#you could argue the prose is good and maybe so. but to say what ? to go where

[jkrockin]

Wait what guy who hadn't read Atlas Shrugged?

I was pretty sure I'd told this story here, but a cursory search suggests that I have not. Okay let's gooooo

Many moons ago, I worked in an emergency services call centre. I worked nights- I could get regular shifts, it paid well, and I am a huge freak, just like everyone else who works nights in a call centre. It is a lifestyle that attracts freaks. Some of my coworkers weren't full-time creatures of the night, but students or whoever who picked up occasional nights for the extra money, and one of them was Libertarian Shithead, who we'll call LS for short.

LS was a twentysomething white dude who wore a lot of name brand surfwear and designer sunglasses. I assume his parents were rich. LS loved nothing better than recreational arguing. Unfortunately, he wasn't very good at it; he had some of the most dogshit opinions I've ever encountered in the wild, and was terrible at defending them. He'd say some crap about how Gattaca-type eugenics is Fine, Actually, because if you let people make designer babies, the ~*Free Market will decide what traits are desirable! Racism and colourism and ableism and sexism and intersexism won't affect those choices at all! And I'd get mad, because I have principles to speak of, and we'd get into it, and WITHOUT FAIL, we'd get maybe halfway into an actual discussion about whatever horseshit garbage he was on tonight, and the second he thought he was losing, he'd say "oh, well. I'm an ~*Objectivist, so you can't really understand my perspective unless you've read Ayn Rand." Then he'd sigh, and change the subject.

At the time I had not read any Ayn Rand. Being fundamentally powered by spite, I withstood maybe three weeks of this shit before I pirated an epub of Atlas Shrugged, put it on my e-reader, and proceeded to slam through it at supersonic speed so I could finally get to finish an argument with this terrible boy.

Anon, I fucking hated Atlas Shrugged. The book is bad. It's way too long, every single character is an unbelievable douche, the prose sucks. Ayn Rand wants to fuck a train so so so badly, but the prose is so turgid I couldn't even get invested in how much she wants to fuck a train. And the core of the matter, the politics I was there to understand, are, y'know. Objectivist. Eye-bleedingly selfish and capitalistic, expressed in amazingly childish and blinkered terms. Even the bits where it seems like the shithead capitalist dudes want to fuck each other are too mired in the scunge of Rand's terrible views to be enjoyable.

But I read the fucking thing! I powered through it with only quite minimal complaining! I finished the book on the train to work, and when I saw that LS was on that night, I plonked myself in a seat by him, and metaphorically cracked my knuckles, ready to fuckin' party. In a perfect world, I would have been cool enough to have waited for the perfect mid-argument moment to drop, but I didn't. I think I lasted exactly until we were both off a call at the same time, and then leaned in as close as the desk dividers would let me, and said "So I finished Atlas Shrugged. I have some thoughts."

I cannot overstate how quickly it became obvious that LS had not read the book. For a hot second I thought maybe it had just been a while and the fine details had escaped him, but no; he didn't know who half the characters were, or key points of the plot, or even know any of the stuff in the John Galt speech, i.e. the big juggernaut of Here's How Objectivism Works near the end of the book about Objectivism that this fucking guy hypothetically based his Objectivist views on. It took me maybe five minutes, in between calls, to realise this, and another five for him to admit he hadn't actually read any Ayn Rand. He'd read her Wikipedia page.

ANYWAY I didn't speak to him for like a month after that, and I don't think either of us lost out there!

[chamerionwrites]

🧂

The problem with prose in the style of “she breasted boobily down the stairs” is NOT that it is horny (I support horny prose!) nor even that it is offensive and objectifying (slightly spicier take but imho You Are Allowed To Write From The POV Of Wretched Misogynists Sometimes is a logical extension of You Can, Should, and Arguably Must Write Unlikable Characters; obviously it’s worth criticizing when an author shows zero ability and/or desire to write from any POV but that of a wretched misogynist, but as far as general principle goes I’m always going to come down on the side that there’s nothing inherently wrong with writing bad people).

No. The problem with prose in the style of “she breasted boobily down the stairs” is quite simply and straightforwardly that it is BAD WRITING. It tells us nothing about the woman in question, except that she has a nice rack (or at least that the POV character thinks so). It tells us nothing about the POV character, except that he’s a basic bitch who likes tits (groundbreaking stuff for your Very Cishet Male™️ character). It’s not even good at being horny!!!!! Sure, perhaps it could be argued that I, Chamerion, am not the target audience when it comes to the luscious allure of boobs. But imo genuinely good erotic writing should be able to make desire legible to any audience. If you’re describing a hot woman, and doing it well, then a straight woman or a gay man or even somebody who’s ace ought to be able to see the appeal. (If you’re describing a hot man and doing it well, then a straight man or a lesbian or an ace reader should be able to see the appeal!) And if they can’t understand any part of the attraction even intellectually, then you have failed at your single most fundamental writerly job: conveying feelings with words.

In all seriousness - rule number one of descriptive writing is that sentences such as, “the puppy was cute,” or “the woman was beautiful,” are all but empty of meaning. And yet descriptions of desire for women are constantly like ooh her skin was soft. Ooh her hair was shiny. Ooh her curves filled out her dress. Ooh her breasts were the perfect size. WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS MEAN, YOU MEALY-MOUTHED ASSHOLES. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO TELL ME WHY THIS SENTENCE DESERVES TO TAKE UP SPACE IN YOUR NOVEL. Again, I freely admit that I am not the authority on feeling verklempt about boobs but I do have it on excellent authority that people who DO do not all agree on what “perfect size” means, unless by perfect size you mean “I am imagining that they might fit nicely in my hands,” in which case SAY THAT. Like, even saying that her shirt had one button too many undone - it’s far from an original description of desire, but at least it conveys information (that she got dressed in a hurry? that she’s trying to catch the eye of someone in particular? that she likes to dress a little daringly, and the POV character appreciates daring? we might not even know at first from the context, but it’s a description that at least has us analyzing and asking questions!). It may not be the sharpest and most specific description on the planet but it’s miles ahead of the boob-shaped Rorschach inkblot that is “perfect-sized breasts.”

Anyway. I could go on at length about the kind of writing that I think does convey desire effectively, and maybe I will elaborate later, but this is the heart of my cranky-old-man-on-the-porch rant. I’m not saying we should talk less about the sexism of certain authors. But I do think we should spend MORE time sending them to art jail for the crime of being unutterably formulaic and boring.

[morgana-ren]

Do you have any tips on increasing word counts in fics?? Or is it just something that develops overtime? Thank you!!

So, for me, my wordcount comes from two different sources:

1: My erroneous belief growing up that the average chapter of a FF was around 7.5k words.

2: My overly flowery, pretentious purple prose.

I have a massive problem with going on for too long as opposed to not long enough. You know that writing advice that will tell you not to get too up your own ass with the details? Yeah, I do the opposite of that. I'll go on for eight years about how the rosy-wood sheen of a desk and by the time I've finished jerking my own writing brain off, no one is interested in the story anymore.

My advice to you would be don't worry about length. It's not quantity-- it's quality that matters. I've seen 2k stories that hit hard over 50k ones that just... drag. I would argue that length doesn't matter in the long run as long as you're getting across your point effectively, efficiently, and emotionally.

The only reason a fic should be incredibly long is if there is genuinely that much information to convey. As writers, and especially neurodivergent writers, sometimes we get a little carried away. A common mistake is people getting so caught up in the details that they forget to tell a fucking story. An obsession with word count really contributes to that in my opinion, because if it's not needed, it becomes invasive filler nonsense, and believe it or not, people can tell.

If the line doesn't fit, isn't needed, doesn't help, or isn't useful, cut it. Trim it like a hedge. Sculp a good story from the dirt with blooming aspects, not dead leaves and rotting twigs. Descriptions can be great, but they can also be a fuckin' anchor weight yanking your story down into the depths.

Think: Is it important to the perspective? Is it something the character would notice, subconsciously or not? Does it contribute in one way or the other to the story or the environment? Don't get me wrong, there are amazing authors who write the most useless shit (Victor Hugo is famous for writing like 8 pages of description about characters that literally don't matter) but when you're grasping the basics, it's best to try to keep it simple.

Another piece of general advice I can give you is to emulate the greats. Read FF authors that you love and adore, figure out what about their style that it is that you admire so greatly, and try to blossom your own style from it. Something about it deeply appeals to you, so figure out what and why!

If you're taking commissions and they want a specific word count and you're having trouble reaching it, there's a few reasons that could be. Maybe the idea just doesn't speak to you, or maybe you skipped over some detailing that you could have gone into. Re-read it outloud. Are the emotions being properly conveyed? Picture yourself in their shoes. What would you notice?

For example, say you have a character that is crying, and you have written them crying. What else about crying makes it hit home? The large, intangible lump wedged in the throat that makes it hard to swallow. The way your nose gets runny, especially when you look down and it's humiliating in front of another human. The way it blurs your vision and clumps your lashes together. That horrible, aching rake of razored claws down the inside of your chest that makes your body almost literally collapse on itself like a singularity. Being unable to breathe between heaving sobs and fighting for breath over your body's need to just completely break down. Maybe the character is prideful and spends a good two paragraphs trying to hide it. (These are bad deliberately, as you take them, fine-tune them, and then place them properly. Just write something general at first.)

Think about what descriptions really hit what it is that you're trying to sell. Tend to the environment around the characters to play positively into the story. Sneaking metaphors for whatever it is that's happening to them occasionally works well, but can be rough to pull off (say, leaky pipes dripping incessantly driving the character mad even though it's barely audible when they're remarkably stressed over a billion things and it's a breaking point. Drip. drip. drip. into a puddle that pools on the floor one measly drip at a time.)

I'm no professional, but these are just things I've picked up over just talking too fucking much and writing things that I am interested in, and it kills me every time I cut some useless bullshit from my stories because I like the way they sound even though I know it's just filler or even nonsense to the readers.

[randomfoggytiger]

Milagro In-Depth (Part III): Denial and Truth, Art and Sacrifice

I'm incredibly proud of how this series turned out. As I was watching Milagro, I could not recall the nuances of the plot; but it was so well-written-- and the themes and character motivations and plot so clean and precise-- that a lot of my earlier assessments turned into unintentional but correct predictions for the rest of the episode (what a mood boost.)

And now, for Part III of Milagro (Parts I and II are here if you want.)

Padgett stares dispassionately at the newspaper, unmoved by Mulder’s jocular interrogation. He listens, nodding along at moments, as his rival spells out the murder plan: comb the newspaper for lover ads, pick a victim, then target them.  

Mulder is interrupted by Scully, frustrated when she interferes on behalf of the prisoner (“not without his lawyer.”) Padgett takes this moment to squirm hopefully into his muse’s good graces, attempting to reestablish the hold he’d briefly held over her by using truth as a key to unlock her guarded defenses. 

“I don’t need a lawyer. I’m telling you the truth.”

“And this is your confession?” Mulder barbs, tossing the heavy tome of purple prose at the suspect’s chest, darkly satisfied at the resounding thunk it makes. 

The room becomes tense: all three know this is the seduction manual of one Dana Scully; and Mulder is as angry as Scully is shamed. 

“No, that’s my novel.” 

“It’s all in there,” Mulder presses, “Every detail, every murder all laid out. How did you do it, Mr. Padgett?”

Padgett antagonisms with truth disguised as deflection: “If I sit long enough it just comes to me. I only knew what was in my mind and wished to express it clearly.” 

Scully spends the conversation in the corner, silent, confused at her own standing and confused at her confusion; but never wavering in her support of Mulder (though doubtful of his conclusions.)    

Mr. Padgett muddies the waters about his connection to Naciamento: “Jungians would say it’s the characters that choose the writer, not the other way around.” 

Scully here is doubting, crushed, afraid this is all her fault. She is a very doubting character: doubting herself, her motives, her intentions, her choices, her self-respect or adoration or love; and often the blame of others’ actions are placed on her shoulders whether by her own hands or by the indirect finger pointing of others. “I’m sorry” has become as rote as “I’m fine”, apologizing for a slip of emotion or a crack in her facade as easily as she stares down death and denies it shakes her. 

“So I guess you could argue he [Naciamento] directed me.”  

Mulder’s patience is wearing thin: “Which is the truth?” 

Again, Padgett dodges the question, rankling his interrogator; but his boast about how twisted words bring about not only those innocent people’s deaths but also a manipulative seduction of Scully-- “By their nature, words are imprecise and layered with meaning. The signs of things, not the things themselves. It’s difficult to say who’s in charge"-- frays Mulder’s last nerve.

He jolts from the wall, tossing aside caution in his rage; but Scully, deducing his intent with alarm, darts out to catch his arm, holding him back with a punctuated whisper (“Mulder….”) Her admirer sees this, finally focuses out to see the bigger picture, and knows that all is lost-- and never was-- to begin with. 

Both agents try to rug sweep the moment, Mulder pursing his lips with a slight “Yeah” and Scully looking down and away, embarrassed and more uncomfortable than ever. 

“Why, Mr. Padgett?” Mulder picks up where he left off smoothly. “Maybe that’s a question you can answer.” 

At this Scully looks back up, quietly demanding respect-- an explanation for his meddling toward herself. 

He answers with a crack in his voice, bravado vanished and touched to the quick with Mulder’s inadvertent stumbling on the crux of his issue and the reality of the loss of a chance with Agent Scully: “That’s the one question I can’t.” When the agents turn to leave, he arrests them in return-- “Agent Mulder, my book. Did you like it?” 

For his part, Mulder is disgusted by the question, not understanding the other man’s deeper meaning-- that this is Dana Scully, a flesh-and-blood woman who loves you and is existing in that loneliness without you. Padgett knows now that Scully will never be his because she has abandoned her metaphorical empty apartment to sit in Mulder’s, creating companionship between them. It may not satisfy, but it leaves no room for Philip Padgett’s, haunted as it is by the ghosts of his Naciamentos. 

Mulder reveals a bit more about himself, staring loathingly down upon the man who tore open his partner and spilled her secrets before he could discover them himself: “Maybe if it were fiction.” 

Scully lingers in the cell after Mulder turns heel and walks away, trying to recover from the inadvertent gut punch and avoid (while being very aware of) both men's eye contact.

She recovers her faculties, speeding after her partner and stopping him before he loses valuable time on a useless goose chase. Having tracked Naciamento, she relates that he has been “two years dead” to Mulder’s incredulous surprise-- which doesn’t last long, the wonder of a new unquantifiable variation lighting up a sparkle in his eyes.  

“Padgett couldn’t have done this alone.” 

In the absence of facts, Scully falls back to her comfort zone. “Well maybe he didn’t do it at all,” she demurs, not meeting eye contact. 

Mulder kindly-- but firmly-- insists, “Scully, it’s all on the page. How else would he know?”   

“Maybe he imagined it,” she quibbles, “like he said-- like Shakespeare, or Freud, or, or Jung.” 

They both know she doesn’t want to face this reality, the tip of the enormous iceberg that Padgett’s interference dug up and exposed. 

Scully’s voice takes on a frantic, scrambling quality as her justifications continue. “I mean, m-maybe he… maybe he has some gift. "M-maybe he has a clear window into human nature.” She so badly wants to believe that this clear picture of herself is divorced from any semblance of evil, struggling with the self-doubt like she does every time she’s faced with life-altering considerations of herself. To admit Padgett is evil is to put a stain upon his observations of her; and for Scully, who shrinks from giving villainous people any merit ex. (Luther Lee Boggs, Jerry Schnauz, and now Philip Padgett), she fears that if evil is so easily able to read her own heart that it must recognize a grain of its nature in herself.  

Mulder is not convinced and completely misses his partner's deeper psychological fear-- he is a man that must be told, in plain terms, what one means and what one wants from him. Scully's diffidence regarding her feelings is lost on him; because, while he can draw conclusions from human patterns of behavior, abilities are built on committed actions: “No one can predict human behavior-- no one can tell you what someone’s gonna do.” 

In desperation, Scully draws comparisons. “But isn’t that what you do, Mulder, as a behavioral profiler--” she finally looks up; and her tempo kicks up a notch as his immediate denial-- “y-you imagine the killer’s mind so well that you know what they’re gonna do next.” 

He puts his foot down once and for all, ending this charade by going for the jugular-- something that Scully has backed him into corner over by denying the facts before her face. “IF he imagines it, it’s ‘a priori’-- before the fact. I think that’s pretty clear from what he wrote about you.”  

Scully looks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

When she doesn’t respond (unable to), Mulder double checks: “You know you’re in here, don’t you?” 

She answers with a raspy, recovering-from-a-sudden-blow voice “Uh-yah, I read a chapter.” Scully pauses, needing to hear it through Mulder’s perspective (though her eye contact has slipped again)-- “What does he say?” 

Mulder huffs a disarming but defeated little noise. “Well let’s just say it ends with you doing the naked pretzel with this stranger on a bed in an unfurnished fourth floor apartment,” he teases, trying to disguise his own feelings and encourage her own with injected levity. 

Scully is horrified-- because there is a part of her drawn to empty, dusty apartments for unplanned rendezvous, and it’s a part of herself that she is ashamed of and thought no one else knew about (other than the black mark of Ed Jerse on her record.) It’s not Padgett: it’s what he represents-- the pattern of Scully’s ouroboros, her repeating cycle, another day lonely and neglected, another attempt for attention disguised as rebellious or open-minded dominance. Her last resort escape from the patterns of her fraying existence is exposed to be a pattern itself (just as Padgett will learn he has not achieved understanding and enlightenment because he does not wish to see.)  

Mulder’s mood sinks in the face of Scully’s fragile acknowledgement; and his pleasant demeanor drops in the face of consuming jealousy. “I’m assuming that’s ‘a priori’, too?” 

Scully tries to scoff away the moment, her deflection honed by the instinct to RUN. “I think you know me better than that, Mulder.” 

But Mulder hasn't taken the time to know her like this, running off on detours into the woods from post-cancer celebrations, expressing tender affection or even love under only extreme circumstances. She is too afraid to admit how much is her-- not all of Padgett's words, certainly, but enough to expose herself without equal, vulnerable reciprocation from her partner. (Again, script here for to read her thoughts on paper.)

The moment sits heavily; but Mulder, for once, doesn't let it slink away with deflection. His jealousy has rankled his possessive streak; and he is determined to make a powerful point.

Mulder marks this heavy moment forever by intentionally letting his partner get a first, undisguised glimpse of the sheer want that he has for her, more so than he has ever done. This is different from the depths of his devotion expressed in Fight the Future and the heartfelt gratitude and sweetness of his confession in Triangle. No, this is intense passion, piercing into Dana Scully’s soul-- not cutting away at it with selfish desire like Philip Padgett; but carefully slicing and disinfecting her defenses as it goes, mature love tempering unbridled emotion with true care and concern. Neither does he diminish its importance, not diluting the potency with a quip or lame joke. Mulder may not be confessing the secrets of his own soul to the same degree, but he is exposing an acutely sensitive layer of himself to her scrutiny.

He is confirming, silently, that he has and does see her; but Mulder lets the moment go, painstakingly tucking his emotions back into their repressed spaces. His fervor matches her own, simmering behind a similar facade; but Mulder keeps himself back from further pursuit, not yet able to healthily balance the encompassing nature of his quest and a potential relationship with his partner. The Unnatural, the very next episode, forces him to sit down and listen, finally grasping the importance of live, laugh, and love.

Shoving these thoughts aside, Mulder nods, accepting Scully's weak excuses; and adds, “Well, you might want to finish it.”  

He leaves Scully with the bomb of her own weaponized desires and stomps off to do the next imperative thing on his never-ending list of imperative things to do. Scully stares after him, the haunted eyes of Beyond the Sea shining in his wake. 

Padgett remains in the middle of his cell in the middle-end of the room, having witnessed their entire conversation, though no privy to what they were discussing. 

Taking up Mulder on his injunction, Scully pours over Padgett’s words more thoroughly before being handed an intercepted note from Padgett.  Her voice now takes over the narrative, giving voice to his ramblings-- a sign of Scully's wavering in regards to him. 

“Grief squeezed at her eggshell heart like it might break into a thousand pieces, its contents running like broken promises into the hallow places his love used to fill. How could she know this pain would end, that love, unlike matter or energy, was an endless supply in the universe-- a germ which grows from nothingness, which cannot be eradicated, even from the darkest of hearts. If she had known this-- and who could say if she would believe it?-- she would not have chanced to remain at his sad grave until such an hour so that she might not have to learn the second truth before the first: that to have love was to carry a vessel that could be lost or stolen. Or worse, spilled blood-red on the ground.”

Horror swiftly taking hold, Scully rushes up from her seat, frantically grabbing the paper and running off to alert the rest of the station.  

Two important things of note: 

#1. Padgett may be setting up his next murder, but he is also making very pointed jabs at Scully (“that love, unlike matter or energy, was an endless supply in the universe… who could say if she would believe it?", etc.) As mentioned above, Scully tries to cut out the idea of noble human nature from the vile monsters around her, always stunned and uncomfortable when faced with their parallels to herself and her beliefs. Padgett knows this and is invoking that fear as a stab at her. 

#2. Scully, unfortunately, did have to learn this lesson, twice: in the end of this episode and in S8.    

At the cemetery, Mulder walks through the crowd to his partner, neither having substantial proof or even a body to confirm Padgett's latest fiction. he begins to doubt the murder even occurred. Scully raises the point in Padgett’s favor (“Maybe his statements are proof that he’s telling the truth-- that he truly just imagined it”); but he still doesn’t buy it. 

Before Mulder gives up completely, he spots a suspicious man parking a funeral flower truck; and, trusting his instincts (something that Scully avoided doing, which led her deeper into Padgett’s apartment), he gives chase-- the infamous David-Duchovny-ran-so-fast-the-crew-had-to-film-this-on-a-motorcycle-scene-- tackling the unsuspecting gardener to the ground. This may not have been Naciamento (though Mulder only relinquishes his prey when Scully insists the man is innocent and works the grounds), but the incident leads him to further investigate the truck, discovering the body of the murdered woman buried underneath the rubble. 

Padgett is again playing with his narrative-themes-symbolism role discussed in Part I by having his rival kneel in the dying flowers of so many lost loves, a metaphor for the first Padgett Truth neither he nor Scully learn-- how replaceable and changeable Padgett perceives human love to be-- until they are forced to learn the second Padgett Truth-- that it can be torn away in the blink of an eye. When Padgett turns himself into his own hero, he takes it upon himself to teach these lessons and “save” Mulder and Scully from themselves, a divine revealer-protector-savior handing his amor back her heart by sacrificing his own. 

Back at the station, Scully testily asks how Mulder knew the body was on the truck. Just as snappily, Mulder mocks, “I imagined it,” doing a little hand-to-forehead gesture to nail home his point. His frustration ratchets up another notch when she brushes off any evidence of Padgett’s guilt (“What do you need, a signed work order? Of course he directed him.”)

Scully digs her heels in, insisting Mulder is making “critical assumptions without any facts.”   

Mulder, fed up with this routine, grabs her by the shoulders and swings her around until they’ve swapped standing positions-- probably as close to strangling Scully as he will ever come-- stating that she's now arguing from his usual "illogical" standpoint.

Scully doubles down further: “Mulder why couldn’t he have imagined it? Why couldn’t he have just been in the killer’s head?”

Mulder’s patience is at an all-time low with Scully-- not even his dismissal of her points concerning Diana Fowley were this intense.  “You read his book, you read what he wrote about you-- are you trying to tell me that he got inside your head, that what I read is true?” 

He knows that Scully has a wild, rebellious side to herself-- and he's often charmed by it. That’s not what he’s questioning. What Mulder’s grilling her on is if those words Padgett wrote to describe her were her, if she’s that desperately lonely, that drawn to purple prose allure, that willing to let her instincts slide to embrace a man who means nothing but to harm and control her. Padgett is only half-right in his descriptions; and Scully leaps at that loophole. But it locks her out of her position on the writer's innocence, as Mulder knew it would do. She can’t shake her doubts without betraying how much of the book was accurate; because then she would have to strip what little cover she has left in the aftershocks of the whole mortifying experience.

Mulder’s plan is to free Padgett and observe his communication with Naciamento; but he gets no support other than cooperation from Scully. She does, however, keep her partner always between herself and her former admirer, swallowing convulsively and subtly cringing whenever the other man speaks. 

Padgett walks away, the rejected suitor, head bowed and pride dashed, pausing in his departure to make one last statement: “I made a mistake myself. In my book, I’d written that Agent Scully falls in love but that’s obviously impossible.”   

Mulder is, again, sorely tempted to lash out in anger at Padgett’s audacity (closing his eyes and taking a deep breath), but corrals his resolve, inquiring what the other man means.

Padgett maintains ruthless eye-contact with his former rival: “Agent Scully is already in love.” Then, without a glance at Scully, he turns and leaves. 

Mulder darts his eyes away from Padgett to her, posture loosening and tilting sideways in his carefully concealed, shellshocked scrutiny. 

Scully is robbed of her last, treasured secret; and stares after Padgett-- a wounded soul crying out as it begins to bleed to death. 

Back at Padgett’s apartment, the heartbeat is back, pounding away as Naciamento himself walks through Padgett's apartment door, menace and measured cunning united to confront his creator. Padgett is terrified-- can't fathom how his creation is moving independently of his will, has tracked down and cornered him.

I touched on the importance of this conversation in Part I (see post here); but another key part of the Padgett-Naciamento dynamic is the buried desires that Padgett can no longer hide from.

“What do you want?” 

“I came to help you finish.”

“I can’t figure out your motive.” 

“You imagine me so perfectly in every way, so perfectly that you bring me to life,” irony dripping from Naciamento’s mouth, “Why did you chose me?”

“I needed a perfect crime. And she’s a doctor-- she’d be horrified by what you do.” 

Naciamento cuts through Padgett’s self-delusions: “I’m horrified.” Tiredly, he repeats, “I just want to know why I do it."

“So I could meet her,” Padgett twinkles, all selfish angles and inelegant confidence. 

Creation has besought  the creator and found him lacking. “That’s not a reason….It’s an excuse.”  

Mulder is attempting to listen-in next door, putting the final touches on a secret surveillance system and asking if Scully can hear anything. She cannot, in fact (“No, he’s just sittin’ there… staring.”) 

**Note**: Forgive the lack of pictures in this section-- Tumblr put a kibosh on the number of screenshots I could upload.

Padgett continues his negotiations with Naciamento, handing him the bit of manuscript he’s finished. 

“Now what is this?” his creation pushes.

“A big mistake,” he admits, stung, “I misjudged her character, her interest in me.” 

But the writer’s demon answers, “Now we’re on to something.” 

“She’s always trying to get his attention but doesn’t know it.” 

“Mmm,” Naciamento muses, mulling over the irony, “the old unconscious at work.”  

“I wanted to love her,” mourns Padgett, loss edging out over the sting or rejection. 

Again, Padgett wanted to love her, learning her catechisms and mythologies, her patterns and her mind, to try to love her, just as he ordered Naciamento to kill those people who had love: longing for and envious of the concepts and feelings he’d locked himself out of in his isolation. 

“No wonder you can’t finish this book, Padgett,” Naciamento sneers.”Why do I want their hearts?” 

“You tell me, why do you do it?” the creator challenges. 

Naciamento is a little impressed by this new ounce of aggression, but not deterred. “I’m your character. You tell me. My reason is your reason.”

“I want to feel love.”  

“Nnno…No. You had it right up to there. You were a tool of the truth.And when it finally arrives-- when I arrive-- you don’t want to see it.”   

Padgett is flummoxed. “But what is the truth?” 

“Man imagines that he, too, can open up his heart and expose the burning passion, the flames of charity like the Creator himself. But… this is not in his power.” 

“But… I have love in my heart.” 

“Yes!” Nacamiento pauses for emphasis. “As a thief has riches, a user of money-- you have it. But man’s only power-- only true power-- is to destroy it.”   

“Then what’s the end of my story?”

“There can only be one true ending. If it is to be perfect.” 

“She dies?” Padgett trembles-- stress and anticipation. Of course, his first thought of a perfect ending is the sacrificing of another person’s life, a tragedy to uplift the genius of his own work. 

Naciamento, the manifestation of Philip Padgett’s brutal cruelty and utilitarian pragmatism, nods approvingly. “It almost writes itself.” 

Scully is dozing a spell on the couch; but the clicking of the typewriter brings her back to life (ironic.) Her rustling draws Mulder's attention; and he sits down in time to see Padgett gather his papers and flee his apartment. Her partner flings out after him, leaving Scully to scramble into her boots and be intercepted by Naciamento.

Unbeknownst to Mulder and Scully, Padgett knows that Mulder will follow him out, so focused on the trail that he is blind to everyone else around him; and easily lures him down to the basement so his Naciamento can do his own will. But Padgett, while angered over her rejection, is still fond of Scully's symbolism, her usefulness to him. She was only ever a tool he tracked, became obsessed with, tried to polish up and become even better, so much so that it would teach him to hone and wield his own abilities-- learn to love her. And unbeknownst to Naciamento, his creator is rebelling at losing the power to guide his own story, plotting a grander, more violent end that “redeems” himself, destroys the villain, and blesses the love between the two people whose lives he tried to manipulate. And it helps that Padgett was able to one-up Mulder at long last, tearing him away from Scully only to mercifully restore her back to life. 

Mulder walks right into his trap, holding his suspect at gunpoint while the other man stalls for time, waiting for the events of his novel to play out like clockwork. 

Padgett’s venom shines out of his eyes at Mulder, menace and resignation blending as he unflinchingly confirms Scully will die, resentfully adding, “He told me how it ends.” Mulder doesn’t get the hint fast enough, wasting precious time reading over the manuscript while Scully’s heart is being scooped from her chest.

Mulder’s 20 questions are cut short when he hears the rapid fire of Scully’s service weapon, bolting back up the stairs while his partner continues her desperate attempts to save her life, shock and horror and despair warring on her features when the bullets pass right through her attacker. Padgett scrabbles for his pages, time running out for his plan to be fully accomplished. 

The gun has been exhausted; and Scully gives in to the torturous pain as she screams, long and agonizing, and fruitlessly tries to shove her attacker off. It's useless; and she dies on Mulder's apartment floor.

it's at this moment that Padgett successfully throws his manuscript into the fire, eliminating his own creation offscreen. 

A note: Scully, emotionally personal episodes, and fiery basement furnaces are quite the motif. Both anti-heroes (a loose term in these contexts) save her life from the true antagonist by "burning them alive" in the basement, flames consuming flesh both literally and figuratively. It's not until All Things that Scully reclaims fire as a purifying rather than destructive force, sitting in candlelight in the Buddhist Temple as God talks back.

Mulder has been running with all his might back up the way he came, concluding the third act with the hallway-and-door combo that Padgett utilized with both his obsession and her partner. 

When he swings the door open, armed and ready, the shock of seeing Scully's dead and bloody body on his apartment floor is so great that Mulder freezes. He stares, disconnected, waiting for his mind to clear and all of this to be a nightmarish hallucination; and floats rather than walks to her side. 

The dissociated-Mulder-grin appears, a plastered pull at each side of his lips tugging them wide as his mouth pops open to let in more oxygen-- the beginning stages of a classic Mulder hyperventilation.  

Mulder gazes down upon Scully-- a mirror of the flowerbed scene-- realizing how avoidably his partner was killed. He could have prevented her death if he’d taken the time to notice if she was following, if he had taken the time to notice her. Like the writer had learned as a penitent pupil at the feet of his own creation, Mulder comes face to face with this truth only in the face of its destruction. 

(But Mulder has still not learned this lesson, even when Scully pops up, traumatized but alive. As we see in The Unnatural, his focus has not shifted away from life outside this planet, still running off after the allure of the mystery while the mystery of the heart lingers behind with her tofutti rice dreamsicle.)  

The Mulder-Beyond-Panic Face melts into the sweetest “hey, it’s you” expression as Mulder, again, is tossed into a new, unbelievable reality. There is so much-- too much-- to process; so he remains open-mouthed and slack-jawed in his disconnected wonder, as if this were happening in one of his old, cheesy movies and he is rejoicing for its characters. 

Emotion starts to slip back, the firm reality of Scully clinging to his back and heart wrenchingly wailing banishing the last of the fog. A well of overwhelming empathy settles into his heart; but he swiftly squashes every other "selfish" thought or feeling, clearing his mind and closing his eyes to wholly focus on and comfort his partner. 

Milagro was Padgett’s lesson; and Mulder and Scully were the incidental flies snared in the convoluted web binding the writer hostage. Fixation is not knowing, staring is not seeing, and grabbing at the treasures of others is not giving or receiving love. He ponders on this as he lays, dying:

“A story can have only one true ending. Even as the stranger felt compelled to commit his final words to paper, he did it knowing it must never be read. To see the sum of his work was to see inside his own emptiness-- the heart of a destroyer, not a creator. And yet, reflected back upon him at last, he could see his own ending. And in this final act of destruction, a chance to give what he could not receive.” 

Padgett was a man who forced himself to be an artist, squirreling away in his Spartan apartment and waiting for his muse to waltz fitfully in and out of his life. He yearned for something greater, more divine, scrabbling at the hearts of other people in an attempt to understand his own. By personalizing the milagro story, Padgett hoped to win a heart for himself; and he targeted Scully, someone he thought would understand and grow to love him if she were shown how truly alike they were. When, at last, he realized that all of the deprivation and pain he has inflicted on himself and others will never draw him closer to understanding, to genius, to love-- that his attention and passion are not the milagro but a beating symptom of his failure-- his work was beyond his control. There was only one thing left for him to do: reclaim control as best he can by setting himself up as a hero in his own tarnished tale, giving "back" his fiery, beating heart to his own (unwilling) Mary Margaret.

Padgett's art-- as is love-- was the sacrifice; and it was, like the rest of him, worth nothing in the end.

May he never rest in peace.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[writtenbyerna]

Review for A Lady for a Duke by Alexis Hall

Man, trans representation in books is next to nothing but trans representation in historical romance? I literally have not read any historical romance where a trans character is the main lead. This baffles me because trans people existed before the term trans is coined to describe them. The term transgender was popularized in the 1990s (Rawson, 2020) and trans people lived before it, yet books, where they are the centers, are non-existent. 

A Lady for a Duke by Alexis Hall tells the story of a trans woman, Viola, after leaving her life as a soldier, a friend, an heir, and a Viscount, and finally deciding to live her life as what she is. But her freedom cost her to lose her closest companion, the Duke of Gracewood. 

Two years after the war, Viola now serving as a lady’s companion of Viscountess Marleigh, her sister-in-law, is pushed to meet the Duke who suffers from his wounded leg and PTSD. As Viola, tries to bring back Gracewood to what she knows, realizations are made, and maybe this time the feelings buried deep can be let out. Maybe this time the impossible gets to be possible. 

8 Things I Love About A Lady for a Duke 

1. Trans representation. Trans representation in media is important because trans people exist and should be represented in mass media! Sure, the book is set in a kind of regency era, and won’t fit in today’s society but the fact that a trans woman found her happy ending in this book means that trans people can find theirs in real life. 

2. Her being trans isn’t the main conflict in the book. The main conflict in the book lies with the fact that since she became Viola, she lost her wealth and is a woman in a very patriarchal society. No one in the book questions her being trans but Viola knows that everyone will question how the Duke of Gracewood fell in love with a lady’s companion. HER BEING A TRANS IS PART OF HER IDENTITY BUT IS NOT THE PROBLEM!!! I cried so much when I realized this tbh. 

3. Content Warnings! Listen I am all for not spoiling books but putting a trigger warning or a content warning on one of the first pages of the book would tremendously help a lot of people. In this book, one of the warnings was about Viola being dead-named by some characters, and if a trans person or anyone read this without knowing it, it could be a trigger for them. Put trigger warnings, please. 

4. Modernization of the language. Reading regency or any historical romance, especially classics, one will always find it harder to understand than contemporary works because the structure of the language is different, and the words used are not the same as now. So, it is a good thing that Alexis decided to modernize some of the languages because it connects to the audience much easier. However, some would argue that this is unnecessary and ruins the genre but well there are other books for you to gatekeep the language babe. 

5. Beautiful and romantic prose. I swear to everyone that this has one of the most romantic prose there is. Gracewood saying that she’s his home, her breath, and him saying this

“I love you as a man loves a woman, but we both know that love is not bound by such narrow terms. So instead lead me simply tell you that I love you. I love you with the unfading flame of my friendship. With every drop of ardour in my blood. I love you with my soul, as some reserve their faith for absent gods. I love you as I believe in what is right and hope for what is good. I love you with everything I am and ever was-and if you will only let me, with every day that comes, and every self that I could ever be.” (Chapter 34)          

I want a Gracewood, please.

6. PTSD. The exploration of PTSD for both Gracewood and Viola since they were both in war is so well done. While reading you ache for both, especially Gracewood. His pain was described so vividly that I remember feeling heartbroken for him. 

7. Body acceptance. Since Viola is a trans woman she has the faculties of a male-born individual, so the discussion about her being worried that she cannot bear children, and having a sexual relationship with Gracewood like other women was so beautiful. I found myself highlighting every phrase because it was so beautifully described. I love that Viola realized her worth and that she also deserves pleasure and love. 

8. Love. So much love in the book, it’s oozing. 

Rating: 5 stars 

Links: https://gayety.co/history-of-the-word-transgender

[mister-writes]

I was just thinking this week about how much I love and am grateful for the writing group I have (and how they differ from other writing groups I've had haha) so I thought I'd write some things I've noticed about them. Hopefully this will be helpful for someone who is either looking for a writing group, or someone who is *in* a writing group that they aren't quite sure about!

WHAT TO LOOK FOR IN A WRITING GROUP:

Look for people who read what you write, and people who write what you read. As a fantasy writer who has little to no experience in romance (writing or in real life), I wouldn't be able to provide genre-appropriate critiques for someone who was writing a solid romance novel. In the same vein, someone who enjoys mostly historical fiction might struggle reading 5000 words of fantasy drivel. You want to be able to enjoy reading what people share in your writing group, and you want to be sure they have experience in critiquing your type of writing.

Look for people who can provide specific praise for your book as well as specific critiques. First of all, getting only negative feedback is NOT fun. Secondly, and maybe more important, you're not going to know what to *keep* doing if someone doesn't point it out. Getting a vague "it was good" from your group doesn't really guide you going forward. Getting "I love the descriptions you added for the setting" DOES give you some important things to consider as you continue writing.

Look for people who are honest and specific in their critiques. It's no use to you or anyone if they don't tell you what they really think. Hearing a bland "it was good" or "Idk, I didn't really vibe with it" aren't helpful in any way. I've been in groups where people are so "nice" that they don't give more than gentle, general critiques when a more thorough read would be more beneficial. BUT critiques should also be something that you can act on, too- someone saying "I don't like middle grade fantasies, so you should change it" isn't helpful for someone that is writing a middle grade fantasy.

Look for people who can adapt their critiques as needed. More than once, a person in my writing group has come out of a slump and submitted a chapter with a note that hey, they're not feeling super motivated right now, could we please go gentle on the negative feedback? And so far my group has ALWAYS risen to the challenge, heaping up the praise and motivation while keeping revisions to a minimum. On top of that, they critique each other at the level that they're at; the person that just started writing a year ago isn't going to get the same type of critiques as the person that writes some of the most evocative prose I've ever seen. Feedback should push you to improve, but it shouldn't be something way above your level.

Look for a group that isn't afraid to disagree. Sometimes I disagree with a point of critique that someone else brings up on my work. Sometimes I disagree with a point someone brings up about another person's work. Whenever this happens, I can respectfully add my own point with the knowledge that the other person won't get defensive about it. Different opinions can exist on the same piece of work, and that's fine.

However, Look for people that won't push back against every piece of negative feedback they get. I think it's natural to get a little defensive about something you worked hard on. But a group is only effective if you learn to consider and integrate (or reject!) the feedback given to you. If people in the group feel the need to constantly argue or justify themselves, you won't have a productive session.

Look for people who share some of the same (major) values as you. This one didn't really come to light at first, but as I've gotten to know the group members better, it's nice to know that no one is going to freak out if one of our writers introduces an LGBT character.

And finally, Look for people you trust. One of the reasons I benefit so much from these critiques is that I respect my group members and trust their opinions on writing. I've been in other groups where I took literally everything they said to me with a grain of salt because I didn't actually trust their opinions.

I hope this is at least moderately helpful to someone, because getting into a writing group is probably the only reason I'm writing so consistently today.

Happy writing everyone!

[residentdormouse]

Positively Pleasant ‘P’ Words Tag Game

Upon predicting the password to procure the pined after prose, I’m pondering the paradoxical feeling of pride and perturbation. Perhaps this puzzlement proves the philosophical predicament of whether perpetually pushing for pleasurable pursuits only pollutes our ability to perceive the peace provided from our passing progress. Maybe proportional precaution is needed to prolong preoccupation before its purpose pales against the prize.

(AKA, I found the word, but now there’s no other side quests to focus on. 😂)

My words: Past, Power, Present, Pull, Print

Your Words: Quick, Quiet, Quirky, Quaint, Quote

(@mrsmungus - Apologies if there are goose eggs; I tried to pick ones I could find myself, but it’s ‘q’ - we knew this time would come.)

Past

“I don’t understand. He’s smart, and funny, and has so much potential… Why is he making choices to sabotage himself, and… I just… ” she let out a frustrated shout, unable to put the rest of her thoughts to the adequate words.

They walked for a bit longer in silence until Nick stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He pulled back out his pad and wrote out another note, slower, more thought put into this message.

‘The world isn’t kind. You fight back against it or blend in until it becomes who you are too.’

She nodded with a sigh. The idea was insightful, and she couldn’t argue with it; it actually made a lot of sense the more she mulled it over. Harold had many times made the comment about his past, how he had been regarded, his treatment from peers and even family. Maybe that was who he became now too, but she truly hoped not.

Power

Further dream discussion took off. Were there drugs that could help? Could there be a way to block this? There were no answers, only another point nobody had touched yet, one which Glen felt a need to chime in on: did they want to?

"It seems to me, we're getting set up in a tug of war. Whether it's good vs evil, judgment day, powers higher than us playing a game, who's to say… What is clear to me: there's a protagonist and an antagonist forming, and these dreams, they’re giving us background. We take that away… well then, we're just opting to play the game blindfolded. Now, can’t speak for any of you, but personally I'd like to read the premise before making moves. Maybe, I don't know, maybe there’s something useful buried there."

Harold scoffed at the idea. "So you're saying what? Our dreams are relaying vital information so we can, what, fight for God or the Devil?"

"I'm saying I don't know. But I’d like to.” Harold scrunched up his face, still not giving it any real consideration. Glen took a couple more puffs from his vape, and pressed on with a light chuckle, "I think I know what your problem is, Harold."

"Glen…" Stu tried to give a warning to not poke the bear. Glen never knew how to listen to that instinct however.

Present

(Possible gore tag, but I had to. It not only has Present, but Past and Pull too.)

Maybe Hayden did have a history in medicine; as she stated, there was no way to know. But to do an invasive surgery without even remembering those past experiences? That wasn’t even touching the fact there was only a small possibility it was there in the first place.

That was just the basic facts. The little things, the barely visible shimmer of light in the cavity, the way muscles and skin seemed to move away or pull together on their own milliseconds before Hayden’s hands got there, how these events coincided with a distinct drain to her... If he wasn’t already looking for irregular things, these would have been dismissed. Tricks of light. But they were too far into the unknown to turn back now, and his eyes were open.

He wanted to ask her about everything. Not necessarily the past; she would only give him the same sad smile and shrug as she always did. But her thoughts at the time… Did she see what he did? Did she know?

The ordeal was clearly taxing on her, so he was fine to leave it on the back burner for now, but he couldn’t unsee what he saw. By the tree earlier, she wasn’t completely present. His mind equated it to a dimmer switch and she was set to low. If she wasn’t actively on his mind, he would have completely overlooked her sitting there. The differences between the girl he met on the trail that first day, and the one sitting by that tree; he couldn't explain it, but he would certainly not forget it.

No, she was a puzzle with too many missing pieces, but he was good at filling in blanks.

Pull

(I had a decent excerpt from earlier in Chapter 9 - one of my personal favorites for reasons - but then I went down a little further and noticed there are FOUR uses of Pull in this Harold dream. FOUR! I feel I need to now post this in shame for my lack of variance.)

Harold pushed himself up off the pavement. Blood lingered in his mouth, and he spit it off to the side of the road. The asshole with a beard threw a punch, but Harold felt a pull backwards.

Beard tried to steady himself as a gun appeared in Harold's hand. He held it up and pulled the trigger. One threat down. Scruffy douche bag to his right was an easy target. Another neutralized. One more to go.

A shot rang in his ears, but it missed by a mile. He spun and quickly pulled the trigger on the third assailant; three for three.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Harold nodded. Moving to hand the gun back to Flagg, he noticed the man's expression had changed, eyes adopting a red glow and his smile widening. His hand now moved over Harold’s own, taking aim for him. The movement was quick, fluid, and when the dark man pulled back, Harold’s aim was now set on Redman. "Keep it."

Looking back one last time, Harold could now longer see the denim clad figure, but he could still hear his voice. "You may find a use for it."

Harold went to tighten his grip on the item, but his hand closed further into a fist. The gun was gone, but as he slowly relinquished his grasp, a black stone with an unnatural shine revealed itself in his palm. A real smile found its way onto Harold’s face.

Print

(I was decently worried about this one. There are only two times this has showed up, and one was literally the last section of Spiral, so guess this is all I got…)

Sitting at the desk, she made herself comfortable and grabbed a pen. Nobody could really miss one blank book in a cottage full of hundreds, and she felt like doodling. But this one was not longer blank. Quickly scanning the pages, she noticed it was all observations she had. Specifically about Glen.

When she closed the book and turned it over, she noticed his name beautifully written along the spine. Standing in a rush, she began to scan the room again. Another book lay next to Glen's; 'Stuart Redman' was written in bright lettering.

She backed away and noticed the previously blank canvas on the wall was now an acrylic painting of Kojak; the signature H.F. was printed in the bottom corner. Another hastily done paper sketch of her, Glen, and Kojak was pinned next to it.

Turning to her left, she stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed the dark painting sitting on the floor by the door. Blacks, grays, and two bright red eyes. 'Flagg' scrawled across the bottom in blood red calligraphy.

[izzyaro]

Early Days

@proselys I’ve spent too long making them sad so here’s some random pre-Prosely fluff.

-

Emily nearly jumped out of her seat when a paper bag landed on her files.

“What-”

“Dinner time,” said Tsia brightly. “And don’t even try to argue; I know you skipped lunch.”

Emily hadn’t thought anyone had noticed. Then again, you didn’t get picked for elite task forces by being unobservant. She managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said, “but I really should finish this first.”

Tsia’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been working nonstop, Emily. You are allowed to take breaks, you know.”

“Clyde needs this done,” Emily protested.

“Not at this time, he doesn’t,” said Tsia. “And even he doesn’t expect you to examine four years worth of incidents in one afternoon.”

Emily bit her lip. That was true, and Clyde had made it clear that this case would be a long one, but at the same time they needed this data. The sooner they could narrow down some suspects the better.

Clyde was trusting her. He had trusted her in picking her for this team. She didn’t want to let him down.

“Emily.”

Emily looked up to find Tsia watching her. Her dark eyes were very soft as she crouched in front of Emily’s chair. “You don’t need to prove yourself to us,” she said gently. “We know how good you are.” She reached forward, and when Emily didn’t react took her hands gently in hers. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

Emily’s cheeks burned, and she had to look away. She was the youngest in the team and she had so much still to learn, but it was impossible to ignore the sincerity in Tsia’s voice. Tsia squeezed her hands and rose to her feet, pulling Emily with her. 

“Come and have some food. The case can wait a little while, and you need to take care of yourself.” She smiled suddenly, and the warmth in it took Emily’s breath away. “I don’t want to see you work yourself into a hospital bed.”

Emily managed a smile. “Yeah. I definitely wouldn’t be able to help much from there.”

Tsia quirked an eyebrow. “Emily, I don’t want you to get sick. This job isn’t worth your health.”

Emily felt her blush deepen at that. Her concern was as genuine as her earlier words had been, and it left Emily tongue-tied. She wasn’t used to people caring about her health. Or about her at all.

Her stomach was starting to twist. Tsia was so warm and so kind, but they had only been colleagues for a few months. She didn’t know just how much of a screw up Emily was. Work was the only thing she was good at, and Tsia would learn that sooner rather than later.

She was still holding Emily’s hands. Emily couldn’t quite bring herself to let go, but Tsia’s smile was starting to crease into a frown and Emily couldn’t bear to see her upset, and so she summoned a smile of her own.

“I guess I could use a break.”

She could always come back later. She wouldn’t let her new team down. Tsia brightened again, and reached round her to snatch up the bag of take-out, but paused instead of starting for the door.  

“You know, Clyde wouldn’t have picked you if he didn’t think you could do this,” she said. “And he may be an ass, but he’s got good judgement.” She smiled again, softer but no less breathtaking. “You’re good at your job, Emily. You deserve to be here.”

Emily’s throat was too tight for speech, but Tsia just squeezed her hand and guided her away from the desk. Emily followed without protesting, heart fluttering in her chest.

This was all so new, and this new team didn’t really know her, but maybe things would be okay after all. 

[altfire-archive]

2, 8, 10, and 14: which OC wins the hottest voice award 👀 for the OC asks!!

omgsadjkhgk ty!! tumblr formatting is a bitch so pls bear with me for this lol

2. Whiniest bitch?

I was going to put Marc but since he's technically not an OC, I think I'll say Haven from IMPETUS/The Cave. He and Laius (same project) probably share the award because their complaining/arguing constantly is the whole, ah, impetus for the plot.

putting the rest under a cut, for the sake of brevity lol

8. Best Monologue?

I don't write a lot of monologues sdgjk the only one i can find is 1) barely a monologue and 2) a pretty big darkwater spoiler but i don't super care. also i really like it so i'll share anyway. the character isn't named in it so maybe it's not that big of a spoiler but i think there's enough clues in the prose that u, ash, of all ppl will kno who this is. sorry for turning him evil xoxo

--

“You’re… serious about him, yes?” he asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

My body screamed to pull away but I froze, feet glued to the underbrush.

“Demi?” I asked, glancing back again as if he’d be there to save me. “I- Yeah, I think so.”

I couldn’t see him in the dark, but his frown was audible when he spoke. “You think so?” His voice was velvet smooth, low and dark, and I felt unsteady. Was that him or the alcohol?

I shook my head, dispelling my nerves if only a bit. “I’m sure,” I said. “I- I am.”

He chuckled, and I tried not to shiver. “You don’t sound very sure,” he said, and I could tell he was smiling now. I envisioned those fangs, sharp and dangerous. “He’s… I don’t know how to impress this upon you. Our survival is very… important to me.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And you are an obstacle to that. You understand?”

My breath hitched, and I made to step back. His grip on me tightened and I whimpered involuntarily, his nails carving crescents into my skin.

“I don’t know if you heard me,” he said again, voice somehow lower. It was thrumming through my skin like bass at a concert, resonating in my bones. “I will not let anything threaten our lives and our secrecy. Am I crystal clear?”

“I- Yeah,” I said. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” His grip loosened and then he dropped my shoulder. “Let’s get back to the others.”

10. Best Kiss?

so many of my favorite OC ships can't kiss 😔 bc of aliens and argonians and what have you. i REALLY love the Aspen/Demi and Ed/Henrik kisses from Darkwater and like real people do, respectively.

no excerpt bc im embarrassed 😔 but if u want i can send them to u privately sdkjghkj lol

14. Hottest voice?

Laius oh my god. Oh my god it's Laius. I love turian voices so much. Low and gravelly and then the subharmonics? Stop I'm gonna lose it. Can't include an excerpt for obvious reasons but. I love him.

[ai4cf23]

mixed feelings (assignment 1)

When people think of writing, it doesn’t always occur to them that it can be a collaborative process. Why would it be? It’s an incredibly intimate art form that has no visual imagery beyond words on a page. The job of a writer is to evoke emotions through these words, to take ideas and somehow formulate them into a unique amalgamation that both encapsulates and explores the human psyche. So how, exactly, would someone (or something) fit into that?

In my own experience, I have found that sharing my writing is deeply terrifying. Coincidentally (and perhaps unfortunately), it is also very, very helpful—given the right group of people. A proper workshop can be extremely productive; having other writers read and give feedback on your work is probably one of the best things you can do for yourself. There are a few objective errors they might be able to catch: plot holes, grammatical mistakes, formatting issues. But the value in workshop lies mostly in the subjective interpretation of your work. Does it flow properly? Does the conclusion feel satisfying? Do you relate to the characters? Is the dialogue natural? What does natural dialogue even mean? Given that there’s no solid answer to any of these questions, I have doubts as to whether or not AI could be helpful in this way. If we take, for example, the concept of dialogue: it’s an active struggle for many to capture the “humanness” and verisimilitude of what good dialogue should be. If a real, living, breathing person cannot translate the very experience of conversation, then what hope does an AI have? I don’t say this merely out of skepticism either, because I’ve tried. Below is an example of a scene produced by ChatGPT after I provided it with the prompt: “can you write a scene between two characters arguing about where they should go for spring break?”

Despite its ability to produce…something, the dialogue itself is very cluttered. People don’t talk like this. For attempt no. 2, I ask it to make the dialogue more natural.

Still a no go. It interprets "natural" as more "colloquial", which, while true, doesn't work if it doesn't have an understanding of what colloquial speech entails.

“Sarah, Miami is so mainstream. I was thinking something more off the beaten path, like the Grand Canyon,” is giving sit-com. If ChatGPT were writing for a Disney channel show, then maybe this would be acceptable. But in a work of prose? No dice.

Okay. Let’s try something new. This time I ask if it can produce a work about adjusting to life in the city in the style of Lorie Moore’s How to Be a Writer, a notable and more importantly, distinct example of prose written in second person. Her writing is wonderfully whimsical and is not entirely linear. The first attachment below is an excerpt from Moore, followed by ChatGPT's output.

Here, it’s nailed the style…sort of. The basic structure is there. But the diction is slightly off and the prose is awkward in a way I can’t quite articulate. It doesn’t “flow.” It is also obsessively literal in a way that feels strangely shallow. No one thinks of the subway in a way that is nearly as romantic as "underground chariot." Some other parts have potential: the phrase "tetris-like living" is interesting, but it's still wordy and unrefined. What is most glaringly obvious, however, is that it lacks imagination. Could ChatGPT have come up with something as randomly clever as "a short story about an elderly man and woman who accidentally shot each other in the head, the result of an inexplicable malfunction of a shotgun which appears mysteriously in their living room one night"? Would it occur to an AI to call Mr. Killian pore-face?

Evidently ChatGPT is capable of mimicking specific works, but it doesn’t really know how to produce content of a certain caliber. While I don’t ever intend to use AI to actually write in my stead, this severely undercuts any hopes I had for it being helpful in a collaborative/workshop capacity. I admittedly have not plugged any of my own work into ChatGPT just because it feels…sacrilegious? In a way? It’s a little unsettling knowing that my writing could be used to train it.

However! Back to the point. Where does this lead us now?

For me, the question of AI in its current iteration (or, at least, the version of ChatGPT that I have access to) is whether or not it can learn how to think abstractly in the way that is required of objectively “good” writers. Although it can try to mimic specific writing styles, that doesn’t mean it can achieve the same quality of work or produce something that is artistically sound. I think AI has a long, long way to go before it can begin to replicate the humanity that is required of prose fiction. That being said, it also makes me deeply uncomfortable that AI could ever potentially reach that level of sophistication. Writing is ultimately a form meant to capture the human experience. If a machine can somehow learn to accomplish something similar, then what does that mean for us?

For reference, I’ve also attached an excerpt of my own writing about living life in the city, loosely inspired by How to Be a Writer (this is also why I plugged that specific prompt into ChatGPT). This was written half a year before its release.

[janeeyreheresy]

Celine Varens

Here, let me rewind to the early days of Jane and Rochester's acquaintance and talk about a person I've not yet given time in this recap--Celine Varens, the mother of little Adele.

She was a French opera dancer to whom he once cherished a grande passion. Celine returned this passion. Narrates Jane:

He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he believed, as he said, that she preferred his “taille d’athlète” to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

Did you know Edward was ugly?

Edward was besotted with Celine. He installed her in a hotel, gave her jewels and servants. Only to catch her cheating with another man--a vicomte Edward knew from society, in his words "a brainless and vicious youth". And just like that, Edward's love for Celine evaporated into thin air--if she could prefer such a man over him, she only deserved scorn. Edward overheard the two of them laughing about him, Celine making jokes about his ugliness when previously, to his face, she used to say admirable things about his looks. Unlike Jane, who point blank told him he was not handsome. (She didn't, though? He asked her if she thought him handsome and she answered by blurting out "no, sir" without thinking, for which she straight away apologised.)

Oh yeah. Did you know Edward was ugly?

Contrast the frivolous French floozy with the good, honest English girl.

The Roch broke up with the fair Celine at once, evicted her from the hotel and the next morning, met up with the vicomte and shot him in the arm. 

So who's violent now?

Celine had a daughter, Adele, who she claimed was Edward's. He doesn't believe it--not because he doesn't want to take responsibility, but because he sees no resemblance in her. Probably because she's not ugly. Because Edward is ugly, you know. Some years later, Celine abandoned her child and ran away to Italy with a musician. Seeing as little Adele had no one else, he took her in. 

I admit it was really good of him. Although with Edward, you never know if he had any ulterior motive.

"I e’en took the poor thing out of the slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country garden."

So Paris is slime and mud.

He didn't mind the slime and mud when he was fucking Celine.

So am I going to argue the veracity of Edward's story about Celine? 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Honestly, at this point, who the fuck knows. I don't know why I always had it in my head that Celine died. Even after re-reads. I don't always remember every detail from a book, also it's possible I just skimmed that part on my last reading. (I don't read Jane Eyre often, I've only read it twice in English. When I need to look up something, I open it in Gutenberg.) She could be dead. There is no way of knowing. 

Rochester's monologue is hilarious, though, if you like that sort of thing. So much drama and flowery prose. Stage indeed lost an actor. I wonder if he and Celine met when he auditioned for a role. Maybe his time away from Thornfield was spent in the performing arts? Actually, now that I think about it, what if the conflict with his father was due to Edward's ambitions of becoming an actor? Papa Roch wouldn't hear of it so he sent him to Jamaica. Now there's a better sad emo boy origin story.

I hope Adele is NOT Rochester's daughter, for her own sake. Kid deserves better. But I have to say, yet again, what in the world is the fucking point of this tale? Charlotte needed a kid at Thornfield so that she could place a governess there, I get that. But why all that rigmarole with a French dancer? Why not have Adele be an orphaned daughter of an old friend or relative of Roch? He could have had friends, or distant relatives in France, if the child's nationality was that important. There is no need for an elaborate opera dancer floozy drama. All it accomplishes is 1. it shows Charlotte's xenophobia and 2. it shows Edward's misogyny. Same thing I said about the Blanche story--it didn't need to be there at all and nothing in the book would change. Just like Blanche could only have been an old acquaintance instead of a rival love interest, Adele's mother could only have been a plain simple mother. An orphaned child, taken in by the master of Thornfield, who now needs a governess. Why in the world does it matter who Adele's parents were anyway??? 

Because Charlotte couldn't help making herself feel better by not being a French slut who likes jewels. 

An opera dancer turning out to be an ordinary whore, HOW FUCKING REVOLUTIONARY.

Digression - What in the Sherlock?

Forty-four years after the publication of Jane Eyre, Arthur Conan Doyle redeemed the woman of stage in the character of Irene Adler in the short story A Scandal in Bohemia. Read that instead. The adaptations often turn her into Sherlock's love interest and don't do her justice (except the one with Jeremy Brett). In the original story, Sherlock was outsmarted by her and LEARNED from it. He realised she was in the right! 

Speaking of Sherlock Holmes. Copper Beeches features a case where a governess comes to consult the detective about whether to take a certain post--too much weird stuff around the job. Sherlock, after listening to the details, tells her to watch out. Turns out ***SPOILER*** she was hired to impersonate her employer's eldest daughter, whom he locked in a room, because he wanted her to sign over her inheritance from her mother to him. The daughter became ill with brain fever from this ordeal. And the stranger coming to the house--or in this case, watching it from the distance, is the daughter's boyfriend. ***END SPOILER*** 

In The Sussex Vampire, a man suspects his wife, a Peruvian, sucks their baby son's blood. Without giving too much away, this story not only vindicates the "foreign" wife, it also redeems the figure of the stepmother, so maligned in fairy and folk tales. Like, fuck it, Arthur Conan Doyle was more feminist than Jane Eyre.

End Digression - Back to Celine

One could question Edward about why he chose to have this relationship with an opera dancer in the first place. He complains she only wanted his money, but he chose to spend it on her. He complains she had another lover, but he was never serious about her himself. She was just a fling. Douchebag was MARRIED for gods' sake. Probably it was the fact that they laughed at him what bothered him most. His ego got a beating.

It could easily have been his wife's money he was throwing at Celine. And you blame her for being mad. 

Anyway, if Edward really did shoot the vicomte in the arm, then it proves he is dangerous, and Richard had a reason to fear him. 

[rivendellsstuff]

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ━━━ 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍

𝐀𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 | ❝In despair, he condemns his desires. Regretted, he know the consequences would be eternal and all he wanted was you. Your fiery personality, bright lips and soft skin.❞

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2310;

Genre: friends to lovers;

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: Mentions of canon-typical violence. The first chapter is set before the events of the first season. Friends with benefits — so, it'll be eventual smut (like, a lot!)

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: English isn't my natives language, so if you spot a misspelled word or anything else, feel free to let me know.

━━━━ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

Some men's whish the glory, others crawl like snakes by power and there is those who live like rats in the system. However, there is a exception — and his names is Levi Ackerman. Emerged from the underground, by dust and blood, forged as a weapon at an early age and steeped in pride, he raised as humanity's strongest soldier. He carries a doctrine, imbedded in his bones: he serves to humanity, the balance and the freedom of mankind. If there is a threat, he is the man who can fight against it, ranging from cruel people to evil titans.

He was born in cruel times and did his best to survive in the Underground. He found a glory he wasn't looking for. Something many wish to through their lives, but which, for him, was irrelevant. They all bleed, they all are stuck on the Walls and share the same ended chapter: the death. The final outcome is not defined by possessions, achievements or privileges in life. The only difference was that could get death any easier and painless. Levi was not a hypocrite: he would rather a peaceful death, lying on his bed, instead of being eaten by a titan.

He rather — and is all what it is. It wasn't like if he had any choice. The Ackerman's family were designed to protect the people and to fight. They were cursed with a power. Some people could say it is a miracle in dark times. Others would argue that mans were corrupted, cruel and too ambitious to deal with that awakened power. Well, Levi knows, that no everyone were worthy to possess such ability — Kenny, that asshole, was one of them.

However, there was kind strange situation. An only exception, an affliction that hung over through the heart and maddened his mind: you.

Desire wasn't a word enough to define how he feels close to you, a fearless female warrior, who destroy each barrier he has built over the years, causing delirium with the thought of you hurt. Levi knew he would have taken a checkmate just by desiring you.

But when it all starts? He couldn't say with sure. Maybe, when he, Farlan and Isabel were recruited by the Survey Corps, and you were the only one who spoke to them without undriveable mock and trial. You, besides Erwin, didn't seem to care where they came from. As deeply loyal as you were to your comrades, you didn't depend on your interactions with them for take a direction — you were content to follow your own passions and desires without input from anyone else.

Maybe it started when he saw you in battle or an a argue with a member of Military Police Regiment. Fear is not in yours's vocabulary when you are on the battlefield or when you are speaking her mind to others.

As their partnership grew, he'd find some similarities between you, but also many differences.

You, just like him, has little patience for any form of prose or riddles when you are communicating with others. You speak bluntly and without pretense, and expects others to do the same, prefers to get to the point and doesn’t seek to romanticize your expectations or intentions. You also are focused on the present issues and what role you can play in protecting the people that you love, what can prevent you from seeing the future results of your present actions and, unlike him, does result in some impulsive and risky — yet brave— actions.

All these little things over the years, made him fall in love with you, and Levi had ways to say it without saying "I love you".

Like that night.

He wasn't hiding his disgust face when handed you a cup full of that steaming, black liquid; the simply smelling coffee could make your stomach turn, but still, he prepares a cup for you every night.

As the second in the command, you have spent several evenings together conducting the next advances of the squadron. So, there you are, sitting next to him, eyes focused on the paper, turning the pen between your fingers and... biting your lower lip.

Occasionally, almost instinctively Levi raises his eyes to you. Being so close of you was it's a unique feeling. The smell of your perfume as stunning, and his throat closes around the words he would like to say. The tension that has been brought in was too dangerous for someone like him.

Fucking woman, fucking lips. Fuck you!

''Is there a problem?'', you inquired making eye contact for the first time that night. He couldn't say if there was perversion when you wet your own lips, but Levi felt his muscles become tense and contracted when you made it.

Levi responded with a faint whimper before observed: ''You shouldn't be drinking so much coffee at this time. You look like shit when don't get sleep''.

Lie. Fucking hell, you're always beautiful, but no way he'd say what he thought.

You rolled your eyes. ''It's you who did'', you put forth.

''I wasn't in the mood to put up with a brat attitude from you.''

''Brat? You know that we have about the same age, don't you?'', your gaze traveled from the figure sat in front of you to the window, confused as to why you would be embarrassed about his presence. You took in a breath before adding: ''Anyway, don't want sleep.''

There was a pause for a few seconds. You and he eyed each other.

''Why?'', he asks, authoritative one.

You shrugged and shook your head firmly. ''It doesn't matter.''

''If it doesn't matter, why would I have asked that?''

"Cause you're snooper”, you smirked.

''I'm not a snooper, brat."

He felt his heart begin to quicken when you carried the pen to your lips and start biting.

"Yes, you are a horrible snooper old man, bossy and with an astonishing mania for cleanliness."

"Old? You know we have about the same age”; he repeats. His eyes drifted back to your face, noticing your gaze had shifted again to the woods beyond the window. "And you're avoiding the question", he softly says (at least as softy as he could be), interrupting your rampant thoughts. "Are you alright?"

Levi watches in silence as you'd shoulders slump.

"I can't sleep. My mind has the scary capability of being evil, although I always thought that one day it'd get better", you're voice was low and flat, quiet and a little sad as you spoke to Levi, who seemed to know what are you exactly referred to and only nodded at your words. "I feel guilty. All the time."

Even in the darkness the room held, your eyes find his greys one like the starlight's.

''Are you afraid of your dreams, too?'', you asked, never expecting the humanity strongest soldier to have any fears.

'Yes'', he said quietly.

You nodded with hesitation, his words repainting in your head as you struggled to forma a sentence to answered.

Levi was used to such sadness, he had month's — no, years — to griever over the deaths of his mother and friends. Death was not uncommon thing in his life. His childhood who should be carefree, playing in the sun, was like a living nightmare, learning to fight in the darkness of Underground. Later, when he left the place to join the Survey Corps, he accepted to live in that never ending tragedy that people had sadly grown used to. Death was more common in that job than anything else, and he knows how badly it fuck with his mind.

“I’m beginning to think we’re a lot alike… you and me. We’re both strange cast, who’ve learned to fight when we’re backed into a corner'', you began weakly.

''Well, we’re backed into a corner now. Two fucking insomniacs”, he shook his head, thinking about your words. He didn't seem to like the way your voice sounded sadder. You raised your eyes to him again as he slowly spoke: ''You're not alone''

You answered a tiny smile onto your lips. Levi felt his cheeks burn and opposite glanced to your empty coffee cup, thinking that he'll able to always tolerate your strange addiction.

A few second later you both went back to work, and Levi was left with words stuck, temptation planted in the mind and a sure thing for him: the insomniac nights would become better by you.

【 ━━ 】

Inside Wall Sheena, guests were arriving, among them five members of the Scout Regiment - consisting mostly of commanders - walked through the gates, exuding self-confidence, bitter to participate in that boring and stupid meeting.

Little lies, little social sacrifices to feed what kept the Scout Regiment going: funding.

It was not necessary to be an expert in politics to see beyond the traditional veil of those events, to perceive the intentions of certain parliamentarians, very sadistic. Knowing it was part of your job to relate to these kinds of people annoyed you.

For one minute, you saw out of the corner of your eyes, the first on your command. The man of grey eyes used a black suit that fits perfectly. Be present in an event with so many politics didn't seem to his liking. Was kind of hard for all of you play nice one with all this tension in the air.

You've never felt the feeling of fear and tension like that inside the Walls before.

''Stop frowning before you break your face''

'It would be so sad, and you would cry for being depriving of that beautiful face''

''Oh, fuck yourself'', he says, angrily.

''If you watch''

You smirched at his expression as he looks up to you, after seeing your face, he turns away.

''Watch your words, brat''

''Or what, old man? What will you do to me?''

He looks back up at you.

''I could break you habit of drinking coffee, put you to clean all the HQ or even to help Hange with the experiments. The three together seems good, by the way''

You roll your eyes.

''You're mean''

'You're annoying'', he replied. ''And you know, if you keep rolling your eyes one day their going to get stuck like that''

''Are you trying to be funny?''

His little grin showed up making you roll eyes into a smile. He was terribly bossy and annoying, but you like that about him.

You took the glass of wine to your lips and raised your eyes to hit his. Levi hovered over you, making you felt that flame into your heart once more. Your eyes tailed down to Levi's lips then back to his eyes. You could feel your heart beating recklessly.

Fucking grey eyes, fucking black suit. Fuck you!

You felt a thumb on your cheeks, making them burn.

''You look...'', he started whispered and slightly caress your cheeks. Your body started to get hot under his soft touch. ''... beautiful. You look beautiful''

You were speechless.

You liked the sudden ardor, of the dangerous attraction, of folly and frivolous with provocative sins. Liked and thought how the taste of his lips would be: the indomitable, the irresistible, the powerful and sin.

He slowly dragged his hand down to my thorax wrapping his hands around it. A soft gasp escaped of your lips.

''You know... If you want dance, it'll not rude to ask'', you try to say. ''The song is awful, but I'm not a demanding partner''

''Only if you don’t step on my foot''

His prepotency make you smile.

''Don’t be a bad partner and there will be no mistakes'', you retorted, making him raised one of the eyebrows. ''That's how a men should behave next to a woman''

He took you in his arms, abruptly, making the bodies collide with intensity. You gasped, very close to Levi's ears, who felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck. Leading you through music, in no second was the look averted, in a battle for unknown control.

You and Levi explored a unique experience.

He stares burned deep into your body. His touch on your skin made your body tingle.

Fuck, control yourself. Don't get turned on by him!

He didn't say anything, just left you hold into him. You could feel your body burning around him. What was he doing to you? It felt like a spell. The effect of sin, of desire. You should get rid of that, all you needed least were distractions in the workplace and ruin the friendship, trust and partnership that you two took so long to build.

However, both keep looking to each other longer than friends should. Longer than friends should...

He could saw you lost inside your mind. Slowly, he pulled down his fingers, lazily touching the skin of your exposed back by the dress. Levi's vision was blinded by the desire his image represented. The surroundings smelled wine and fruits, intoxicating his sense. The ears, doomed to hear the political bullshit. His tact could burn by touching you. His taste? It was dangerous, because wanted to discover the taste of your lips and body.

But not now, not here.

You are his friend — the only who was left. In despair, he condemns his desires. Regretted, he knew the consequences would be eternal and all he wanted was you. Your fiery personality, bright lips and soft skin.

To hell all of that. When you both got back, he'll fucked you, every way that he can thinking off. He wants to pound into you, slammed into you and give the best night that you ever have. He wants to kiss every inch of your skin.

''Good girl'', he whispers next to your ears. ''But I'll show you how true men should behave next to a woman when we get back''

[thefloorisbalaclava]

hi lovie how r u? I dunno if u r taking requests, but maybe... I was thinking something where Javier starts to get a little bit cold towards y/n cos he saw horrible things that the narcos, pablo sicarios, did to some woman's relative to some other guys, including to Connie's cat and he's scared as hell they do something to y/n but when he realizes she's so sad and down, peña stars to show little acts of love in secrecy, like a note, one flower, a ring, just I don't know some angst and fluffy sorry for this long ass ask. thank you for your good posts ♡

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of violence, flashbacks, trauma, mentions of sex

A/N: My friend and I have been talking about Javi a lot lately so you sent this at the perfect time! Thanks!

[Javier Peña masterlist]

“Are you coming to see me today?” you asked Javier over the phone. He looked around the office then lowered his voice.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He regretted it almost immediately.

“I haven’t seen you in a week, Javi,” you reminded him. It was becoming plainly obvious that he was trying to avoid you or at least distance himself from you. What had you done wrong?

“I’ve been...busy,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie but just a few weeks ago, he had made time to see you almost every day.

“Right,” you sighed. You looked at the bags of groceries you bought to make dinner for you and him tonight. “Whatever.”

Javier sighed loudly. “I’ll call you later. I-” You hung up before he could finish whatever it was he was going to say. He slammed the phone down on the receiver and put his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he whispered.

He knew getting involved with you was a bad idea and not because you weren’t good or anything like that. If anything, you were too good. Fucking perfect. You were his safe haven, his softness, his saving grace. And that was the problem. You saved him but what if he couldn’t save you? He had seen what could happen to you. If anyone wanted to hurt him, you’re the first person they would go after and he couldn’t have that. He experienced firsthand with someone he loved and, God, he couldn’t live through that again. So he had to leave you.

Because he loved you.

You stared at him in awe as he stood in front of you and told you this. Then you scoffed and turned away. It was all you could do to stop yourself from slapping him in his stupid, beautiful face.

“To protect me?” you repeated bitterly. “Just say that you don’t wanna be with me and stop using work as an excuse.”

“I’m not here to argue with you,” he said calmly.

“No, you’re only here to break my heart,” you snapped. “Well...you can go.”

“Okay but-”

“No! Just go...please.” You couldn’t look at him mostly because you were so angry but also because you didn’t want him to see the tears in your eyes. “I’m sure there’s a woman out there who will happily welcome you back into her bed.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said and finally you whipped around to look at him.

“Fuck you, Javier.” You didn’t care if he saw the tears now. “If you’re being cold and indifferent to try and make this easier...fine. It worked. Get out. I never want to see you again.” You stormed away only to grab the pack of cigarettes he left on your table for when he came over. “Don’t forget these.” You threw the pack, hitting him directly in the face.

He scoffed and picked the cigarettes up then turned to the door. He stopped as if he was going to say something but then you heard the door close behind you and he was gone. Only when he was back in his car did he let his emotions show. His eyes filled with tears and he hit the steering wheel over and over again before putting his head against it. He tried lighting a cigarette but his hands shook so badly that it was impossible. Another burst of anger as he threw his lighter somewhere in his car.

He had to do it. Right? He had to. He couldn’t stand having another one of those dreams about finding Helena only for her to change into you when he got close enough.

There were plenty of nights where he would sit outside your place in his car just to make sure you got home okay. He was dreading the day he saw a man following you inside. He also wondered if you got any of the notes and gifts he left for you. This was the safest thing for now. 

You sighed and rolled your eyes when you found another note from Javier slipped under your door, another little gift for you on the table, and a bottle of your favorite wine. The first time it happened you could only laugh to yourself when you remembered that he still had a key to your place.

As always, you threw everything in the garbage.

Except for the notes. For some reason you couldn’t part with them. Maybe because they smelled like him--that faint smell of his soap mixed with the smell of his cigarettes. Maybe because when you read them you did so in his voice. That goddamn voice of his and how it could change so quickly. Sometimes it was sweet and welcoming with just enough rasp to give him that air of that bad boy type. Other times it was low and growly which was usually reserved for when he was inside you, talking dirty to you, calling you a bad girl but how you were so good for taking him so well.

You closed your eyes and bit your lip at the thought.

“Enough,” you said quietly, walking over to grab that unopened bottle of wine from the top of the trash.

Some nights you felt like you were being watched when you walked home from work but not in a threatening way. If Javier was watching you he kept himself hidden well because you could never find his car when you stopped to look for it.

You touched the necklace you wore as you turned the corner to your apartment and Javier watched. It made him sit up a bit when he noticed you were wearing it. He waited until he was sure you were settled down--he knew you had to ear dinner, shower, then watch a little television before you really got ready for bed.

Then he called.

“Hello.” You answered on the third ring like you always did. He didn’t know what to say. Hey, I’m sorry I was an idiot? Hey, I’ve been watching you come home every night like some creep? “Hello?” He could hear the slight annoyance in your tone.

“I-It’s me. It’s Javi,” he finally said.

“Oh...”

“Don’t hang up!” He added quickly.

“I want my key back,” you said.

“So you’ve been getting them?” he asked.

“Getting what?” You looked down at the necklace then touched it.

“The gifts I’ve been leaving you.” He looked up at your window and could see your silhouette through the curtains.

“I throw them all away,” you lied.

“I don’t blame you.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I miss you.”

You were quiet for a long time--afraid to speak because you knew what would happen if you did. “I miss you too,” you cried, sniffling quietly. Javier’s heart ached. He wanted nothing more than to run up those stairs and into your arms. But as soon as he closed his eyes he could only see you lying there, beaten and bloody, all because he couldn’t leave you alone.

“I’m gonna hold you again one day,” he said. “I promise. We’re both gonna get the fuck outta here...so far away. No one will be able to find us.” His throat tightened as his own tears threatened to spill over. “Look out the window...”

“What?”

“Just look out the window.” He looked up at your window just in time to see you carefully pull the curtains back slightly. “Hey hermosa.”

“Hey handsome,” you said tearfully.

“No llores,” he said although there was a tear rolling down his cheek now. “Please, don’t cry.”

“Promise me you’ll hold me again, you’ll kiss me again, you’ll make love to me again,” you cried.

“I promise. I swear to you.” He looked up and saw that you put your hand against the window so he put his against the car window. “I love you.”

“I love you too...you asshole.” You laughed through your tears and it made him smile.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, not wanting to let you go.

“Goodnight, Javi.” You hung up and walked away from the window. It would hurt too much to watch him drive away.

javi taglist: @allthingsnarcos @josepedropascal  @oof-dindjarin @xjustmenobodyelse @rach7 @limenlimon @windfallss @findhimfives @the-bird-suit @oldstuffnewstuff @hoodedbirdie @fakenoods @nathan-bateman @helga1031 @triggerhappyflygirl @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @ladybeediva @heythere80sbaby @16boyfriends-and-me @laymegentlytorest @jeeperky @dee-rosemary @stanfordscrush @panda-angela @dindjstarin @simsiddy @deserttastesbitter @lightan117 @terrormonster55 @darnitdraco @dindjarinneedsahug @queenbbarnes @hells-bells-x @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @dodgerandevans @slugbuggie @allmahfeels @nemo-my-name-forevermore @marvelousmermaid @queridopascal

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[syn0vial]

i want to address the “boba fett is catholic” meme i’m seeing in the notes of my post, bc, while hilarious, it’s actually quite an interesting bit of expanded universe history!

from what i understand, the meme comes from someone quoting a snippet from the expanded universe in which boba fett says that he considers sex outside of marriage immoral. which, yeah, is a weirdly catholic thing for him to say. so let me provide some context.

this quote is taken from the short story “the last one standing” by daniel keys moran. daniel keys moran wrote probably some of the strangest prose about fett and was the first writer to really take a crack at his backstory (this was well before aotc when boba was revealed to be a clone), as well as his history with han solo. if you like, uh, smoother characterizations of boba fett, you might not like this version so much: some words to describe moran’s boba fett would be obsessive, paranoid, and disturbed. 

anyway, most of moran’s writing (aside from a few snippets that were expanded on but we’ll get to that later) was retconned after aotc, so if you just want to be like, “nope, boba fett never said that shit, never happened,” while still exploring other legends material, then absolutely feel free. but if you want several textually-supported reasons for why he’d say something like that that aren’t being space catholic, read on.

so, first of all, the immediate context: why tf is a bounty hunter talking about extramarital sex at all? well, the context is that boba fett is in jabba’s palace after leia has been captured. she has been sent to his room as a reward (ugh) and he’s trying to persuade her that 1. he doesn’t intend to assault her and 2. she really should just crash in his room for the night anyway bc if she goes back to jabba, it’ll be seen as a sign of disrespect and they’ll both get in trouble. leia is understandably on-edge and mistrusting of him and this is when he says the “sex between those not married is immoral” thing; he’s trying to convince leia that he really isn’t going to touch her.

(for those wondering, he doesn’t. he gives her some blankets to cover herself and lets her sleep in the bed while he spends the night sitting on the floor)

so! if you so wish, you could easily explain the whole thing as boba saying space catholic shit (whether he actually believes it or not) to reassure leia that she’s safe in his room for the night. he says himself that if she were to go back to jabba, jabba would likely take boba’s refusal to touch her as an insult and take retribution against him, so boba has plenty of incentive to try and convince leia to do otherwise.

but wait! what if you’re fine with boba having hang-ups about sex and relationships and just want a reason other than just “space catholicism?” well, friends, the good news is that that reading is even more supported by the text in a way that would later be expanded upon in post-aotc legends content.

though, before we proceed, lemme just slap down a content warning for discussion of drugs, sexual assault, and the intersection thereof.

now, back to “the last one standing.” leia eventually decides to trust fett and the two proceed to have a really awkward slumber party. leia, noting the lengths fett is going to in order to make her feel safe, begins to question what someone like him is doing working for jabba the hutt. they talk about morality for a bit and boba actually seems to enjoy talking to her--up to the point where she says he reminds her a bit of han. he reacts angrily, saying he and han are nothing alike. curious about his reaction, leia keeps pressing. why does he hate han so much? boba responds by saying it’s bc han smuggles spice. leia is like, “dude, seriously? you literally kill people for a living.” boba gets increasingly, uncharacteristically loud and agitated arguing with leia about why smuggling spice is worse than murder and is one of the worst things a criminal could sink to. and then, finally, at the crescendo of their argument, he snaps at her, “If I had been using spice tonight, Leia Organa, perhaps you would not be safe with me in this room.”

so, uh. what the fuck, right? apparently the reason boba hates han is bc han smuggles spice and spice... makes people more likely to be rapists, according to him??? what???

moran doesn’t fully answer these questions in the story, though he drops some major hints--the beginning few scenes show boba as a young man in jail for murdering a man named lenovar, his superior officer in the journeyman protectors, and staunchly refusing to say why other than that lenovar deserved it. this is followed by a scene maybe a couple of years later with boba literally burning a spice lord’s palace to the ground. this is all the context moran provides, but, the story doesn’t end there as later EU writers would keep this peculiar bit of characterization and expand upon its background.

which brings us to the backstory that post-aotc legends writers eventually settled on: when boba was 16, he began to feel dissatisfied with his life as a bounty hunter. he befriended another teenaged bounty hunter who felt the same way: sintas vel. the two of them ended up eloping to concord dawn, his father’s home-planet, and tried to live “normal” lives or as normal as two teenaged former bounty hunters could manage. boba got a job as a journeyman protector, where he was taken under the wing of a superior officer named lenovar; boba and sintas even had a daughter, named ailyn. 

for awhile, everything seemed fine, but, of course, this contentment was not to last. lenovar turned out to be a scumbag predator who, after gaining boba and sintas’s trust, sexually assaulted sintas. fearing what might happen to her young family if she tried to retaliate, sintas attempted to keep the whole thing a secret. however, boba eventually found out and immediately ran off to murder the shit out of lenovar. combined with the details from moran’s story, the implication is that lenovar was a spice-user and/or that he attempted to use spice as an excuse for his behavior when boba confronted him. either way, after murdering lenovar, boba was imprisoned for killing his superior officer. however, in an effort to protect sintas, he refused to say why he did it and instead just insisted to his interrogators that lenovar deserved what he got and that he felt no remorse for killing him (retroactively explaining the scene at the beginning of “the last one standing.”)

boba was subsequently exiled from concord dawn and his family, leaving him with bucketloads of unresolved issues regarding relationships, sex, and spice. i would say that it would be perfectly reasonable if not outright supported by legends material to view boba’s apparent disapproval of casual sex in moran’s short story as his own thin self-justification for deeper issues that have nothing to do with space catholicism and everything to do with All That Shit that happened to him and sintas when they were teenagers.

at the end of the day, technically all of legends/the expanded universe has been retconned, so feel free to take as much or as little of this as you’d like for your own personal boba fett canon. i just wanted to provide some alternative interpretations of that line other than just “boba fett happened to be space catholic, i guess”

[yersina]

okay, hear me out: blacksmith!jaskier.

like, maybe he’s the owner of his own shop (smithy? forge?), maybe he’s apprenticed to someone else—either way, he works in a little town, proooobably somewhere close to kaer morhen?

(sina, you may be saying that this point, jaskier loves to travel! he likes to see new things and meet new people and cause trouble! how could he stand to stay in one place his whole life? not a problem! shopkeepers aren’t confined to their shops, are they? especially if he’s an apprentice. i propose that he takes semi-annual journeys to travel to more far away towns and sell his wares there and maybe chase a few skirts while he’s at it)

so anyway, blacksmith!jaskier. he’s actually more of a jeweler sort of person—he likes beauty, likes art, and while he can see and appreciate the skill it takes to create a sword or a kitchen knife, he doesn’t really find his calling in creating chamberpots. but alas, see: small town, so this is the best place for something approaching an apprenticeship that he can find.

one day, he’s minding his own business in the back of the shop (smithy??), re-sharpening a knife for a nice old lady who dropped it off a day or so ago, when the master blacksmith storms in and gestures for him to get out. jaskier has long since learned that the master blacksmith is a man of few words, so he troops out to the front with no small amount of exasperation and confusion.

and lo and behold, there stands a witcher in his entrance.

“fix it,” he grunts (bc jaskier is, of course, cursed to work only around people who can’t be bothered to string together more than five syllables at once) and drops the literally shattered remains of a sword on the counter.

jaskier stares. dented swords, he’s seen. they’re close enough to a big city that they’ve occasionally gotten the odd knight looking for a cheaper alternative to city-internal smithies. but shattered? and in so many pieces? “i’d really just advise you buy a new sword at this point, good sir,” jaskier says slowly. “i could use this as scrap metal and make you a new one, but it won’t be the same sword.”

the witcher grunts. jaskier waits expectantly for any more input, but only several seconds of silence follow. “great,” jaskier chirps, injecting as much false cheer into his voice as he can. “i’ll just... take that as a yes.”

so he gets the witcher a new sword (a softer alloy this time, and one that hopefully won’t shatter at low temperatures like this one did), deducts the price of the scrap metal from the asking price of the sword, and sees the witcher on his merry (sullen, silent) way.

except the witcher keeps coming back.

jaskier has no idea why—it’s not like they offer services that any other smithy doesnt. all he does is sell the witcher (geralt of rivia, he eventually learns from town gossip) swords, the witcher grunts through jaskier’s admittedly meaningless chatter, and then he leaves. occasionally, he shows up twice in one month (once before a hunt to get his sword repaired, and then once after for the same), and then he leaves.

it’s utterly baffling.

but then theodore moore, the cheapskate bandit who passes through twice a year in order to spend all of his illegitimate money, drowns in the river while he’s stumbling through the forest drunk.

and then people start disappearing.

it takes until the little girl from down the road disappears while she’s picking flowers in the forest for the townspeople to seriously consider the idea of hunkering down and waiting for someone to take care of the problem. jaskier even rides to the nearby city and posts a request for help. maybe geralt will see it.

they spend half a year avoiding the river like the plague, but then people start disappearing from the town square—next to the fountain. then there’s talk of killing the beast themselves, but none of them know what it’s weak to.

when geralt shows up in the smithy one afternoon, white hair brown with dirt and skin smeared with mud, jaskier nearly cries. “thank god you’re here,” he says, and he’d laugh at geralt’s look of confusion if it weren’t for the circumstances. “we have a job for you.”

if he’d thought geralt was a wall to talk to before, it’s nothing when compared to how quickly geralt stiffens and closes off. jaskier didn’t even know that geralt had been slowly relaxing around him until right then, and a pang of regret echoes through him. “what is it,” he says flatly.

“a man drowned in the river last year,” jaskier explains. “and now six people are dead.” when geralt turns around without another word, jaskier has to scramble around the counter and tug him back. “wait, you can’t just leave—people are dying.”

geralt stares at him, unimpressed. “do you want me to kill it from in here?”

oh. jaskier laughs weakly. “of course, how could i have doubted you, master witcher.”

geralt turns to leave again and actually looks a bit annoyed when jaskier holds him fast. “what is it now?”

“i’m coming with you,” jaskier says firmly.

at least geralt doesn’t laugh in his face. “no.”

“look,” jaskier begins, and swears that he sees geralt roll his eyes. “i’m not—trained in combat, per se, but i can strike a few blows. i work with swords for a living! i can be backup?”

“this isn’t a game.” the furrow between geralt’s eyebrows grows the slightest bit deeper, like the world’s tiniest frown. “you could die.”

“i’ll keep out of the way,” jaskier throws in cajolingly. he’s not sure why he’s fighting so hard to join in on an expedition that will very likely lead to his death, but now that he’s started, he may as well go all in.

geralt just grunts and pulls his arm out of jaskier’s grasp, but he doesn’t do anything to stop jaskier when he grabs a sword and a scabbard and follows on his heels.

(this is where geralt wows jaskier with his fancy silver sword, and jaskier hardly needs to do anything other than gape on the sidelines as geralt dispatches theodore moore—a drowner now, he reminds himself—with brutal efficiency)

jaskier ends up arguing for higher pay for geralt bc of course he does, and manages to get geralt to sit down for a pint of ale in the tavern. jaskier travels but he doesn’t travel, and although geralt isn’t the best conversationalist, he does have some tales.

this ends with jaskier puzzling his way around making a silver sword and maybe getting a mage to imbue it with some magical runes or whatever it is that they do in their ivory towers, and he presents it to geralt the next time he comes by. geralt, being geralt, doesn’t do much else than take it with him while he’s leaving, but jaskier sees it strapped to his back the next time he stops by in the town, and geralt actually asks him to repair it at some point (!!) which is not smth that he’s ever done before.

geralt also starts bringing jaskier things which jaskier is utterly delighted by because it means that geralt has been paying attention while jaskier rambles at him the few times that they manage to sit down in the tavern together. this continues on for years and years and jaskier steadily grows fonder and fonder until he has a Realization one day when he’s looking at a sunflower and thinking abt how it matches the color of geralt’s eyes that goddamn he’s in love with a witcher.

(my Actual Prose runs out here but i’m envisioning jaskier putting those jeweler skills to use in fashioning geralt useful but also pretty pieces of jewelry as courting gifts until one day jaskier is just like “god you’re so fucking dumb” and just kisses him happily ever after the end)

[morwensteelsheen]

one thing i struggle to write with faramir that is i think very important to his character but is largely expressed in the books only through environmental/narrative chronology is his capacity for….. affable intimidation, i might call it? he’s objectively a good guy, unequivocally a batter for the home team, etc., etc., and he radiates that goodness, but he’s also an unbelievably intimidating figure too.

his introduction in TTT gets this across remarkably well in two ways. the first is his actual introduction, which is literally walking out of stealthmode in the woods, double the height of our POV’s eye line, armed to the teeth and speaking a spooky language. plus, ‘we’re’ very close to mordor, everything’s a bit heart of darkness-y, and the men (bar aragorn, i guess) we’ve dealt with so far are fallible and corruptible almost to the point of uselessness. logically it makes sense that we as the readers and frodo + sam as the POV would be deeply untrusting of him. he could very well be a colonel kurtz type figure. (also lmao catch me scribbling down notes for that AU)

the second way it comes across is through his actual speech. you’ll have to forgive me because im lying in a dark room while my brain devours itself and my copy of TTT is in the other room, so i don’t have pull quotes, but as far as i remember, faramir’s doing a one man good cop, bad cop routine with himself and making his niceness very contingent on what information frodo and sam are willing to offer up. it’s all justifiable, and iirc he goes out of his way to point out that if he’s being a dick it’s because they’re in a war and actually he’s not being half as much of a dick as he really could be, thank you very much, but he’s pretty explicit about frodo (and sam) needing to earn his benevolence.

and despite having this extended, transactional interaction that would (if it had been penned nowadays) have seen him labelled ‘morally grey’, at the end of his scene pretty much everybody involved is fawning about how lovely and great and good he is. there’s never any sense that the characters think they shouldn’t trust him (frodo actually has a thought about wanting to spill his heart out to faramir iirc, i think that’s where the ‘grave young man’ description first shows up).

that aura is reiterated every time he shows up. pippin first laying eyes on him and being like, ‘he’s terrifying and i love him’, éowyn being like ‘he could absolutely kick the shit out of everybody i know’, maybe others, again, please excuse my migraine fog. he’s intimidating, almost as intimidating as aragorn — though, as we learn through éowyn’s eyes, not quite as distant and impenetrable as aragorn — but he’s just so good you can’t help but adore him. (it’s almost, and forgive my lotr AU loving brain for this, as if everybody he encounters is counting their blessings he’s on their side and not the other guy’s.)

it’s very hard to translate all that to informal interpersonal interactions, im finding. we know jrrt builds up familiarity in the book by essentially vernacular switching — moving from loftier prose to more common speech to hint at intimacy or ensure the reader feels a level of kinship with certain characters — but faramir so far as i can remember never actually gets that moment of informality. at best i can think of maybe the moment when he’s telling sam to shut the fuck up? but outside of that, tolkien actually goes through great pains to only portray faramir in the highest, loftiest language. i mean look at the steward and the king, which is easily the most emotionally intimate moment for either faramir or éowyn (and i would argue easily top three of the whole series), and yet is conducted entirely in that soaring, chivalric prose. faramir doesn’t use contractions (or if he does, they don’t scan as contractions because all the other shit he’s saying is so purpley), he doesn’t use monosyllabic words god help him, and rhetorically he fits far more in the template of the silmarillion than the hobbit, if you get what i mean.

and that’s, uh, really hard to write lol. it just is, there are so few writers ive seen out there who really nail it, because it requires a really precise grasp of the english language that i assume you’re only allowed to get if you literally do a seance and bully jrrt into giving you it lmao. yeah there’s not really a big thesis to this post im just having a moan about how much i love this character and how much of a ball buster he is to write