rested his head against the headboard, one hand gently playing with strands of my hair, while the other held my own hand. Originally, he had alternated between feeding me chocolates and bringing his now cold drink to his lips. The time on Hongjoong’s phone read 5:52 am. I had long since finished my drink and passed out with my head on his shoulder sometime after 4 I think. Hongjoong hummed softly to the still playing music, like a soothing lullaby. He wanted to make sure I was fully asleep before deciding to move.

Hongjoong gently laid me on the pillow, going to turn off the lamp he’d had on and turning the music down a little more, before crawling back into bed. He cuddled me from behind, his warm chest pressed against my back as he pulled me closer to him in a tight embrace.

“Goodnight my love. Have sweet dreams. When you wake, I’ll be here. I promise. I won’t let you be lonely in the dark if I can help it. I love you. So I hope you use that love as a light. It’s not too late. So don’t give up, ok? We can do this. I love you.”

With a simple kiss to my head, he nuzzled closer, leaving me with floating thoughts.

It’s not too late. I’m not alone.

#hongjoong x reader #fanfic #ateez

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cupcakemolotov · 3 years

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Our Bones are Iron

Synopsis: When Mikael starts a war with the Throne over his wife's execution, Caroline's world is thrown into chaos. Two years later, and she finds herself facing her ex-betrothed from opposite sides of the war. Klaus has defeated her father for the King, and now she must find a way to strike a deal with him to save the people her father nearly destroyed to aid Mikael's rage.

Tags: Alternate Universe × Alternate; Universe - Fantasy; Alternate Universe - Magic; Knight!Klaus; Lady!Caroline; Broken Engagement; Family Drama; Dark Magic; Magic; Light Angst; Angst and Feels; Implied/Referenced Torture; Aftermath of Torture; all non con elements are not the main characters and referenced only; Esther is not a nice person in this fic; magical rituals gone bad; Post-War

I wrote this after being inspired so, so long ago by this post. If you would prefer you can read it here on A03.

It was the clink of armor that left her heart in her throat. Caroline’s fingers tightened on the satchel she carried with her, and she forced herself to breathe. Six steps below, and she could see the light flickering from the soft mage lights and the movement of a shadow just visible beneath the heavy wood. For a single moment, she allowed herself the fantasy of fleeing back up the darkening staircase to the safety of her room but she was no longer a child. At twenty-four years of age, she should have already been wed and looking after a home of her own, but the Civil War had put many dreams on hold. They had been boxed up and tossed as easily aside as a servant cleaning a room.

But now the war was over and her family had lost.

By every tradition, it should have been her mother walking these steps. But Elizabeth Forbes had retired hours before the army had arrived on their doorstep, and she had made no move to rise once it had become clear that they would be occupied for the evening. Caroline had long since learned that no amount of pleading would stir her mother once she’d taken to her room. She tried not to resent her for it. Something had broken in her mother when her father had turned his back on the kingdom, and no amount of wishing or magic could fix it. But tonight, it would have been the worst of slights to leave this Knight to his own bath. And rudeness wasn’t something she could afford. Not when the lives of everyone in her household depended on her. And they would continue to depend on her as they walked the tightrope her father had left them on.

Caroline had little hope that they would be rid of the Knight and his men anytime soon, and it’d been made abundantly clear that they were being evaluated for weaknesses. Her father’s surviving Senschels had been requested for dinner that night, and the exquisitely polite note sent along requesting that the household to keep to their rooms had been a request she’d been more than willing to keep.

Except for this one thing.

Her fingers shook, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a slow breath. Caroline had known this was coming the moment she’d seen the banner cross the ridge. She’d been tending her mother when word of the soldier’s approach had reached them, and she’d paced at the window waiting for the first glimpse of who approached. Somehow, she’d known what she would see before the first banner had crept over the ridge. The Black Knight’s banner had been easily recognizable as the crossed the ridge, and unavoidable proof of who had won. The King’s grasp had held firm, and they were now on their own. No remaining allies would offer them aid as long as this Knight occupied their castle.

It had taken most of the day, the long arm of evening shadowing the courtyard before they’d reached the gates. Caroline had already given the order that they would offer no resistance. The remaining lives of the young boys and elderly left behind would not be sacrificed on the ashes of her father’s arrogance.

Now she just had to ensure their futures.

In that one regard, Caroline knew she was the better advocate for her people than her mother. With her father gone for the last two years, the duty of caring for her people had fallen to her. She knew the lands, the people, their lives. Tonight, alone with their conqueror, it was her duty to advocate for those who remained.

And she would.

Caroline just... needed a moment.

Her nails dug tightly into her palm and she struggled to find the composure that had been missing since she’d seen the first clear view of his banner. It had been two years since she had last seen Lord Niklaus Mikaelson, and nearly as long since he had broken their bethroment. All her life, she’d grown up under the weight of that marriage. Klaus had been the third son of William’s closest friend, and he and Mikael had looked forward to combining their bloodlines.

Klaus had still been mostly a boy then.

Freshly knighted with long bones and a face he hadn’t yet grown into. But even then, only a fool had ignored the raw violence of his magic, the way he seemed to hunger for the world. Once, she would have called him something like her friend. Their relationship had always been a bit contentious, the families expectations an unrelenting pressure between them, but she’d found herself learning to trust him. He was rough around the edges, darkly cynical and had a temper that was so very easily pricked but he’d never deliberately hurt her. In a world where she was her father’s daughter first, his betrothed second and Caroline third, she’d always appreciated that. Quietly, in the secret corners of her heart, she’d let herself like him.

Then a year to nearly the day before their marriage, on her twentieth birthday, everything had gone to hell. Esther had been executed by the Crown for magical treason, and Elijah and Klaus had denounced their parentage, taking their younger siblings with them. Her father had taken her silence as he’d announced the end of her bethrothment as agreement, but it had been shock that held her tongue. In the span of three days, all her expectations, all of her plans, had been upended violently and she’d been left clutching bloody shards of a life where she couldn’t find her footing.

But the worst had been yet to come.

Her family had been banished to their country estates in sudden disfavor from the crown when her father chose to side with Mikael and all his rage, and nearly all Caroline’s court friends and acquaintances dried up like a spring stream. Her mother had disappeared to her bedroom, her father fell into drink, and she’d been left trying to hold together their estate and people with a grim determination. For weeks, she waited for Klaus to send her word. Something. Anything that could explain why he hadn’t warned her of his plans, given her time to shore up her defenses before he’d abandoned her.

It’d been a bitter, angry pill to swallow when he sent nothing.

Two years later, her father and Mikael had instigated a Civil War that had split the kingdom nearly in half. And now her father was likely dead, killed by the man he’d once viewed as the future of his family. By right of conquest, everything her family had owned for generations, everything she had worked so hard to preserve now belonged to Klaus.

Caroline let out another shaky breath, sudden exhaustion leaving her winded. She couldn’t afford to let it show. Tonight was her only real chance of finding mercy for those who had been left behind by her father’s armies. She couldn’t let the memories of the boy he’d once been interfere with her negotiations with the man Klaus had become. Becoming a Knight, earning the Black Banner for his own? It was proof that Klaus had grown into his strength, that he was considered worthy by the King. No easy feat, when his parents were both traitors to the crown.

And now he was here.

She didn’t know how she wanted to feel.

Sometimes, in the dark of her chambers, she’d let herself wonder if things had been just a little different between what might have gone differently. What would her life have been like? Would she have been brave enough to make a similar decision if she’d seen what her father had become before it was too late? Did it matter? In the end, those were nothing but foolish, girlish thoughts. She would never abandon her mother or her people to her father’s capricious whims and Mikael’s unquenchable thirst for vengeance.

And so while the heart that Klaus had bruised had healed, it hadn’t forgotten.

And knowing that if she stepped through those doors and she’d see him for the first time in years, that she would be close enough to touch him, left her breathless. And she couldn’t afford that kind of weakness. Klaus who might have been hers once was gone. Lord Klaus Mikaelson thought her the enemy. Squeezing her trembling hands tightly together, Caroline took another bracing breath and squared her shoulders. Avoiding Klaus any longer wouldn’t give her any more clarity of thought than hours of waiting hadn’t already wrought. Jaw set, she set her palm flat on the bath door and pushed it open.

It was a little like stepping into a different world, and she could almost taste the magic that layered the walls and windows, an unsubtle reminder that he was now the power here. For a moment the humidity from the steam made it difficult to adjust to the low lights, and she let the door shut quietly behind her. Klaus stood with his back to her, gaze directed through the windows that were kept were usually cracked open to let out the worst of the steam, but he had left closed. She didn’t know how he stood the heat in the heavy armor he wore.

Still, he said nothing, and so she took the time to study him. To absorb the changes time had wrought in an attempt to shore her heart against them. The lanky youth she’d known was gone, and the man was built on lean but powerful lines. The armor added a layer of bulk, but it was clear that there was solid muscle beneath it. The short curls were familiar, for all that the steam had turned them riotous.

Finally he made a soft sound, nearly a sigh, and turned. His gaze locked on hers immediately and the hard line of his jaw softened as he was clearly caught off guard by her presence. For a long moment they simply stared at each other, and Caroline tasted blood as she struggled to contain her reaction to the impact of him.

“Caroline,” he said finally, slowly. He drew out the consonants and vowels of her name as if he was remembering how to say them. “I expected your mother.”

Caroline dipped in a quick curtsy, refusing to allow his casual use of her name rattle her even though it had. The flush on her cheeks could easily be mistaken for the heat. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to wonder what he could possibly have wished to speak to her mother about that required this level of spell work to maintain their privacy. She supposed she’d find out, and dread filled her stomach. “My Lady Mother is unwell, Lord Mikaelson.”

Something hard flickered through his gaze, the fullness of his mouth tightening. “I am sorry to hear that.”

She sincerely doubted that. But there was something about the way he stood, the slightest hint of his magic between them that warned her to be cautious. Lifting her chin, she nodded. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards before his eyes skimmed down her body, and it took teeth gritting composure to keep from reacting to the edge in his gaze when it returned to hers. “You’ve lost weight.”

The familiarity of his words had her spine stiffening. “I cannot imagine that is any of your concern.”

An arch of his brow, something undeniably arrogant behind his gaze. “No?”

Caroline lifted her chin. She would not let him make this personal. “No.”

Klaus studied her face. “You’ll find that there are very few things that are not of my concern, Caroline. Particularly now.”

His refusal to use her surname and title left her stomach churning, but to give an inch now would mean being at a disadvantage later. Her people couldn’t afford her to be weak, no matter her tangled feelings. Tongue sliding briefly between her teeth, she took a deep breath. This particular conversation would get them nowhere. “Should I take your words to mean my father is no longer alive?”

Something jumped at the base of his jaw, a muscle pulled too tight. “Your father chose death over a trial. I am sorry for that, Caroline.”

Something inside her chest cracked open at the acknowledgement, and her next inhale was shaky. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, the acknowledgement of her father’s fate when she’d already known the likelihood of it. Her father had never intended anything but victory, had allowed no plan for failure to be brought to his attention. A more charitable person would perhaps attribute such a decision to choose death as not wanting to drag his family though the pain and horror such a trial would bring, but Caroline knew better. Her father had finally seen the consequences of his actions before him and chosen to abandon his family to their fates, again.

And it hurt.

Her father had done so many terrible things in the name of friendship, had allowed Mikael’s rage to feed his own, but once he’d been a father who had cared for his daughter and people, a man who had honored his wife. But that pain, that mourning for the man he’d once been, that was a private grief and she would not let Klaus see it. Setting her teeth, Caroline clawed her emotions into place, and when she spoke, her voice only shook a little.

“You cannot be comfortable in that armor in this steam.” She motioned for him to turn. She would do her duty. When she had nothing else, there was always duty.

Caroline did not expect him to catch her hand, palms and fingers warm and calloused against her skin. Her gaze snapped to his and he studied her with a familiar intensity that left her mouth dry. “It is your mother who should be here, now, Caroline. There are a number of things she and I need to discuss. Why did she send you?”

“As I have told you, she is not well.” She repeated, voice sounding hard and flat to her own ears. He sighed, mouth tightening as he looked at the door behind her, and then those blue eyes touched with gold returned to hers and nothing there was comforting in the depths. Iron and fire, a hint of the power that clung to him like a shield. A sort of resolution that left her shoulder tight with strain.

Klaus had always been powerful, but she had never feared that power. Even then, with the weight of it sitting behind his eyes like judgement, the strength of it tangible between them, it did not frighten her. It should have. He had never hidden what he was and how terrible he could become, though as a girl she’d foolishly thought he’d never have cause to use such strength against her family. How wrong she had been.

When he spoke, his words were measured, pulled taut by an emotion she could not name.

“Yes, I imagine she is. Defying a geas is never easy, but she has done it before and as all of the holders are now dead, it should be gone.” His words pounded in her ears like blows, and she stared at him, not comprehending his words. “She should have found the strength to finish what she started, not offer her daughter as a sacrificial lamb.”

She jerked against his grip, shock replacing the hard knot of grief. “Do you jest?” she rasped, shaking her head. “That is impossible. My mother could not…” Her words died as he continued to watch her, expression unyielding. “A geas is blood magic.”

“So it is.”

Anger flashed hot and potent through her veins. “You are accusing my father of blood magic. Is it not enough that he is dead? That all that he worked for is now laid to waste?”

“No, Caroline. Not your father, though we will always wonder what part he played in my mother’s schemes as he chose his sword instead of confessing his part to the courts.” He set his jaw, and she almost didn’t recognize the judgement he wore on his face. “Though I am sure we will find bits and pieces of the scheme as we go through his things and question his remaining people. But the blame, the magic that built the conspiracy that lies at the feet of Esther.”

Caroline opened her mouth and closed it, something hard fisting around her lungs. Shaking her head, she curled her fingers tightly against her palms. “Esther is dead these two years past,” she pointed out around a throat gone tight. “Powerful she might have been, but even she cannot perform magic beyond the grave.”

Blood magic did not linger, after its holder died.

“If it was only so easy,” Klaus returned, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “To cut the head off of the snake, and everything ends. But my mother schemed far better than anyone realized, Mikael upheld his part of them, until the very end.”

She didn’t want to ask, but she needed to know. “My mother would never have willingly committed to aiding black magic.”

He shook his head. “I cannot speak for the motivations of your mother, Caroline, only of the actions she took to protect you. Esther was many things, but trusting? Never. Your mother was her confidant for many years. There were secrets shared between them that she would allow no one to spill. How do you think she survived so many years practicing forbidden magic?”

She couldn’t breathe. Of all the terrible things that she had imagined Esther to have committed to receive a King’s Execution, she had not once thought of this. That Klaus thought her mother had been a victim? That Mikael had willingly helped her do these terrible things and that her father had fought at his side. Had he known? Had he also been a victim. Did it matter?

Emotions carening, she took a shuddering breath. He said her mother had protected her. Not abandoned her to her duty, to the fate that her father had chosen for all of them. He said she was weak for not doing this duty instead of Caroline. She didn’t know what to think.

“Turn around.”

His head tipped, brows lifting. “I beg pardon?”

Caroline gestured impatiently, her lungs stretched too tight. “You lay serious accusations at the feet of ghosts, while damning my mother for her lack of strength in nearly the same breath. I need to think, and if you insist on having this conversation here, I will not be accused of failing to show you the full kindness of my house. Turn. Around.”

She needed him to look somewhere else than at her, needed a moment to drag back a little of her shattered composure. A hint of something like understanding softened the look behind his eyes and he obligingly turned, giving her access to the ties and buckles that would loosen his chest plate and arms. Her next inhale was shaky, and not something he could miss, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal withhim facing her while she refitted her mental armor.

“I would never dare lay such an accusation of a lack of manners at your feet.” Klaus said after a moment, and his words were light, nearly teasing, and she made a noise of disagreement.

“You toss words such as blood magic and geas about quite easily,” she rebuked as she set to work, her fingers strangely steady. Such a duty should have been merely practical, the duty of a Lady for a visiting Knight, an old tradition that built a formality between them, and yet. She had never done this for him before, had never seen him in less than fully armed or in the many layers of court garb. The sudden pounding of her pulse was not merely from her temper. Forcing herself to ignore the strange intimacy, she kept her eyes on his armor. “Let us not pretend that you believe manners to be important when speaking of such things.”

“I would never be so foolish as to forget their importance, particularly after having been taken to task regarding them by you, more than once.” Now she could hear the smile in his voice and it annoyed her. That he would remind her of what he had walked away from so many years ago now and just how well he had once known her. “Manners, the correct way to fold a tablecloth and the proper way to curtsy to cut someone from your social circle. Were those not the skills you informed me in these very halls that should not be underestimated for their importance?”

She paused, gaze flicking to the nape of his neck, eyes narrowed. “Now you jest.”

“About the importance of how to fold a tablecloth? I would never.”

Annoyed, because his words were helping her steady, she tugged the first piece of his armor away from his left arm and set it on the bench to her right. It was a struggle, not to study the shape of him so clearly defined by the thin cloth that ran down the length of his arm. The hard muscle she could have felt beneath her fingertips if she fumbled a buckle even a little.

She could not let her mind wander in those directions or to allow him to distract her from the hard truths, if it was the truth, that he spoke. “Do you have proof?”

“Of what?”

Caroline rolled her eyes now that he could not see and started on the ties for the other arm. “What do you mean of what? You have declared my mother was under a geas, that she kept Esther’s secrets because of magic. What else could I possibly wonder about?”

There was a long pause and she had finished his arms and was working on the complicated buckles for his chest piece when he finally spoke. “Did you ever wonder why I never sent you a single message in all the years since we last saw each other? We did not part on harsh terms, indeed, we both rather looked forward to upcoming nuptials the following year.

She bit down hard on the side of her tongue as she tried to steady herself from his question. They had looked forward to the wedding, to the future they were building together. Those curious, heated promises Klaus had made as they had danced carefully around the discussion of the marriage bed. It was why his silence had hurt. She had trusted him.

Caroline found that she didn’t want to admit to that now, of how much his silence had cost her. She also couldn’t lie convincingly, not with his magic still tangible in the air between them. He would know the moment she tried. It was a particular quirk to his magic he did not advertise, but one he had once admitted to her.

“No.”

A shift of his weight, the slightest shake of his head, but he did not call her on the lie. “The bargain I struck with your mother - her condition was that I not contact you until after we had won.”

The back of the chest piece slipped from her fingers and clamored loudly between them, barely missing her toes. He spun and she took a hasty step back, eyes wide. He impatiently removed the rest of the amor and for a long moment, they stared at each other. Klaus, stripped to his waist of his armor and suddenly so touchable her hands trembled with it, but his words were a sudden, intangible barrier between them.

“Bargain? What possible bargain could you have made with my mother?” Caroline demanded, reeling. That was impossible. What he said should have been impossible. Her mother...

“She knew the identity of my father.” His eyes were steady, and he started to move and stopped himself at her careful step back, his chest rising in a careful breath. “Once my mother was executed, it gave Lady Elizabeth a window of opportunity and she took it. But she had conditions.”

“Your father? That isn’t a hard question to answer.” Caroline retorted, hiding her shaking hands in her skirts. “Mikael.”

A laugh, bitter and harsh. “Did you ever wonder why Henrik died?”

She paused, staring at him. Henrik had been the heart of that family, the tiny, pestering glue that had brought them all together. Even Finn, with his remote manners and unbending distaste for those he considered beneath him had smiled around Henrik. “He caught a wasting sickness.”

“My mother liked to accomplish her plot in threes. For every two children Esther gave Mikael, she birthed one to another man.” Klaus’ eyes shimmered with magic, the rage beneath his words palpable. “I was the first child born out of wedlock. Henrik was the next. The magic he was born with was not what my mother had hoped for, so she considered him expendable. She drained him dry. She planned to use the magic in her play to take the throne, and she nearly got away with it, except for Kol.”

Caroline swallowed hard. “Kol was always in places he didn’t belong.”

He tipped his head in agreement. “It almost cost him his life. Elijah and I did not understand what he had found until weeks after we had buried our brother, the evidence he stole from Esther’s hidden chambers, until weeks later. It was by his testimony that Ester was executed.”

Mikael would never have forgiven Kol for it.

“It was your mother who warned us that we had to cut ties with Mikael immediately, that returning home would cost us more than we could bear. She is who told us the truth of Esther’s and Mikael’s ambitions, though we had little other than her word for what it meant.”

“But that’s…” she stared at him, aghast. “What could my mother have known? She has so little magic and no use for it.”

“My father’s name is Ansel,” he said bluntly. “He was thought to be dead, but your mother not only knew his name, but how to find him. But her information had a price. She wanted us to cut ties with Mikael publicly, and she wanted my promise that I would not attempt to take you with me.”

Her own laugh bubbled in her throat, hysterical and disbelieving. “And why should I believe you? What purpose could such a bargain have served either of us? I am not so dear to either of you that such a thing should make any sense.”

His mouth tightened into a slash of anger, but his words were cool. “Ansel is the King’s brother, Caroline.”

Her lips parted, and she stared at him in shock. “What?”

“My father is the King’s youngest brother. Esther planned to kill him, to kill everyone in the royal family, and then place me upon the throne as a puppet. But my magic was too strong, too violent to be easily bent, so she tried again with Henrik. And while his magic bred true for the royal line, it wasn’t a magic that would easily see him put on the throne. I imagine she had other plans, but Kol caught her in her act and her schemes started to unravel.”

“And so your mother was executed for blood magic, and what? My mother told you how to save yourself?” Caroline crossed her arms and stared him down. “Why should I believe you? To do as you have said when she would have to have known how my father, how Mikael, would have reacted to such a move by the Throne. Neither would have easily given up power, and our family was tied too closely to yours to do anything but suffer from your mother’s death. And I am supposed to believe that she let us suffer? That she helped instigate the Civil War that would leave so many of our people dead?”

“Yes.”

The room went from warm to stifling and she swallowed. Throat closing, she tried to find the words to rebuke him, to tell him to speak truly and not whatever this was and she couldn’t find them. She didn’t want to believe him. She wished she didn’t. But Klaus had never lied to her before, and she couldn’t see any gain for him to do it now.

Not looking at him, she sat down on a bench, staring at the glass panes in front of her. “Why?’

Klaus moved carefully and knelt beside her. The steam had turned his clothing opaque, and it clung shockingly to the line of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest. Seeing Klaus nearly bare from the waist up was a sight she shouldn’t have appreciated even in her shock, but there was a strength to him that she had missed.

“I do not know, Caroline, but before we spoke tonight, I thought you did.”

Caroline looked at him, suddenly exhausted. “Why would I know?”

“Because that was part of my bargain with her,” he said, words gentle. “That if I were to walk away from you, if I was to leave you to your father’s whims while I worked to destroy Mikael and Ester’s legacies, that she would tell you why. That she would explain. And when I walked back into this castle, she would meet me here as tradition demanded so that we could finalize the rest of our agreement before protocol and the King’s will complicated matters.”

Shoving a riotous curl away from her eyes, she laughed bitterly “And what could you two possibly have to discuss that would be so important?” She flung her hand out in the direction of the courtyard, where his men were camped and her people were sleeping in their homes. “My people are close to starving, my father’s men have stripped this land of everything of value, and only the very young and the old have survived this grab for power. All in the name of a woman who schemed to destroy the Throne and killed innocents. My mother has told me nothing, Lord Mikaelson, and if what you say is true about her being bound by a geas and then a bargain with you, she could be suffering from any number of magical ailments. Such magic is not kind to its hosts, willing or not. So tell me, what could possibly be so important that she should drag herself down several flights of stairs to meet you in person? What could you have to discuss?”

He caught her hand, eyes cautious as he tangled his fingers with hers. She blinked, but couldn’t bring herself to protest. Her emotional equilibrium was a disaster and the conversation she thought they would be having, how best to save her people, had fluttered away at the first mention of the word geas. Thumb tracing the line of her knuckles, he leaned his head forward and spoke with a quiet determination. “My forthcoming marriage to you.”

Caroline’s lips parted on a sharp inhale, eyes wide. “What?”

Not even a flicker of a smile crossed his mouth and her breath turned harsh in her throat at the set look behind his eyes. “Our marriage, Caroline.” She shook her head, words failing her, and his fingers tightened around hers. “Did you think I would abandon you?”

“You did abandon me,” she snapped back, her temper rousing with her words. The hurt she’d tucked away into the quiet parts of her heart burning. “No promise to my mother could have been worth the silence between us if what you say is true and you have wished to marry me all these years.”

A short nod, as he accepted her rebuke, but the steeled determination did not falter behind his eyes. “Be as that may, I am set on this course Caroline. The King’s messenger will be here in three days time, and I plan on us to be wed before their arrival. The King will be angry, certainly, but he owes me a great boone, and Ansel is awake. I may have failed you, unintentionally or not, but I will not do so again.”

“Boone or not, you could insight war,” she rasped. “My bloodline…”

“Is of no consequence. I am who I am, Caroline. Every man here belongs to me, and if the King wishes to incite a second war over the daughter of his enemy, he is welcome to do so, though I do not believe it will come to that. Now when he becomes aware of your mother’s sacrifices.”

She wanted to say no on principle, to rage against him, her mother, everything she hadn’t been told. But she had walked into the bath house desperate for a way to save her people, to find a way to survive. Klaus was offering her more than survival. For her people, she would say yes.

For herself...

Caroline lifted her chin. “This may save my people, but it does not absolve you of my anger.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Klaus murmured. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissing her cold fingers. “But I will still marry you tomorrow at sunset before our people, and I will have you as my wife.”

She forced herself to stand, to tug her fingers free. Klaus stood with her, those blue eyes burning. “If I am to be married to you tomorrow, arrangements must be made. I will leave you to finish.”

He tipped his head. “Sleep well, love.”

Caroline sucked in a breath once she was outside, shivering in the cooler air. Eyes squeezing shut, she pressed her hand to her pounding heart. Tomorrow, she was to be married, her mother had not truely abandoned her, and Klaus was the bastard nephew of the King. So many things to digest, not enough time.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the stairs. She would wake her maid and dig through her closet for something appropriate for tomorrow. The cook would need to be alerted. Her mother told. The mental list grew until she knew the sleep Klaus had wished her would be hard to find. But underneath the rage and confusion, the pain of her abandonment and two years of loneliness was the smallest kernel of hope.

Klaus had come for her. Had fought her father and his father’s armies, had brought his people here. Tomorrow they would be married. She wasn’t sure what she felt about him, his bargain with her mom, or anything he’d said.

But that small bit of hope was stubborn.

But none of that made her any less angry. Curling her fingers into her palms, Caroline squared her shoulders. She would protect her people, but whatever this was between her and Klaus? If he thought a hasty marriage and an apology were enough to cool her temper, he find himself quite surprised. She had no intention of making things easy between them just yet. Cheered at the though, she picked up her space.

Everything was changing, and this time, she was determined to have a say.

#my fic #klaroline #klaroline fanfic #klaroline drabbles #please enjoy

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senterya · 3 years

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It's been an absolute joy reading people's takes on the OC interview that has been floating around recently.

The idea of a Pale Rose interview (read: Fyarh and Nym dragging ex-courtier Reln into this) sounded so oddly entertaining that I wrote it for myself for fun but it turned out... surprisingly okay? So I'm gonna leave it here.

OC Interview: Pale Rose edition

(Draw (or use an old drawing, don’t worry!) or take a screen of your character in an interview setting and make them answer the following questions!)

1. Can you introduce yourself?

Fyarh: Sure. I’m Fyarh, founder and – formally – leader of Pale Rose. I’m also the head of the Dreamers’ division in our guild. (turns to the other two) And they are Nymeleia and Reln, head of the Soundless and Courtiers, respectively.

Nymeleia: (with a wide smile) Glad to be here!

Reln: (remains silent – just nods a little)

2. What is your gender identity, orientation, and relationship status?

Fyarh: (after a few seconds of thinking) I’m male, maybe prefer others who identify as that too? Didn’t think too much about it before.

Nymeleia: I’m looking both ways. I’m female and taken, you could say.

Reln: Why is this even– (exhales) ...I’m male, I don’t care what my partner identifies as. And my relationships are not for the public to chew on.

3. Where and when were you born?

Nymeleia: Back in the Grove, all of us. I awoke at Dawn and the boys are both Night blooms.

4. What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

Fyarh: I’m best at stealth and surprise – daggers work just fine with that. If it’s an open confrontation, I prefer a light sword that doesn’t hinder my agility. But I’m trained and still training in hand-to-hand combat too.

Nymeleia: I was trained at the Vigil to be the shield, not the spearhead of the attack. I stay behind and make sure nothing hits that shouldn’t. I utilize shades and magic so technically I don’t need a weapon – a staff or scepter can help, though. I also carry a dagger on me, just in case.

Reln: I’m best with a bow. Two-handed sword if it comes to that. But whatever does the job, really.

5. Lastly, are you happy?

Fyarh: (smiles and glances at the others) I am. I’m on the path my Wyld Hunt laid out to me and I got great allies and friends that are with me every step I take. I’m truly grateful for that.

Nymeleia: (with a soft smile) I feel like I found my calling here. I’m working on a cause and with people that are amazing. I’m pretty happy with that, yes.

(both look over to Reln)

Reln: (after a few seconds of silence, with a cynical smile) Are we just supposed to say yes or no to that? Like happiness is that easy to define. (he glances to the side for a second.) But it’s been better here. Take that as a yes.

FAMILY AND FRIENDS

1. What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?

Fyarh: The guild is the closest I have to a family in a sense you ask. I think? I’m on good terms with everyone – luckily, I mean... (he laughs a little nervously) ...it’s as it should be.

Nymeleia: I’m with Fyarh on this one. The sylvari in Rose are the closest people to me.

Reln: It really is pointless to ask sylvari about “family” – we’re all technically related, but are strangers at the same time.

Nymeleia: (with a smile she barely tries to hide) You are dodging the question.

Reln: I’m not dodging anything, I’m being reasonable. I have close friends, and allies – call that a family, if you want to.

2. Have you ever run away from home?

Nymeleia: We’re all sort of runaways, aren’t we? (she laughs) I’m Soundless, I left the Grove quite early, then joined the Vigil. Does that count?

Fyarh: It counts. But just so that you don’t feel left out. (Nymeleia gasps and mimics trying to kick him in the shin, they both laugh. Takes them a few more seconds to get back on track.)

Fyarh: I used to sneak away a lot when I was supposed to be in lectures. I loved discovering Caledon, I knew every corner of it so well when I was a sapling. Maybe I’d still remember if I walked around.

Reln (after everyone looks at him): ...I’m from the Court. I think that’s self-explanatory.

Fyarh: But didn’t you also wander away a lot?

Reln: You could say. I preferred being alone. Hunting was a good excuse.

3. Would you consider marriage or having children?

Fyarh: In the far future, maybe? I’m still very young though, and my hands are full with my guild and my Hunt. It’s definitely not something I think about a lot.

Nymeleia: Marriage sounds cute – I like the idea of honoring commitment with a little ceremony.

Reln: Neither of those seems to be for me.

Nymeleia: (quietly) Ah, my heart.

(Reln glances at her, but doesn’t respond.)

4. Do you secretly hate one of your friends?

Fyarh and Nymeleia: No...?

Reln: (slightly annoyed) Is it even a friend if you hate them? Next question.

5. Which friend knows everything about you?

Fyarh: Maybe Daleien? We've known each other for the longest, and he was with me through thick and thin. Nowadays I share a lot with Nym and Reln too. I used to be very secretive about myself but I’m working on it.

Nymeleia: We chat and gossip a lot with Dia – she’s another Soundless from the guild. She’s lovely and so supportive, I’m really glad I have her.

Reln: I’m not the one to share everything about myself. But my second-in-command knows the most.

Nymeleia: Oh don’t listen to him. He and Lavan technically read each other’s minds – no words, just half a gesture, and they know all they need to know.

ASKED BY FANS

1. Are you literate? Have you been to school?

Fyarh: I’m literate, and I’ve been mentored as much – well, maybe a little less – than any other sylvari.

Nymeleia: I actually struggled with reading and writing for a while – I could, just not well, as I never really had to. Paperwork has been a nightmare for the first months in Rose, but by now I got the hang of it. I’ve been reading a lot of novels recently, too.

Reln: I’m literate, and was mentored like all other saplings. The latter didn’t reach its purpose, though.

2. The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

(They all look at each other, but neither of them seems to have an answer or anything they’d be willing to share.)

3. What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?

Fyarh: Oh. I somehow never really talked about my Wyld Hunt in.... sufficient detail to my mentors? Not before the Wardens arrested me for hiding thorn pups in a forsaken outpost. It was a real journey talking my way out from there. One of the most embarrassingly funny things that happened to me, in retrospect.

Nymeleia: I was always too caught upon not handling the concept of pain, and death, very well. I don’t regret working on it and toughening up, I just wish I had realized sooner that I should hone my strengths instead of desperately trying to “correct” what I perceive as a weakness.

Reln: ...I guess I haven’t realized soon enough what real understanding means. (he seems mildly uncomfortable by the question, and does not elaborate)

4. Do you have mental health or physical issues?

Fyarh: Fighting takes a toll on everyone, I’d say. But nothing other than that.

Nymeleia: (nodding along – her eyes wander off to the distance)

Reln: A few scars here and there. Had a lot to deal with after coming back from the heart of the jungle, but I have worked through most of those by now.

5. What is your current main goal?

Fyarh: I’m dedicating all my time to the guild. It’s been coming along so much better than what I prepared myself for, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.

Nymeleia: I’m not satisfied with my level of skills on the field yet – I’m spending as much time on training as I can, next to Rose. There are some other necromancers in the guild with who we share our knowledge, and I have gotten some general good advice and lectures from Firstborn Trahearne himself. It’s crazy how far Fyarh’s connections go.

Reln: I’m busy training and supervising my own division. Most of us are reliable and trusting, but there are and will always be a few loose cannons I need to keep an eye out for.

CHOICES

1. Drink or food?

Fyarh: A drink, maybe? I tend to forget to eat. It’s getting on Nym’s nerves at times.

Nymeleia: Ah don’t even mention it. I’m picking food – nothing tops a good, warm meal after a long day.

Reln: Food, if I have to pick.

2. Cats or dogs?

Fyarh: I love cats. I wouldn't mind adopting one, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to take good care of them.

Nymeleia: Can we pick both, maybe?

Reln: (glancing at the thorn wolf lying next to him) I’m more of a dog person. But cats are good too.

3. Early bird or night owl?

Fyarh: I’m a night owl. Waking up with the rest of the guild at early hours is a nightmare for me. I tend to oversleep so much, it’s almost comical.

Nymeleia: That’s not a problem for me though. I’m up before everyone else. And so is Reln.

Reln: (nodding)

4. Optimist or pessimist?

Fyarh: Optimist.

Nymeleia: Same, some will even say naive for sure.

Reln: Middle ground. I’m more of a realist than any of the two.

5. Sassy or sarcastic?

Fyarh: Maybe... sassy? With close friends. I don’t feel like either most of the time, honestly.

Nymeleia: Would you say I’m more sassy or sarcastic?

Reln: (to her) Is that really a question?

Nymeleia: Oh entertain me.

Reln: (gestures towards her; she laughs)

HAVE YOU EVER

1. Been caught sneaking out?

Fyarh: Once, when I was sneaking out of a Court camp with two stolen thorn pups. Barely got away. Didn’t dare to show myself around there for a while.

Nymeleia: Several times. Did a lot of bathroom cleaning in the Vigil for it too.

Reln: If I was, I doubt I would be here today.

2. Broken a bone?

Fyarh: Miraculously, no. I don’t even know myself how’s that possible.

Nymeleia: My left arm. Open wound, too – wasn’t a good experience.

Reln: Nothing that a field medic couldn’t fix.

3. Received flowers?

Fyarh: If you mean it like, in a romantic way? No, not yet.

Nymeleia: I received a few, but in my experience Vigil soldiers are more of the blunt than the romantic type.

Reln: No.

Nymeleia: How dare you. I gave you potted herbs a while ago!

Fyarh: (leaning forward) Potted herbs?

Nymeleia: It’s because he takes his food back to his room all the time. And then he complains about the seasoning. Go figure!

4. Ghosted someone?

Fyarh: I did... use to run away from confrontations a lot. But people say I’ve gotten better with that too.

Nymeleia: I prefer to just tell people if I’m not interested in talking to them. As kindly as possible, of course. But I think it’s ruder to leave them hanging.

Reln: I did leave from places – the Grove, the Court – suddenly, but then again, I didn’t have many connections to either in the first place.

5. Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn’t get?

Fyarh: That happens. Easier than trying to go back to it and figure it out, takes away the flow of the conversation.

Nymeleia: Everyone does that from time to time, no?

Reln: I don’t. If someone’s not funny enough, that’s not my problem.

#oc interview #pale rose recon #fyarh #nymeleia #reln #gw2

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