#“Let’s give him an award! The 'not as much of a jerk as you COULD HAVE BEEN' award!!!”

[fangirl-dot-com]

Chapter 31 - Rookie of the Year

Last regular chapter! We have the Drive to Survive episode and then the prologue left! I'm not going to say many words because my farewell to this story will come after DTS drops which will be tomorrow night around 8:30 pm CT

The end of To Do is To Dare is scheduled for this Saturday, 11:30 am CT.

I love you all!

“Kid, are those shorts?” 

You looked up the phone in your hand up to Max, who was sitting in front of you in the limo. Your eyes flitted back down to your lap, where your dress had ridden up to reveal the basketball shorts that were supposed to be hidden. 

You shot him a sheepish grin. 

“Quite possibly.” 

Max rolled his eyes. “And why are you wearing shorts underneath a 7 thousand dollar dress?” 

“If Zendaya can do it, so can I. And besides, I’m taking them off when we get close. I just didn’t want to cross my legs in the car.” 

A snort came from Arthur, who sat to your right. To his opposite sat Charles. The four of you were all decked out in clothing that could definitely pay for a high end sports car. The Armani suits were tailored to the two Monegasques. Max’s suit and your dress were from the newest Dior line, thanks to your own ambassadorship with the luxury brand. The heels on your feet costs thousands as well. You didn’t even want to think about how much the jewelry that adorned your wrists, neck, and ears cost. 

Arthur leaned over, hand on your thigh. “Well you might want to take them off because we’re about 5 minutes away.” 

A pout grew on your lips, but you appropriately slid the basketball shorts off your smooth legs. You definitely didn’t miss the ogling eyes of your boyfriend. You gave him an innocent smile, which made him glare at you. 

“You think I’ll get rookie of the year?” 

The question made the men groan. 

You gawked at them. “What? I don’t know if they’ll do it since I was the only rookie. That’s like giving a first place trophy to the only alone person in a competition. Useless.” 

Charles gave you a smile. “What previous awards have you won or records you have broken?” 

Your eyes flickered to the ceiling in thought. 

“Ok, so I was the youngest European Karting Division Champion in 2010, the youngest Italian Karting Division Champion in 2012, youngest F4 race winner and champion in 2018, youngest F3 race winner and champion in 2019, youngest F2 race winner in 2020. That year I was also Rookie of the Year and got the Jules Bianchi award. And then I was the youngest F2 champion in 2023. This year I was the youngest pole sitter in F1, I had the most points for a rookie year with 333 points, and then the most podiums for a rookie with 15 podium finishes. I equaled Lewis’s record of four wins in a rookie season. And I think that’s it…Why are you three staring at me like that?” 

A blush formed on your face as the three men just stared. Max shook his head in disbelief. 

“You’re more decorated than I am.” 

A roll of your eyes had him arguing. With the jerk of the car, the two of you silenced. Through the heavily tinted windows, you could see the flashes of cameras. You inhaled sharply which caught Arthur’s attention. 

“I’ll hold your hand the entire time ok?” 

A nod of your head let him know that you’d be fine with that. The moment the door opened, the noise was deafening. People were screaming your name, along with Max, Charles, and Arthur. You flashed the best smile you could as you walked to the building. But a certain car caught your eyes. The familiar navy was beaconing you to go over. You let your hand slip from Arthur as you got closer to your season car. 

“Hey buddy,” you whispered as you ran your hand along the carbon fiber body. You could still hear the flashes of the cameras but it didn’t matter to you anymore. You were back with your car that carried you so well during the races.

You leaned closer as if to tell a secret. “I’m still going to buy you so you can come rest with my other cars back home. I’m going to miss you Forum.” 

The name was a simple call back to the Formula cars. But, in your mind, you couldn’t just call him Formula, because that would be weird. Max only smiled when you told him the name earlier in the season. 

Apparently, the Red Bull cars were men. 

You smiled over your shoulder at Arthur who had waited for you. Internally, you were trying to waste time so you didn’t have to sit through long boring speeches. But, the look of mild panic of being late in Arthur’s eyes got you to start moving. 

Once inside, you welcomed the air conditioning. Arthur’s fingers found the open slot of your dress on your side. The comfort of the skin to skin contact was very appreciated. 

Thankfully, they had decided to put the top three at the same table. Since you and Max were on the same team, and Charles got along with the two of you quite well, they didn’t see a problem with you all sitting together. It definitely made the night less boring. 

When Max got up to say his acceptance speech, some tears rolled down your face. It was especially when he got to talking about you. 

The Dutchman smiled down at the table, or well, at you. 

“I don’t normally do this, but I also have to thank my teammate, Y/n. 

“When I heard that she was going to replace Sergio at the beginning of 2024, I was a bit hesitant. I am used to being in a comfortable spot in life, but the world decided to throw a 20-year-old at me and said ‘here you go, have fun’.” 

The crowd chuckled at his words, but you tried to laugh through the tears. Max continued.

“The first few races were great. I had to go find her after she borrowed a car, we played football on the Miami beach, and I got to really connect with drivers that I didn’t know I could be close to.” 

You saw a bigger smile grow on Charles’s face. You personally knew that the Ferrari driver was more than thankful for Max’s close friendship. It made the season go so much better than in 2022. 

“It was in Suzuka that I noticed that my teammate had become part of my family when I was so…scared to lose her. I know I wasn’t the only one that said I wouldn’t have continued to race if she had…” 

Max didn’t finish the sentence as he wiped his eyes. Arthur’s hand gripped yours a bit tightly at the reference to your DNF at Suzuka. 

The Champion inhaled before he spoke again. 

“But what matters is that she was able to finish the season with me in third place. We were able to take home the constructor’s championship with her fastest lap. 

“Y/n has meant so much more to me than a regular teammate. And I am thankful that we get to have more years of competitiveness together. I am 100 percent confident when I say that she will be a World Champion.

“Thank you.” 

Max walked off stage as the crowds roared at the completion of his speech. You were up next, so you stood from the table and walked over to meet him. He brought you into a big hug and didn’t let go for a bit. You felt him kiss the top of your head before he let you go. 

You shakily inhaled as you stood on the edge of the stage. 

“And now, please welcome the Rookie of the Year and third place winner of the Driver’s Championship, Y/n L/n!” 

Once you heard the clapping, you made your way to the middle of the stage. The man handed you two trophies that were a lot heavier than you thought. You awkwardly grinned as you stood still for pictures. 

One the man gave you the signal to start, you bent down slightly to put the trophies down. When you rose back up, you took a deep breath. You gave the crowd a smile before you started to speak. 

“First off, I’d like to thank everyone here today. It would be weird to be speaking to an empty room, so the audience is appreciated.” 

Laughter came from the crowd, which let you know that you were doing great. 

“Next, I’d like to thank my personal team. I wouldn’t be here without my physio, even if I continued to beg her to eat ice cream all the time. To my trainer, I don’t think I’d be able to even turn my steering wheel without him. And then to Vito, my manager. When I say that he is truly the only person who has stayed by myself through the years, it’s him. He didn’t have to stay, but he did. I’d be lost without him and probably driving an uber around cities to make money.” 

Your voice gave a little crack at the end, but a chuckle covered it up. You saw Vito smile at you and hold his thumb up. 

“Then there’s my found family. I’d like to thank the Leclercs for truly putting time and effort into my career. I can’t count the amount of times on my hand that Pascale sent me some extra food whenever she visited Arthur. I know she’s not here tonight, but she deserves all of my thanks. She truly treated me like her own, even if I wasn’t. She’s been the mother that I never got to have growing up.” 

“To Charlie, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to race and compete against my childhood hero. But here we are, with you looking at my backside throughout the season.” 

You heard a “hey!” from Charles that made the crowd laugh even louder. 

“But, we both know you came out on top despite some difficulties. Thank you for being so kind to me. And thank you for signing all three pairs of my Lightning McQueen Crocs.” 

Charles blew you a kiss which you pretended to catch. 

“Last and not least of my Leclerc entourage, Arthur. I cannot begin anywhere to ever tell you how thankful I was to be your teammate in Formula 2. You saw a frightened and anxiety-ridden girl, who thought that the 2023 season would be the end of her driving career. But, you took me to dinner after our first meeting, and in the process might have taken my heart as well. I’m glad that it only took me crashing my car in Japan for you to finally confess.” 

Once again, you choked a bit. But, you’re pretty sure that everyone in the room did as well. You sniffed as you wiped your eyes. 

“But I wouldn’t have it anyway.” 

At the table, there wasn’t a dry eye at all. Arthur was wiping at his eyes harshly in frustration. The tears would not stop falling. Even Max was crying and you hadn’t even said anything in his direction. The Dutchman knew that he would be a gonner the moment you said his name. 

“To the Red Bull team. Like I’ve said all night, there aren’t any words that could sum up my gratitude. I remember hearing the news that Max was signed at 17 and I only thought, gosh they had balls.” 

More laughter from the crowd. 

“Charles might be driving for Ferrari, but I have always wanted to drive for the energy drink team. Their famous saying, Red Bull gives you wings, has been entirely true for this season. You took a chance on me and gave me my wings to fly and soar. Thank you Christian for treating me like the dad I never had. I’m excited to be driving for you for many years.” 

You changed your card and looked down at the wobbly words due to tears. You looked up, and at that moment, you realized that your eye makeup must have been running. Oh well, who cares. 

“And finally, but maybe the most important person of all in this room, other than me of course.” 

Soft laughs could be heard despite the sobering moment to come. Everyone had been waiting to see what you would say about Max. 

“If there was an award for best teammate, I would give Max the trophy over and over again. I was so nervous to meet him. I didn’t want to be disrespectful, because you don’t just become a three-time world champion’s teammate without doing something right in life. But that happened to me. Almost immediately, I could tell that Max would be a good one.

“The night we met, he took me out to get ice cream and showed me pictures of his cats for hours. At Christmas, he knew that I didn’t have any family to spend it with and all but dragged me back to his home in Monaco. He made sure I knew that I was welcomed and loved. 

“Because that is what I admire about Max. Not his career, not his driving, and definitely not his cooking skills. I admire him for his ability to be kind and to love easy. I never had the best childhood, and Max knew nothing about it, but he treated me with such preciosity. He made me feel wanted for maybe the second time in my life. 

“My childhood was filled with moments of unwantedness. I was a female going against the best boys and men in the motorsport leagues. I was treated unfairly sometimes, but I was never treated like that with Max. 

“So, Maximillian, I can’t thank you enough for making a little girl’s dream come true. I might have won all of these awards tonight, but I only feel like a winner because I am walking away with a group that no family could beat. 

“So thank you from the bottom of my heart.” 

The amount of applause could not be contained in the room. Even the security guards outside the door could hear the cheers and claps coming from the different personnel in the room. It wasn’t long before everyone was standing for you as you walked down. 

However, Max seemed to stand the straightest in pride for you. If it wasn’t for the tear stains on his cheeks, you wouldn’t even know that he had been crying. There was a genuine smile on his face. His arms opened for a hug when you got to the table. You put yourself there as he wrapped his arms around you. Your head rested gently on his shoulder. You felt his lips touch your forehead.

Once the hug was over, you felt another person wrap their hands around. You knew who is was once his lips touched your own. You melted a bit before Arthur leaned back.

“I am so proud of you.”

“Thank you mon bebe.” 

A groan left his lips. 

“You know what it does when you speak my language.” 

A smirk grew on your lips. “Oh I know.” 

Arthur only rolled his eyes. 

“My rookie of the year.” 

Max’s hands landed on your shoulder and Arthur’s. To be honest, you forgot that the rest of the word even existed. Oops. 

“Not rookie anymore. Time for the sophomore year!” Max’s voice sounded above the crowd. 

You looked up at the Dutchman. 

“I’m going to win the championship this year.” 

“No you aren’t.” 

“You are both wrong. I will be the world champion.” 

“Sure Charles, sure.” 

y/n.89 has posted

y/n.89 wow, I didn't expect to be walking home with three trophies tonight 😚 all jokes aside, thank you to the FIA for naming me Rookie of the Year (even if I was the only one) and then for granting me the first ever Woman of the Year in Motorsports. I'm hoping that in the next few years, others will be able to be bestowed this award like I have been. Thank you everyone! See you in a few months for testing 💙 - rookie out

liked by arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, y/n.nation, and 6,204,957 others

y/n.nation if you look in the back of the fourth picture, you can see me drowning on my tears

arthur_leclerc I am totally fine being the trophy husband

y/n.89 awwww I'm glad that I can have you as the trophy husband

y/nxarthur HUSBAND?

maxverstappen1 HUSBAND??

charles_leclerc HUSBAND?????

y/n.89 I said what I said - haters gonna hate 🤭

box_box_express I cannot WAIT for preseason testing, why do I miss this already?

y/n&co I'm just waiting for the DTS episode, it's going to be so good

y/n4ever her speech tonight, I'm kind of worried for the episode...

lestappenlove oh gosh, Charles and Max looked like such proud older brothers (I don't think I've ever seen either of them cry before)

maxverstappen1 couldn't have done anything without you kid! even if you continue to call me Maximilian in front of thousands and thousands of people

y/n.89 I don't care - you'll always be my maximillian 😆

sophomore_y/n the trophies are so pretty 🥹

formula1_edits I can see all the videos and edits on tik tok forming now - maybe something Harry Styles 🤔

author everything is going to be all right - just like it always is

y/n.89 thank you for making this happen!

author anything for you kid...anything

charles_leclerc CAN I BE WORLD CHAMPION PLEASE?????

formulala_delulu WHY IS IT ENDING??? 😭

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[marvelobsessed134]

R bumping into Thor somewhere and immediately getting on her knees and sucking his big Asgardian cock like a good girl should

A loyal servant

THIS MAN IS GENUINELY SO BEAUTIFUL

Pairings: King!Thor x Servant!Fem!Reader

It’s been awhile since I’ve watched any of the Thor movies (I know 😔) so bear with me on how Asgard works and stuff k?

Warnings: oral (m receiving), power imbalance, size kink (obviously, this man is fucking huge), praise, light degradation, mentions of getting caught (but it doesn’t actually happen).

You were a servant for King Odinson, or while he preferred you to call him, Thor. The blonde liked hearing you say his name so that’s what you would call him. Anything to please your king That included sex, as well. You grown to be Thor’s favorite servant. Beautiful, dainty, and the only one that was willing to give him whatever he wanted. You’d trot around in dresses shorter than what women in Asgard usually wear because that was what he expected of you. And you loved it.

On the way to the palace library to make sure all the books were in the correct order, you bumped into your king. His long blonde hair was flowing down past his shoulders, he was in his casual-as casual as a king can get-wear, and had a hungry look in his eyes you knew all too well.

“Oh, Thor! What can I do for you?” You asked with a peppy smile as you looked up at him.

“Lady Y/n, I was just on my way to your quarters.” You knew what that meant, you knew what he was implying.

Your panties dampened at that. You were always so wet and ready for Thor, another reason why he favored you so much. You bit your bottom lip and your eyes traveled down to his very large bulge. “You need me to take care of that?” All he did was nod in a stoic expression and you sunk down to your knees, undoing his belt and pulling down his pants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. You guys were still in the middle of the hallway, and there was a pretty high chance you guys could get caught. And that turned you on even more.

The king felt the same way because he lifted your chin in his large, calloused hand and said, “Anyone can walk down here and see you on your knees for me. Do you like that, dove? I like it too. Like everyone to see you belong to the King Of Asgard.”

You nodded enthusiastically with a smile before wrapping your hand around his cock and giving it a few pumps before spitting on it and taking it in your mouth. You’ve never been able to fit his whole length in your mouth so you jerked off any part that couldn’t fit down your throat.

The god moaned, tangling his hand in your hair and thrusting his hips towards your mouth. “Fuck, such a good girl. Sucking my cock like a good little whore.” His words made you even more turned on and you were determined to give him his finish.

“Such a tiny little mouth, your pussy is even tinier. Don’t even know how I’m able to get half of me inside.” He groaned, tugging on your hair making your moan onto his cock, sending vibrations throughout his body.

You pulled off of him to give your throat a rest but he wasn’t having that. Thor forced you back down on his shaft, fucking your face into oblivion. It wander long before you felt him twitch in your mouth before he spilled his seed down your throat. His moan came out more like a roar as he released his cum.

He pulled you off of him and jerked your head up so you could look at him, “Go ahead to the library. I will award you later.”

You nodded and stood up, glad your knees weren’t on the hard marbled floor anymore and watched him tuck himself back inside his pants before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips and walking off like nothing happened.

[whumperstorm]

Supressing Fire - Part 3.5

Content: vampire whumper, defiant whumpee, mild violence, begging, crying

Two scenes from Keegan's captivity that aren't quite long enough their own chapters. Featuring Keegan trying to rebel however she can, and Kane earning his "Not As Much of a Jerk as You Could Have Been" Award.

Part 1/Previous/Next

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

One evening, as Kane feeds, Keegan's eyes wander over his shoulder. She just barely suppresses a gasp when she sees it. Her little art project, taped to her punching bag and crumpled from numerous bouts of abuse by Keegan's fists. It was an excellent improvement to her self care routine, in her opinion. After Kane's generous donation of fresh bruises after she “sighed disrespectfully" last week. But one that should not have been left out after use.

Keegan rips her gaze away from it and stares a hole into the floor instead. Maybe he won't see it?

Of course he sees it.

"What is that?" he demands, stalking toward it and ripping the paper off--a crude portrait of what looks to be him. Scribbled in crayons.

"Um-" She says dumbly. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"It's not supposed to fucking be in my house!" Kane tears the paper in two, crumpling it and tossing it to the floor. "I thought this punching bag was supposed to make you better behaved, not a sneaky, disobedient little brat. Maybe I should take it away after all, if it's doing you no good!"

The best way Keegan knows to get out of this mess is to apologize. To show respect and beg Kane for forgiveness so he doesn't get angrier. That is not what she does.

"Oh come on, It's just a drawing!" She huffs. "I've been good haven't I? This wouldn't have bothered you at all if you hadn't seen it!"

Kane storms over and backhands her across the face.

"I will not tolerate disrespect!" he screams. "This is not what being good looks like! You will learn your place!"

The strike hurts. Keegan's head snaps to the side and she lets out a shout of pain, but she doesn’t back down. "My God, grow a fucking spine!!" She spits, standing up to tower over him. "I've been your perfect little pet for months! Since I can't knock your lights out, I used what I got. At least this Kane was nicer to look at!"

Kane shoves her, sending her toppling to the ground, then lands a hard kick in her side.

"You've improved. I'd hardly call you perfect," he spits. "This is exactly the problem with you. Nothing works. You know what? Say goodbye to the punching bag. Clearly, this isn't working." He goes to take it down.

For some reason, that sends a jolt of panic through Keegan's chest. More so than the abuse. She fights to get air back into her lungs and reaches out towards Kane.

"W-wait!"

It's not really about the bag. She has other amenities. But they're all generic. The bag is the only thing that's hers. A piece of her personality to light up her dreadful little prison.

She can't bear the thought of losing what little she has.

Keegan pulls herself up to kneel respectfully. "Don't take it, I-I'm sorry." It may not be enough now. Not after her outburst.

It's fake. So obviously fake, how she only deigns to respect Kane when she has something to lose. It only fans the fire inside him further. He needs to break her foolish pride.

He glares down at her. "Beg."

Keegan glares a hole into the floor. She hates him. She hates him with every cell in her body. But punching bag or not, she can't back out now. Any more rebellion and she'll be black and blue for days.

She hangs her head, face burning in shame. "Please... sir. I'm sorry. Please give me another chance... No more disrespect, whether you're present or not."

"Hmph. I'll believe it when I see it. Watch it, human. I'm the one in control here."

And with that, Kane leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Keegan lets out a breath when he leaves. Never has she felt more helpless and tiny. She can’t even exist in peace without the threat of Kane’s interference. Everything is a fight in this place. A fight she's bound to lose each and every time.

But, well... she glances up. At least she still has the punching bag.

She groans, flopping miserably back down into bed.

------

Things continue as normal from there. Kane still needs to violently discipline his human on a regular basis, but the frequency has gone down a bit. He wonders if it's really the punching bag, or just a coincidence. The fact that it seems to be making her behave better is the only reason he doesn't go through with taking it away.

Many months pass and they fall into a routine. Some days are bad, with a defiant human he needs to correct, and some days are good, with the human coming out and playing chess or watching movies with him, countering his debilitating loneliness. 

One such good day, while they're watching a movie, the protagonist goes to celebrate his birthday. Kane usually skips this part, hating the sour reminder, but he doesn't want to raise questions from the human. He lets it play without comment.

In all honesty, Keegan hasn't thought about her birthday at all. She's had too much on her mind and no one around to remind her that it's coming up. But the movie scene has her realizing what month they're in. Her birthday is in three days. She’s hit with a wave of depressed bitterness. 

It was nowhere near her birthday when she was kidnapped, so it's yet another reminder of how long she's been here. Not only that, but she's turning twenty-one. That's a pretty big milestone and she gets to what, sit in an empty room and sing happy birthday to herself? She won't even get a hug from her sister. She knows her hunting guild enjoys throwing surprise parties. She wonders if they'd have planned one for her. 

Her thoughts spiral, and to her horror, she starts to cry. She hardly ever cries. She hates crying in front of others, and here she is sobbing in front of Kane of all people. She tries to hold it back, silent tears falling down her cheeks. She can't even excuse herself. She has to ask to do anything around here and he'll obviously notice her tears if she asks to leave. She sits there rigidly, until eventually a tiny, involuntary sob escapes.

Kane is so wrapped up in his own birthday-adjacent pity party that he doesn't notice the human crying until he hears her sob. He turns to her, caught off-guard. "What's wrong?" he asks. He hasn't been disciplining her, so he's not sure why she's upset.

Keegan is mortified. She hastily scrubs at her face to wipe away the tears, like that'll somehow make it less obvious. God he's actually asking what's wrong? Like he'd care about a human's birthday of all things. He'd probably get mad that she's even making a fuss about it. She can already hear his cruel comment. ‘You’re not a person. You’re food. You don’t have a birthday.’ 

"It’s- it’s fine." She dismisses. "Can I go back to my room?"

Kane turns off the movie. Something isn't right here. The human's never acted like this before.

"Tell me what's wrong and then you can go," he compromises. Maybe he's feeling soft because of the feelings thinking about his birthday dredged up, or maybe it's the disappointment at a nice night spent not on his lonesome being cut short. "You won't be in trouble."

Keegan puts her head in her hands for a moment, sighing. Even her own sadness doesn't belong to her. But, at least he said she won't be in trouble, and Kane has yet to lie to her. "It's not important. I just... realized my birthday is in three days." Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, mumbling by the end and looking away as fresh tears bubble up. "Can I go now?" She wants nothing more than to get away from this humiliating situation.

For the first time, Kane feels some sort of connection with his human, some sort of guilt for his actions. Here she is, unable to celebrate her birthday- because of him.

"You may go," he concedes, trying to process the unfamiliar emotions.

Keegan wastes no time, scurrying back to her room. She spends a while in the bathroom, calming down and washing her face. She doesn't even feel like using the punching bag, instead lying in bed wallowing in self pity the rest of the night. The conversation isn't brought back up in the following days, so Keegan hopes that's the end of it. The evening of her birthday however, she wakes up in an awful mood.

Kane, for the life of him, decides to do research. It's embarrassing, going to the library and asking for books on human celebrations, but he does it anyway. Most of what he finds is anthropological research on human religious practices, but he does eventually find something on birthdays. Human birthday celebrations seem to be similar to vampire ones in many ways, except for the cake. The cake is apparently a very big part of it, a large, sweet human food. Other than that, the customs of parties and presents are similar. 

On the night of Keegan's birthday, Kane comes in and feeds from her as normal. Just because it's her birthday doesn't mean he doesn't need to eat. But after that... "I have something for you. Come on out." He turns to exit the human quarters, gesturing for her to follow him out.

Keegan endures the bite. Same bullshit as always. When Kane invites her out, she follows, curiously. She'd rather stay holed up in her room today, but Kane doesn't usually get her things she hasn’t asked for.

Waiting on the mug table is a large, elaborate birthday cake, the kind that must have cost hundreds of dollars. Next to it is a medium-sized gift wrapped in shiny paper.

"Happy birthday," Kane says awkwardly.

Keegan stares in utter shock. "You- what?" She looks at Kane, then back at the table. Is he serious? It can't be a prank. She can tell from here that the cake is real. But this is a man who has stolen her life away, and her blood, and abused her countless times over the past months. And who's now celebrating her birthday?

"...Why?" She asks quietly.

Kane glances briefly at her, then realizes he's far too embarrassed of his own sincerity to make eye contact, and stares forward at the table instead. "It's your birthday. It deserves to be celebrated."

"oh..." Keegan is tearing up again, but controls it better this time. It feels like a piece of her humanity has returned. She might be nothing but food here, and constantly referred to as "human" instead of by name, but she's still deserving of a birthday? That's a better gift than anything that could be in that box. She still doesn't understand why he cares, he’s the one who put her in this situation after all, but it’s something.

“Thank you…” She steps hesitantly towards it, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when he doesn't stop her she kneels down next to the table. "Can I open it?" She asks, reaching for the gift.

"You're welcome. Go ahead," Kane encourages. This is weird. Vampires aren't supposed to celebrate their humans' birthdays. She's food. But... he can't deny her this. He just can't.

When Keegan opens the gift, she finds some very fancy hard cider inside.

"I wasn't sure... um. This was one thing I knew you liked that you didn't already have," Kane explains. "Just for your birthday. No refills."

She's not sure why, maybe the way he awkwardly explains himself, or how ridiculous the whole situation is, but it has Keegan bursting out into laughter.

She doesn't want Kane to think she's mocking him so she quickly sputters out, "This is great, thanks." She takes a breath to get control over herself then adds, "You gonna be able to survive my nasty alcohol blood?"

"I'll manage," Kane says, unoffended. In his eyes, she's only insulting herself.

The rest of the night is a peaceful one, spent doing whatever activities the human wants. Though Kane grimaces at the taste of her blood on occasion as she makes her way through the cider in the coming weeks, he makes no comment on it. It was her birthday gift.

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

Taglist: @whumpsday @not-a-space-alien @anomalys-taxonomy @what-if-i-just-did @dragonqueenslayer6 @jumpywhumpywriter @writereleaserepeat

[poetry-protest-pornography]

All of Ray's worst fears about himself are true if Sand took his dad's money.

If Sand took him on as a job instead of as a friend, then he really is a burden, he really is unloveable, he is Too Much.

I think he knows that Sand does love him, under all the hurt and the knee-jerk reaction of lashing out in pain, he knows. But he needs Sand to hurt a fraction of how he's hurting, because that twenty seconds of conversation between Sand and his dad was enough to confirm that Ray's only worth what someone can gain from him, not worth anything himself.

If the one person who has encouraged him to get sober for his own good instead of for their convenience, was only doing that so they could get paid, and if his dad was the one making it happen, then Ray has no one who really cares, and all the things he thinks about himself are true.

And he was just letting himself be happy, and be loved, and believe that he has enough worth to get sober.

Fucking Khaotung Thanawat. Give him all the awards.

And then Sand! Fucking breaks the wine jar and screams and mourns, and I want to die.

Because Sand knows all of this. He knows that for Ray, the idea that he was with him out of obligation or for a paycheck is everything he's terrified of. And he recognizes that he can't do anything in that moment to convince Ray that he's wrong. And because he was also just starting to let himself be in love and trust his relationship with Ray, he's also as broken by this as Ray is.

Also, I think the breaking the wine jar -- and that Ray brought that up, that he was aware that that was a potential problem, Sand profiting from alcohol while encouraging his boyfriend's sobriety, that dichotomy is an issue (and I do so hope that he also sees how his friends constantly and consistently refused to remove alcohol from their interactions and how that was also terrible and problematic) -- is so significant!

Sand does profit from alcohol, and I think it was clear that he hadn't seen that for the issue that it is until that moment, and the way that he looked at his wall of wine, and the agony he was in when he threw the jar show clearly that now that he sees it, he can't stand the idea of continuing to profit from the thing that causes so much pain for the man he loves. Sand is willing to cut alcohol from his life in this way, for Ray's sake, in a way no one else is Ray's life has. Not his friends, not his dad, no one else.

Sand is such a good man, and his heartbreak was so much quieter than Ray's, but it was so visceral and desperate and it broke any pieces of my heart that Khao left in tact into dust.

First Kanaphan, the talent that you have.

(I do not know how these two got through filming these scenes, they can't say nice things about each other without crying and needing to hug about it)

[bigtreefest]

Essie, saw that you reblogged this prompt post and was curious about how MountainRanger!Ari x Reader are doin', maybe considering prompt #3 or #4? or if we are to stir the pot real saucy and to the extreme -- prompt #7? 👀 (cause jealous ari kinda does something to me 🫣)

Mel! Oh, thank you so much for asking about Ari and Duchess, my beloved. I’d love to answer these for you.

#3 if they're happy? who will they want to share it with?

If Ari were happy, I think the first one he would go to tell is Duchess, he wants to share a life with her! I feel like it would be something that happens at work. Maybe he gets an award for his service. I would say that he’d call her right away, but the ranger station isn’t known for great reception on cell phones, just landlines and the radios. And he wouldn’t want to block the line with a personal call just in case. So as soon as he walks through the front door, he’s beaming at her, throws his bag down, and spills all about his day.

Duchess is pretty close with her mom, so I think that’s the first person she calls. And that’s on the drive on the way to the ranger station. As soon as she gets close and the connection starts to crackle, she’s ready to see Ari. No matter what the news, or who’s present, he’s picking her up and spinning her around, giving her kisses and telling her how proud he is.

Overall, I think the two of them just spend a lot of happy time together and with their friends, which I haven’t gotten into much. It’s smiles all around, really.

#4 if they're sad? will they go to anyone for comfort? if yes, who?

Ari has some hard days. It’s when the doubt seeps in again, no matter how much he knows he’s loved or how good his life is. Because the thing is, he’s afraid that could be taken away from him. Nothing in his life has ever been this good. There are some moments when he’s sad and heads to the bar in town. Sammy is there to listen, and to give a pep talk and some direction. That all really ends up leading him back to Duchess. Sometimes he’ll talk it out, sometimes it’s just silence. He doesn’t always want held, but he does want her presence, even if it’s just silence in opposite sides of the same room.

Duchess really likes to go for a drive when she’s sad. The cold mountain air feels nice on her face when she puts the windows down. She’ll take Ari along and he’ll hold her hand sometimes. And when they stop, she climbs between his legs and he just holds her close against his chest with his chin resting on her head. Again, there’s no need to talk, just silently comfort each other.

#7 if they're kissed by their ex?

Oooofffff. So here’s the thing, if Duchess is getting kissed by an ex, Ari isn’t blaming her at all because he knows she would never cross him like that. He’s pissed, though, at that guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the guy who he knows thrust himself on her. He’s pissed at himself for not being around to stop it. Say Ari was in the bathroom at his hometown bar and somehow Duchess got cornered, once he gets back and sees the sad and uncomfortable look on her face, he’s ready to fight. One punch and that jerk is down, end of story. Cops and other patrons aren’t gonna do anything because they know Ari was justified. Then, he’s leading her out by an arm around her shoulder and taking her home.

Duchess knows the same thing. If Ari’s ex is around, it’s because she came back to stir the pot and cause problems. She left him without a second thought, so why is she back? Who cares if she’s from around here? Doesn’t she have a new fiancé? Oh…it didn’t work out? Wonder why. I don’t think she’d go in for direct confrontation, unless she actively saw the ex lean up for a kiss, but she’s telling Sammy to get that lady out of here and never let her come back. I also think she’s taking Ari home, but it’s a little different. Duchess is going to remind him how good he has it just to drive the point home. We’re talking possible road head, and then riding him in some slightly possessive sex in their shared bed in her cabin.

Again, thank you so much for sending this. I’m trying to get back in the zone to finish up their main storyline!! They’re just so in love and need their happy ending! Fall weather should be good to give me the inspo for that.

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly

[highwaytothedangerzone502]

Foxtrot Alpha Alpha - Chapter 33

Pairing: Hangman x Female OC

Word Count: 1973

Warnings: Talk of suicide, swearing

Summary: Hangman learned his lesson a long time ago to never show his true feelings when someone's words or actions hurt him. To do so showed weakness that could be exploited, and Seresin men couldn't show weakness. Of course, there was an exception to every rule, and Jake's always came in the form of women, three in particular: his mom, Juliette Kazansky, and the girl whose name he could no longer bring himself to speak. She was the girl that got away; she was his biggest 'what if' and his biggest regret; she would forever be the ghost that haunted his dreams. Jake believed that's where she'd stay, for he would surely never see her again after what he did.

Or so he thought.

Notes: This is the sequel to India Lima Yankee; I'm using the same callsign for the Female OC as in Ghost Story because I just really like it, but they are different characters; chapters in italics are flashbacks.

Chapter Songs: Tequila Right Now

****

Hangman

A consistent pounding in his ears roused Hangman from his deep sleep. He tried to sit up, but that only worsened it. He swiftly pieced together that it was the blood in his head making the incessant noise, not someone knocking on the door. God, death would be less painful than this. How hadn't he died last night with all the alcohol he'd had? It's not like Hangman intended to drink that much, but he kept making friends at the bar who kept paying for his drinks until they could drink no longer and left. But he had stayed. Stayed until-

Fuck. Although barely memorable, faces belonging to Rooster, Juliette, and Ghost flickered in his mind, along with the drunken ramblings he'd tried so hard to keep to himself, to keep quiet, even if they ate him alive because no one deserved to know his pain, but not because of his lack in trust in them. In fact, three of the four people he trusted most with that pain had rescued him from the bar that night. No. They didn't deserve it because they all had pains and worries of their own, none of which needed the added burden of his own problems that were far darker than anyone should ever know.

Hangman forced his eyes open and, through his blurry vision, recognized the white coffee table with aviator magazines neatly spread out on the surface, the built-in bookshelves with a myriad of pictures, books, and awards dotting the shelves, the navy blue recliner with the curled-up figure of Ghost-

At the sight of her, Hangman rocketed upward. The movement caused his world to spin, and it took all of his willpower to not throw up again. He remembered that from last night, too. So much hurling before they'd lugged him to the couch...

When his world stabilized, he tried to stand, but Hangman had hardly taken two steps before ramming his shin into the coffee table. "Fuck!"

Ghost jerked awake, staring wildly and dazed at him. When she comprehended the situation before her, she jumped up to help him.

Push her away. You're only hurt her more. It doesn't matter how much it hurts. Push her away. "Leave me alone," Hangman snapped when Ghost tried to rest her hand on his shoulder. He stepped out of reach, ignoring the pain wracking his body, both from the hangover and the run-in with the coffee table. 

"Jake-"

"Don't," he hissed. "I'm fine." 

A lie given away by his stumbling, and Ghost knew it, but she listened to him. To his amazement, she listened, staying perfectly still, eyes staring at him with nothing but concern. Why? The last time they'd been in the same room together, she'd rightfully stormed out on him, giving him what had been a final goodbye. Why change her mind so suddenly?

Unless...

He vaguely remembered he'd told her some of his reasoning for not seeing her in the hospital after the crash, but how much else had he divulged to Ghost?

She held her hands up placatingly. "If you want to leave, that's fine, but let me help-"

"I don't need your help," Hangman snapped. "I-"

"What's going on?" Juliette's calm, concerned voice floated from behind him. Hangman turned slowly to avoid toppling over. On Princess's heels was Rooster, eyeing the situation warily. They landed on Hangman, who braced himself for a snarky comment, but none came. That scared Hangman.

"I was just leaving," Jake managed to say, hoping they could avoid any more awkwardness if he ignored the truths he surely divulged last night. "Thanks for letting me crash here, and sorry for dragging y'all out in the middle of the night."

"Don't mention it," Rooster replied evenly. "You want breakfast?"

Hangman shook his head. "I should be getting back to my place."

"Why don't I give you a ride?" Juliette offered, moving toward the garage.

"No." It came out more sharply than he intended, his tone a knife in the tense atmosphere, but he kept it that way. He had to if he had any hope of leaving unescorted. "I'll walk. Sober me up."

"Hell of a walk," Rooster commented, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the door frame. Hangman refused to dignify him with a response, only rolling his eyes and moving to the front door.

"You either let one of us take you, or we call someone, but you shouldn't walk alone," Ghost said kindly. "I know my motorcycle might-"

"I don't want you trying to help me because of some stupid, drunken shit I might've said last night. You made it perfectly clear how you feel about me after that fight, so why don't you call Wolfie up about that wine and chocolate he promised you?" The color drained from Ghost's face, and Hangman knew he'd hit his mark. She posted her videos anonymously, possibly only a handful of people knowing about the account. Having not told him about it, Hangman assumed it'd rattle Ghost for her to know he had knowledge about the account she sang her heart out for. But it still wasn't enough to stop her from coming after him if he left. He had to strike lower, harder. Had to rub salt in the wound. Hangman had to keep her away from him. "You want to know what brought that drinking binge on? It wasn't my father's death. It was you. It was 'Forever and Always' after our fight the other night. It was 'Mr. Perfectly Fine' when I was here for the training detachment when I started having a thing for Juliette. It was 'Haunted' on the anniversary of Ghoul's death. It was 'My Tears Richochet' after your lunch with Jackie. It was 'All Too Well' and 'The Story of Us' after running into each other at the Hard Deck the night of Juliette's promotion celebration. It was 'I Forgot That You Existed' after you slept with Rooster. It was every fucking cover song directed at me. It was hearing the anger and hurt in your voice and realizing you not only never moved on from what I did to you but that you thought I stopped caring about you, that I forgot about you altogether, when that couldn't have been further from the God damn truth. It was realizing how low of an opinion you had of me. That's what sent me over the edge. Because I learned how to stop giving a shit a long time ago about what people thought of me, but you mattered. You always have and always will."

"You were never supposed to see those," Ghost breathed, voice barely audible.

Hangman's heart shattered. He might've gone too far, but he'd had to. They weren't good together. No. He wasn't good for her. Hangman did nothing but drag her down, did nothing but hurt her. Ghost gave him chance after chance, and he blew them every single time. She was too good to stop trying to provide him more opportunities to fix what he had broken, so Hangman had to end it for her. Ghost would move on from him, and that's all that mattered to him, whether he found the strength to move on from her or not. 

"Yeah, well, I did." Hangman tore himself away from her and yanked the door open. Stepping into the bright sunshine, he called over his shoulder. "Leave me alone. That goes for all of you."

Slamming the door behind him, Jake strode onto the sidewalk with his head held high until the Bradshaw house could no longer see him. Only then did he sag against a stranger's white fence, letting the emotions and turmoil of what occurred just now and last night wash over him. Hangman had always been good at destroying things: flight records, enemy targets... now he could add 'relationships' to the list, too.

With an effort and lead feet, Hangman shuffled to his apartment, the long trek his personal punishment for treating his three friends the way he had. None of them had done anything wrong except see him at the second lowest point in his life, save Hangman from drinking himself into oblivion last night, and learn his deepest, darkest secrets.

It took him a good hour to walk the short trip to his apartment, but rather than heading to bed like his body screamed at him to do, Hangman forced himself to work out. Stripping off his shirt, he put on the boxing gloves and went to the punching bag, taking all his frustration and embarrassment out on the leather and sand, trying to punch away all his emotions. It'd take him until the end of his life to succeed with that endeavor.

"Dude, you've really got to start locking your doors," Coyote said. Hangman whirled around, wondering how long his friend had been there. As if sensing his question, Javy added, "I just got here, but judging by the sweat, you've been at it for a while."

Feigning casualness and masking the dark thoughts that might've been showing on his face, Hangman said, "I thought you would've been with your date still."

"No, we're taking it slow." Coyote looked him up and down. "You look like shit."

Hangman scoffed. If his friend only knew. "Nice to see you, too."

"Ghost texted me."

Shit. "About what?" Jake replied, dropping his gaze to his hands as he took off the boxing gloves.

"All she said is, and I quote: I fucked up. Hangman needs you. No other explanation, so I figured I should get here quickly."

Ghost's words were an exact echo of the ones Hangman had sent Juliette after their fight. God, why couldn't she stop caring about him? Why couldn't Ghost let his words ruin their relationship like he had wanted them to?

"What happened?" Javy prodded, moving aside when Jake stalked to the kitchen.

"I got drunk, said things I shouldn't have, and told her off."

"What exactly did you tell her?"

Hangman sighed, realizing his friend would only drop this once he told the truth. Again. So he did. Almost every nitty gritty detail, with the exception of the near-suicide jump into the ocean that Coyote had unknowingly saved him from. At the end of the story, Javy sat on the bar stool and sighed. "Wow, you really did tell everything. Even the letters?"

"No, not those." Miraculously, it had been the one secret he kept to himself. How that- over everything else revealed last night- ended up being the one piece he hadn't blurted out, Hangman couldn't figure out, but he wasn't complaining.

"Do you still have them?"

"No," Hangman lied, thinking of the stack of envelopes tucked away in a box on the top shelf of the coat closet, forgotten for most of the year except on the few days he found himself tempted to send them. "Even if I did, they wouldn't change anything."

"Why did you never give them to Ghost in the first place?"

Hangman shrugged, unwilling to admit he'd been too scared, too cowardly, to give the sheets of paper that contained every piece of his love to her, afraid she would read them and then wrench his heart right out of his chest out of pure spite for the pain he'd put her through. "Don't know. Didn't feel like it'd make a difference. I've never been good with words or actions anyway, so probably best I didn't give them to her. Most likely would've made it worse."

Coyote nodded but dropped the subject. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you, starting with telling you- and I mean this in the nicest way possible- you need a shower. You reek of alcohol."

And probably other shitty things. Hangman thought grimly. Nodding in agreement, he shuffled off to the bathroom.

****

Tags: @lgg5989 @shanimallina87 @polikszena @summ3rlotus @icemansgirl1999 @supernaturaldawning @thedarkinmansfield @lyannaforpresident @lapilark @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth @simpofthecentury @shadeops21 @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @double-j @bradshawsandbridgetons @catsandgeekyandnerd @peachiicherries @multifandomcnova @fandomsstolemylife00 @bookloverhorses @mak-32 @midnightmagpiemama @luckyladycreator2 @ellamae021 @kmc1989

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[gabessquishytum]

i love imagining hob and dream as actors cause if you squint and don’t think about it too much dream can still be famous for playing a character named The Sandman. but anyway the two of them worked together on some film, they became friends but nothing more even though they obviously have some kind of tension going on. there’s an event (premier, award show, something) that they have to go to together and hob finally corners dream in the bathroom. dream tells him he can’t, he’s married, he’s straight (wrong), but even though he’s giving hob 100 reasons why he shouldn’t hook up with him right then, hob still sinks to his knees and sucks dream off anyway. and dream lets him.

afterwards they’d continue to have an affair, and they’d try their best to get casted together in future projects to have an excuse to be around each other more often (especially since dream is in denial and needs a plausible excuse for all this). it’s only when they’re in a romance together and they’re “playing up the chemistry” for the press that calliope catches on and there’s a big messy divorce with tabloids and paparazzi

Omg yes. I love that Hob is the seductress here!!!

Hob is less well known than Dream, but he's got a good little fanbase all the same. He could have anyone in the world, more or less. But he doesn't want just anyone, he wants Dream. Dream who is famous and rich and a huge star. For a while, Hob thinks that Dream might resist him... but eventually he gives in. He might be "straight" but he sure does cum hard down Hob’s throat that night in the bathroom.

It's difficult with Dream being so famous, but Hob is determined to have his man. They sneak around and fuck like rabbits when they can, go on subtle dates which could be seen as just friends hanging out. When they go for coffee, Hob will secretly be rubbing Dream’s cock through his jeans or jerking him off in the bathroom. He totally gets off on it, the secrets and the sneaking around.

They finally get to kiss in public when they do a romance movie together... unfortunately people start catching on that it's definitely more than acting. Dream makes all kinds of denials to the press but it's not exactly convincing when a picture of Hob happens to drop out of his wallet...

5 years later, Hob gets to marry the man of his dreams. All because of a blowjob in a bathroom. It didn't do either of their careers any favours, but Dream is happy to retire out of the limelight and Hob is happy to live his life as the notorious "other woman" who got to have his cake and eat it too.

[tracingpatternswrites]

Oh my god, we're done!

I'm so excited but also so emotional to be sharing the final chapter of mine and @squintclover's fic Of Protein Powder and PTAs. When we started this we had absolutely no idea where it would end up but it's been such an amazing ride.

I want to thank @theresthesnitch for organising the @mixed-up-writer-fest and for giving me the best writing partner and a great prompt.

Also a massive thanks to everyone who has been following along as we've been posting, who have been so encouraging and gracious with their compliments and feedback. It really does mean everything.

Last but absolutely not least - @squintclover! Rory, Rory, Rory. I honestly could not have wished for a better partner, I've had so much fun writing this with you and I'm in awe of your talent, your humour, your imagination and you writing. I'm so happy this fic has allowed us to get to know each other and I'm happy and humbled to be able to call you a friend. You are awesome and amazing and I 💛 you!

Okay, I didn't mean this to come across as an Academy Award acceptance speech but here we are 🤣 let's get to the good stuff!

Read the whole fic from the start if you haven't already.

Read the final chapter here.

Have a little teaser below the cut:

Sirius’ heart was hammering so hard in his chest that he wondered if Remus could hear it, if he could feel each heavy thud the way that Sirius could. Remus’ fingers against his cheek were cool compared to Sirius’ own heated skin. He felt like his whole body was burning and even though he tried to remain in control, he knew there was a flush creeping up his neck.

He held Remus’ gaze for a moment longer, saw the way they were glittering gold from the soft glow of the lights in the kitchen. He let his lips curl upwards slightly before leaning into the touch, turning his face so that he could brush his lips lightly against the palm of Remus’ hand. He heard the slight intake of breath as he parted his lips, pressing the ghost of a kiss against Remus’ fingers.

He smiled as they flexed, a shuddering sort of sound coming from above him and even though Sirius had never heard Remus make that particular sound before he knew instantly he needed to hear it again and again and again. He turned to look at him properly again, his own lips quirking upwards slightly at the expression on Remus’ face.

He rose gracefully, purposefully pulling himself up into his full height, making full use of the couple of inches he had on the other man. He put two fingers underneath Remus’ chin, and this time it was his turn to tilt Remus’ head, to force his gaze up and he felt a trickle of heat sizzle down his spine at the look he found there. He tightened the hold he had on the hem of Remus’ shirt, pulling him close enough so that he could surge forward and claim Remus’ lips in a fierce kiss.

His heart did a happy little stutter in his chest as he finally got what he had been thinking about for such a long time, his eyes fluttering closed as he moved the fingers at Remus’ jaw to settle at the back of his head. He wound his fingers into the soft curls at his neck, using that hold to deepen the kiss further, and he eagerly swallowed the soft sighs coming from Remus.

He was suddenly very aware of how little he was wearing in comparison to Remus as want surged through him, the silk robe offering little resistance to hide the way his dick twitched with interest. He felt Remus’ hands settle at his hips, thumbing the soft fabric for a moment before he tightened his grip. He ground their hips together lightly and Sirius was unable to hold back the strangled moan that tore from his throat.

Sirius forced himself to pull away but it wasn’t easy, especially not when he heard the protesting half-sigh from Remus, the little jerk of his hips as he chased the friction. They were both breathing heavily and Sirius felt arousal and want and need thrum through his body. He felt like he was a teenager again, and he could barely remember the last time he had been so turned on by so little.

“That was better than I remembered it,” Sirius blurted without thinking, then he blushed as Remus let out a low laugh.

“Better than when we were kids? I’d bloody well hope so, I’d like to things I’ve polished my skills a bit since the age of twelve.”

Sirius snorted, but he didn’t bother to respond, instead he simply kissed him again, his hands curling against Remus’ sides. He hadn’t lied to Remus, the way his body responded to being close to him, the way he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, about doing this , since their almost-kiss before he had crashed and burned as he tried to ask for a date. He hadn’t understood why, and he had felt like a proper idiot when Remus turned him down, but speaking to Regulus and Dorcas had helped him understand things a little bit better.

To be perfectly honest, Sirius wasn’t used to being turned down. Granted, he hardly ever asked anyone out, but whenever he did he usually got a yes. He frankly couldn’t remember the last time he got turned down, whether it had been for a date or simply in a club wanting to pull. He couldn’t remember ever having felt as vulnerable as he had with Remus.

Now he could sort of see why Remus had done it though. He understood what had made him so worried, he knew how weird some people got around werewolves. He had known and met enough to have heard all the stories, and Jacob had told him a fair few himself back in the day. He knew that some people got off on the idea of shagging a werewolf, like a kink or a fetish.

It had been hurtful to realise that Remus might have thought that about him, but if the other man had been burnt enough times in the past it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make. He straightened back up, looking at the blush dusted across Remus’ cheeks, the slightly darker look in his eyes that sent shivers through Sirius’ body.

He wanted nothing more than to rip the clothes off him, to push Remus down on the table and have his wicked way with him right here in the kitchen. He swallowed thickly, lust surging through him again as Remus looked at him quietly, and he wondered if Remus was thinking the same thing.

“Merlin,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I want to– you have no idea what I want to do with you right now.”

Remus’ grin took on a slightly sharper edge that made Sirius’ belly flip as his fingers tightened on Sirius’ hips.

“If it’s something similar to what I’m thinking about, I can’t say I’ve got any objections.”

Sirius just barely resisted the urge to jump him, and it was only really the thought of Harry coming back early that stopped him from climbing on top of Remus and fucking him right then and there.

“We need to– I mean– fuck,” Sirius huffed, sending Remus a dark glare as the other man gave an amused snicker, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I just…that this is all I want. I mean,” he stopped, shaking his head to clear it slightly. “I mean, I don’t have any expectations or anything, and I don’t want you to think that I just want to fuck you.”

Sirius wanted to lick the flush that crept up Remus’ neck and he had to forcibly hold himself back.

“I don’t think that,” Remus said, then his grin took on a mischievous sort of tilt to it as he swept his gaze over Sirius’ body in a way that made his skin blaze. “Although I wouldn’t object if that was something that might be on the table…so to speak.”

Continue on AO3.

[helldustedstories]

@madefate asked: ❝ Just breathe, Moon Pie. Breathe. ❞ Bee demonstrates for Stolas with an exaggerated flourish, as one would an athlete on the ropes. Is that mischief in her eyes? Of course not. ❝ First of all, I still hold the award for best babysitter, so take note. And where's safer to have some fun than with me? Nothing's gonna happen to her. Sin's honor. ❞ Bee even goes so far as to make a pentagram over her heart. ❝ If the first party wasn't a rite of passage for any teen girl, I'd even invite you out, that's how safe it is. ❞

unprompted // always accepting!

Stolas hadn't been sure how to feel, when Beelzebub approached him about the idea of Octavia attending one of her parties. He'd wanted to go himself, when he was younger, when he'd still believed that the world could be fun, before he'd been so worn down by his own existence. Which was ultimately likely why he would agree, in the long run. He didn't want Octavia to have to deal with the same sense of crushing loneliness that he had, and with Bee looking out for her…, maybe she could make some more friends.

The prince takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, the way Bee had demonstrated just a moment ago. He knew his knee-jerk reaction was overprotective, wouldn't do anything good for Octavia in the long run; he just had to work through that initial feeling. It was just hard sometimes, coming to terms with how much she'd grown up, realizing that she was almost the same age that he had been when she'd hatched. He knew he needed to give her more freedom, needed to let her experience things for herself, that he would be there if she needed him…, but the idea of her getting hurt terrifies him.

Which is why it is a good idea to let her attend her first party with Bee. She'll look out for her, keep her safe. And hopefully Octavia will be able to have some fun. Satan knows she didn't get enough of that right now, which he knows is his fault.

He offers Bee soft little smile, and a nod. "As long as you're looking out for her…., I know she'll be okay," he finally responds. "But if anything happens, I will be there immediately," Stolas adds, squaring his shoulders. She was one of the Sins; she could get hold of him if she needed to, and there was nothing that would keep him from Octavia if she needed him.

[vvatchword]

Reading BioShock: Rapture (Part 4: Going Down)

<- Part 3: The Prologue's Prologue || Back to the Beginning || Part 5: Three Old Men Jerking Their Milk Sticks ->

This section covers the end of the prologue and part of Chapter 1, the introduction of Bill McDonagh.

I created a tag called “vv reading��� if you want to block it. I had a nightmare of cluttering up the BioShock tag with nitpicky grouchy bullshit. Let’s not pull a BioShock: Infinite hatewank, right? If you like this book, blessings upon thee—but begone. I don’t want to rain on your parade.

I think I’ve gotten past the foundational part, so hopefully only like… five more of these. (Note from Future Me: you stupid asshole.) Again, I’m not doing this solely to be an ass, I’m doing this for my own personal research, and the only way I can get through it is by complaining. I’m also doing this because I have a friend who hates this book as much as I do and wants to see me rip its spine out through its throat.

For I hate BioShock: Rapture. I hate it so much. Every time I think it’s about to settle into a comfortable rhythm, it flips over and does something no one but an alien from another planet would think to do.

That said, it’s not boring-bad, it’s just insulting. Sometimes it grows so uniquely fucked that I find it fascinating—in the same way you’d find roadkill fascinating. What was it supposed to be? What did it do? How did it get here? Where was this part supposed to go? Everything is just so wrong. Let’s poke it with a stick.

How was author John Shirley giving confident interview after confident interview with people who loved his work? I mean, with interviewers who called him a Renaissance Man? Who are these people? How much and what do they actually read?

I’m telling you what: I am clearly not half as confident as I need to be. I could write circles around this man. I have written roughly 22 novels that looked very like this one, and I kicked each and every one of them into an endless pit. Maybe I should have been beating down publisher doors with that shit. Here, take my deranged Twilight rewrite. The plot is broken, the protag pisses herself, and a werewolf gets eaten alive. I described fucking a vampire as riding an ice pop. Maybe I could have won a fucking Bram Stoker Award.

I am no longer rolling eggs. I am lobbing them. Inshallah they are hard-boiled.

Prologue’s End

To sum up the rest of the prologue: Andrew Ryan thinks about how cool it would be to build Rapture and then flashbacks to his childhood during/after the Russian Civil War.

That’s right: 1945 Andrew Ryan has already thought of Rapture. He knows exactly what he wants to do. The blueprints are literally on his desk with the photos of nuclear holocaust. This is stated in the Prologue and it’s over in a handful of pages.

Can anyone say “anticlimactic”?

I wanted to hear about how he got the idea. The idea of building an entire city underneath the ocean is weird, okay? I want to know how Ryan decided on a city of likeminded individuals instead of fucking off to an island by himself. I want to see who he mingles with and how they impact him, I want to see what he interprets as a friendship, and I want to peer in on his enemies.

All we’ve seen are the signs of what hurts Ryan, and we can’t confirm whether or not his fears are warranted.

What exactly inspired Ryan to take this dramatic act of self-harm? For it is self-harm: it is the destruction of all he has ever worked for. He is a canonical cheapskate, and it’s for very good psychological reasons.

What makes a PTSD-ravaged cheapskate spend? What makes a libertarian offer his labor and dreams up for other people to touch? It’s got to be insane and dramatic. And, my siblings in hell, if I’m about anything, it’s drama.

Instead, we start in media res. And it’s the worst kind: it’s a summary of all the things we should have read about, but didn’t.

Here’s a list of undisclosed events that produced Rapture according to the prologue alone:

Andrew Ryan’s philosophy and how it evolved over time

The birth of Rapture’s concept

Choosing Rapture’s name

Why build Rapture under the ocean?

Why a city?

Why invite other people?

Meeting the architects of Wales & Wales

Choosing Wales & Wales

Trusting Wales & Wales to draft the blueprints, and all the creative, financial, and logistical decisions that entails

Government bad (specifically, how it is bad). Experience with the Soviets is not enough—Ryan spent a long time in the United States. How was he failed by the USA specifically? “Taxes bad” are also not enough. I mean very specifically. I mean the events and major players, not “vaguely referenced Titans lurking somewhere on another plane of existence.”

Society bad (and how it is bad). Specific events. Specific people. Specifically.

Each of these questions should be answered explicitly. Many of them require more than one chapter. Some of them require the entire book. Show your answers. Through writing. Through chapters. Chapters and chapters and chapters and chapters and

Manprose

The flashback to Babby Ryan is fine. The prose is awkward—its flow is shitty, almost emotionless, and lurches from sentence to sentence like a Frankenstein—but on the whole: fine. There are some nice images in here of people waiting for a train and a great image of the train itself.

His father’s breath steams in the air… the train steams as it approaches, a big dark shape hulking toward them through the grayness, a single lantern above the cow-catcher projecting a rain-scratched cone into the mist.

This is pretty great! It draws a comparison between father and train and it is a distinct picture of a place and time—you can feel and see this scene perfectly.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t continue. It’s a little island of relief in a sea of clunky manprose.

“Manprose” is a word I use for literature written by men—usually Silent Generation and Boomers. It is typified by dry, almost journalistic phrasing—spare, clean, only as many words as you need and no more. Geometric and literal similes, metaphors, and adjectives are used, and only as necessary—no flowery prose or flights of fancy or appeals to an ideal. Emotional vulnerability and interpersonal intimacy are subdued or completely absent. Emotional excess is often a signal that a character is untrustworthy, weak, gay, a child, or a woman. Lauded qualities are stoicism, silence, sacrifice, suffering, physical strength, traditional values, and technical capability.

Themes revolve around war and/or struggling against nature, societal ills, broken systems (often new ones), and “untamed” alien cultures. Most characters are men—specifically white, heterosexual, cissexual men; almost none are women (or otherwise). This contrast grows especially obvious when crowds and strangers are discussed—because all bit characters tend to be the author’s idea of The Standard Man in different costumes. When women are written, they are usually by stereotype and for utility’s sake, often as tools of the plot or objects of romantic or sexual desire. Male characters will have every role under the sun; female characters will fall into a strict hierarchy of acceptable female pastimes and traits. Women are sometimes so sidelined that there might be accidental homoerotic undertones.

Yeah, being a woman in manprose is generally not great. Femininity is there to be derided and fucked. If you’re fuckable and pretty, you’re a grade-A woman. On the other end of the spectrum, wives often don’t understand their husbands—often to such a point that you’re not even sure why the characters are in a relationship to begin with.

I haven’t mentioned the nonbinary part of the spectrum because that shit never comes up. I can only think of one example, and it’s for symbolism’s sake (A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay, 1920). The gender binary was overwhelmingly the only way that Western culture saw anything for hundreds of years. Thus, for the purposes of this essay, I’m going to talk about women in an outdated, limited sense, because that’s the way manprose refers to them.

I’d call the works of Ernest Hemingway, Orson Scott Card, Isaac Asimov, Philip K. Dick, Ray Bradbury, and Frank Herbert “manprose.” Ayn Rand writes something close to manprose. (Her women are too equal to men to qualify.) I don’t count HP Lovecraft because he talks too damn much. He’s too invested and passionate and obvious about what impassions him. That said, a lot of Lovecraft’s friends write manprose.

My theory is this: men from the Silent and Boomer generations—and men from similar backgrounds, usually conservative and poverty-stricken ones—were often punished for exhibiting emotion at young ages. “Boys don’t cry” was used even during my childhood (the 80s and 90s). Men from these cultures mock each other for showing feelings or preferences with too much vivacity. Friendships with other men appear careful and surface-level from a female perspective, while relationships with women (usually in maternal or romantic roles) often take care of their emotional needs. These men might have entirely different “gendered” worlds—those of their wives and those of their male cohorts.

Such men often strike me as myopic and socially stunted, for something about their upbringing has made them incapable of empathizing with other people’s needs and wants—perhaps because being emotionally vulnerable means revealing oneself, and in a masculine social setting, any vulnerability is an invitation to attack. In other words, what you don’t practice, you don’t understand.

The fear of “cringe” is male-coded to me for this reason. Don’t show what you love, whatever you do. Don’t show what you feel, or someone will use it against you. Become a white wall, for to give someone what you love is to give them a weapon. Toxic masculinity is a power-play dynamic that nobody signed up for. It’s a product of traumatized societies and traumatized people. It’s the product of children under attack by those they love and trust.

This particular behavior is not as prevalent anymore—thank god, we are finally allowing men to safely experience their feelings, and I think that men are becoming more cognizant of how being all clammed up and hypervigilant isn’t psychologically healthy.

Look here, friend. If someone’s making fun of you for enjoying your life, you kick that motherfucker to the curb. Literally fight them if you have to. I don’t care if you like Thomas the Fucking Tank Engine at the age of 58 or write the world’s most unhinged fanfiction about My Little Pony. Protect your goddamn happy place. It’s the place that keeps you sane, and in the end, when you are alone, can be the difference between life and death.

All of this considered, manprose is not always a bad thing. Like any style, it can work quite well, and it’s an interesting view into the writer’s psyche and culture. Its treatment of women is not always great, but it’s also not always bad. The fairest thing you can say is that it’s a gradient.

TL;DR

Shirley reads like manprose to me. There’s not much emotion. Descriptions are usually spare. Most of his scenes are just images and don’t have a lot of emotional oomph—they’re moving images outside of static human beings, and when human beings exhibit emotion, it tends to be matter-of-fact. Most characters are stereotypes of the flattest and most embarrassing sort. Female background characters are rare and the three speaking parts I’ve seen (up to Chapter 3) occupy stereotypical roles and behave stereotypically. They fell into the Wife/Mother and Whore dichotomy, which is typical of manprose.

I’m a little nervous about what I’m about to see, but it’s early yet, and two of the characters were small ones. Most of the bit characters we see—such as sailors—would have been solely male at this time.

At this point, I’m holding my breath, because this story could go any kind of way.

I’m Just a Poor Boy (1918-1923)

Oddly, there is no year or place given for this flashback sequence.

Oh why am I saying “oddly” we all know why

I can’t give you much in the way of historical perspective. It’s been a minute since I’ve read about the Russian Civil War. All I can tell you for sure is this:

The Bolshevik Revolution was a huge fucking mess. The entire Russian Civil War was a huge fucking mess. Any attempt of mine to condense it into a paragraph would be criminal. However, I think it’s pretty safe to say that this section would occur anywhere from 1918-1923. I’d have to do some extra research about the revolution and Minsk to be very sure, because the Reds took power in a chaotic, fragmentary way.

Coincidentally, if you want to see a first-hand experience of the years following the Russian Civil War, read Ayn Rand’s We the Living. It’s a dramatized version of her experience and it is fascinating. You don’t have to be terribly wary; Rand became a worse writer as she aged, and We the Living is her best offering. It’s from before she stuck her whole head up her ass.

A little off-topic, but I hate how Shirley’s Ryan calls the Bolsheviks “Bolshies.” Andrew Ryan is proper as hell. He calls them “Bolsheviks” and every time he does he rolls the word out with so much tangible hatred that a bird explodes.

In any case.

Young Andrew Ryan, his father, and his aunt and uncle are running from the Reds. The aunt and uncle beg for help. Ryan and his father only have enough to save themselves. In the end, Ryan and his father board the train to safety while soldiers kill the aunt and uncle just outside. It's a reminder that you don’t have to outrun the bear if you shove your friend down first.

Since I smelled manprose, I paid special attention to any mention of women. Ryan’s aunt is painted as pathetic—her standout trait is that she flails around like Kermit the frog—but she has more color than her husband, who just kind of exists. I’m pretty sure this was an accident—the side effect of paying attention to the woman’s emotional state while ignoring the man’s. The only other female character is a bit part in the background—a woman trying to lift someone’s spirits. All male characters are typified by their work (a man selling tea, for example).

This is also where I realized Shirley was trying to write prose that is reflective of its POV characters. Andrew Ryan is a child, so Shirley doesn’t use large words and the prose is simplistic. This is fine. At least Shirley tried. I suspect this sequence was written first. I can’t tell you why. Maybe because I felt something.

I became more aware of Shirley’s style as I went, noting his constant ugly run-ons and hatred of commas. Run-ons aren’t always wrong. Many competent writers use them for various reasons, often for stylistic flair. But that’s not what’s going on here. There’s no art or rhythm. These are just lists.

I suspect that Shirley writes like me (she said through gritted teeth). I have this quirk where I will write an entire paragraph without verbs or subjects because I’m so busy describing something. Unfortunately, this usually doesn’t work long-term; the end result is awkward and ugly and excessive, and the flow and rhythm is all wonky, and I’ve lost the point somewhere in the second prepositional phrase. I always have to come back and fix it.

He never went back to fix it.

This is because he won the Bram Stoker Award. Once you win the Bram Stoker Award you become perfect. That’s why everyone longs for one of their own. That’s why there are legends of the travails of writers struggling to be seen by its legendary panel.

Is that award even still a thing or

Chapter 1

There’s a quote shared right before Chapter 1.

The parasite hates three things: free markets, free will, and free men. —Andrew Ryan

This is very nice, but… why is this here? Isn’t writing Andrew Ryan your job now? Why not work this into the prose somehow?

Back in 2011, every time I tried to get into this story, the quotes would knock me out of it because I would remember how powerful Andrew Ryan was in-game. Then the prose would kick in and I would suffer a violent physical rejection, like: “’Tis not HE. This be but crude conjecture!” (Because I’m a time traveler. from hell)

On the first page of the prologue, the year is explicitly given. Context clues make it unequivocally clear the prologue occurs in 1945. Unless Western history is utterly alien to you, you have an idea of when the USA flattened Nagasaki and Hiroshima. (This is when I sullenly recall that this was probably written for the lowest-common denominator, aka people who failed their history classes.)

And this is what Shirley does on Chapter 1.

Almost a year later…

Like it’s a TV show and there’s a title card.

I hate everything about this. This is a book! It is literature! The time could be worked into the narrative itself. Even if you didn’t, the year is literally already up there! Under the setting! Do you think I cannot add, sir? Do you think my memory is garbage? Well you’re right but it’s not THAT bad.

The black ballpoint pen is me from 2011. No, I don’t remember why I drew a >:3. Yes, that's part of why the page is embarrassing. The “p11” refers to the first page of the prologue. (Chapter 1 is on page 25.) For reference, I have the first-edition paperback. (Wait. Are there more printings than this? Tell me they didn’t print this more than once.)

The number in the margin is where I started numbering the shoehorned British slang. I would call it “cockney” but I have absolutely no faith in Shirley’s capabilities. I choose to believe this opinion by UK reviewer Joe Martin, who noted: “Bill McDonagh, Ryan's lead engineer and the sympathetic underdog of the novel, has so many unbelievable English archaisms shoved into his mouth that he ends up looking like a parody of himself.”

And why stop there? Almost every single character speaks like this. Dialogue has been funneled through stereotypes and dim memories of film noirs. Nobody feels real. Nothing feels grounded.

I think if there’s anything a writer should take from reading BioShock: Rapture, it’s to go find videos of someone speaking a regional dialect and note, when written out, how much English just… sounds exactly as you expect it to. Regional affectations are far more subtle than a bunch of oddball words. There are mannerisms, colloquialisms, unique phrasings, social and cultural expectations, and word meanings and pronunciations that are only slightly different. In addition to this, there are differences between individuals, and everyone speaks English differently depending on who they’re talking to.

Long story short, I’d expect for McDonagh to speak to Andrew Ryan cleanly. He might insert more particles and fewer contractions. It might be easy to miss that he’s a low-class Brit from text alone.

Of course, you can go too far in the other direction and create a different kind of inaccuracy. In UK author David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks, there is a section set during the second Iraq War with an Oklahoman Marine as an antagonist. The words Mitchell put in that kid’s mouth were unbelievable—not only because they were so proper and intelligent, but because he got the culture completely wrong.

You can’t win is what I’m saying.

Should you not try? Well… also no. Nobody will like you either way but they’ll like you less if you just didn’t give a fuck. Just try. At least you might make someone laugh, and that’s pretty special, too. Now they feel better about themselves at your expense. That’s something. You don’t know about it so nobody’s hurt on the whole. Entertainment’s only sin is being a boring son of a bitch.

RIP My Brain

We begin Chapter 1 from the perspective of Bill McDonagh, who is heading up an elevator to the ritzy Manhattan apartment of one Andrew Ryan.

Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms—but he felt like he was sinking under the sea.

.

.

.

?

?

???????????????????????????

This is as much a non-sequitur as it looks. This is the first sentence. There is no description before or after it to suggest how going up in an elevator feels like going down in an elevator… into the sea…?

This is where my brain locked up and I had to leave for an entire week because I don’t have the capacity to understand a) how this got past any kind of editing process, b) why Shirley wrote it this way, and c) what this is attempting to communicate. I came back to the book twice and both times was hit by this deep revulsion that said: Go. Go and touch grass. Swear at that live oak. Outside in the sunlight. Swear at god and feel pain while aphids jizz all over your car.

I mean. I get that Shirley wanted symbolism and foreshadowing. By meeting Andrew Ryan you sink under the weight of the ocean, sure. Problem being, nothing in the prose suggests the sea. Other problem being, that direction shit is giving me an aneurysm.

Are we going to talk about how symbolism works now. Am I really going to try and

We Are Going to Talk about How Symbolism Works Now

Symbolism in English literature is a huge subject and I am not that well-versed in it. Like tension, this is not something I have often put words to. Lord knows there is an entire world of literary criticism out there I have neglected by simply running into books face-first while screaming. In other words, we can think of this as a mutual learning experience.

Here goes. Pour one out for me. In my eye. In my fucking face

A symbol stands for something else. That’s it.

This is vague out of necessity: almost anything in-story can be a symbol, and a symbol can represent anything you want. A symbol can be a word, a phrase, a chapter, a character, an item, a setting, a plot point—yes, an entire event! You name it, it can be turned into shorthand for something else. Usually that “something else” is a larger theme or an invisible quality.

You can, in effect, tell multiple stories simultaneously, one layered on top of the other.

BioShock does this very successfully. On top of the story of a sleeper agent being used as an assassin is the spiritual gnostic journey of ascension. This spiritual journey is simultaneously one for Jack Wynand and for the player. The physical world of Rapture represents Andrew Ryan’s body, Objectivism, the Earth as a whole, and the physical realm (as juxtaposed against a spiritual or unattainable ideal). On top of the spiritual gnostic journey is meta commentary on how FPS’ narratives are limited by their natures: all you can do is kill, and all you have control over is how you kill. The game’s infrastructure and narrative is unalterable by the player.

Additional elements symbolize BioShock’s larger theme: how trauma causes toxic feedback loops. The Little Sisters and Jack symbolize the traumatized-of-the-future, while Dr. Yi Suchong and Dr. Brigid Tenenbaum symbolize the traumatized-of-the-past. The message—the theme of BioShock as a whole—is that trauma does not necessarily make you a better person. Sometimes trauma just hurts you. Worst of all, trauma can turn you into a monster. All of these characters have been severed from their pasts, their families, and their cultures, and because they cannot remember, they are destined to visit their agonies on future generations. In Jack’s case, he’s already started.

Let’s try something a little simpler, because that’s pretty heavy, and BioShock becomes a maze of alternate meanings so fast and so intricately that it can be mind-boggling.

A common symbol for “truth” is “light”—the “Eureka” moment, if you will. So a character might step into the sun, or light a fire, or switch on a lamp, but they aren’t just experiencing light—they are also comprehending the truth. Plato’s allegory of the cave uses this symbol: individuals stuck in the cave do not understand the true nature of reality, while someone who has stepped into the sun can. All of this said, not every element in a story is a symbol. Half of the art of reading symbolism is knowing what is and isn’t symbolic. This involves looking for commonalities and patterns and is too large a subject to discuss here. (Authorial intent not required. That’s right: symbolism can be accidental. Enjoy.)

Symbolism in BioShock: Rapture

So far, there have been a handful of awkward, artless attempts at foreshadowing through symbolism. One is from the prologue. Here, Andrew Ryan throws the photos of nuclear destruction across his desk:

The city lights were caught on [the photos’] glossy surface, as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself destroyed Hiroshima.

This one is awkward, but at least it makes sense. It’s also literal—Shirley tells you exactly what he means.

Of course, there’s an artistic reading here that is also pretty cool: the New York skyline is evocative of Rapture’s. Rapture’s fate is told in Hiroshima’s ruins; even in its fetal state, Rapture has already failed, and will perish because it is built on faulty logic; Rapture exists in an eternal state, both built and decayed; the seeds that will cause World War III are already planted in Andrew Ryan, and he will take them down himself.

Builder and Built. Destroyer and Destroyed. A circle’s points meet.

I have no idea how much Shirley may have meant, but I suspect it’s a happy little accident.

This one didn’t get my hackles up. This one made sense. It’s graceless and obvious, but it belongs here. First, there’s the close association between Rapture and the city of New York. They look similar; they’re built on similar foundations; they’re extremely American, with all of the flaws America has, and were born from similar urges. New York was a famous harbor for immigrants, as Rapture itself will be.

Similarly, there is blood on both their hands—some the natural outcomes of human society (all societies sacrifice someone), some from their rapacious roots, some because capitalism.

Secondly, New York is one of the most important cities in the United States, if not the world. It’s more an economic and cultural powerhouse than a military one, but there’s a certain delectable edge in using an economic and cultural setting here. It is largely for economic and cultural reasons that Rapture is founded. It is for economic and cultural reasons that it descends into anarchy.

With all of this in mind, let’s revisit that fucking sentence that I wish I could shoot 300 times with a gun. For context, I will include the sentence that follows it. It’s the first sentence of the chapter, so nothing precedes it.

Vivisecting a Shitty Simile

Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms—but he felt like he was sinking under the sea. He was toting a box of pipe fittings in one hand, tool kit in the other.

First of all, what’s the purpose of this simile?

There are several possibilities. The first is foreshadowing Bill McDonagh’s entrance into Rapture.

The second is the foreshadowing of an unstoppable tragedy: Bill McDonagh falls into Andrew Ryan’s sway and, in effect, his grave.

The third is to conflate Andrew Ryan and Rapture—Rapture as an extension of Andrew Ryan’s body.

Finally, there’s a larger concept at play. I told you that Rapture lingers in an eternal state. I am not just saying that because it’s artsy (although it is). I’m telling you that because it’s based on a spiritual and philosophical premise—that the physical world exists alongside the spiritual one, and that the physical world is an imperfect copy of that spiritual ideal. According to the narrative, Rapture was born broken because it was fabricated from half-truths. It could never attain perfection; it fell for the lies of the worm. Now it exists in a state of undeath, as it were—a punishment for attempting a physical perfection instead of a spiritual one.

So it’s obvious from context clues what Shirley meant to say. Unfortunately, it fails completely.

There are two senseless parts here.

What about any of this makes you think of the sea?

What about going up made McDonagh feel like he was going down?

We Saw No Sea

Symbols need to be set up. You can’t just trust that readers will make the connection. There are multiple ways to do this.

You might imply qualities that the deep ocean specifically possesses: depth, darkness, sea creatures, water, pressure, coldness, extremes. You might display the sea’s qualities literally in some way—perhaps the elevator opens up and there’s a grille with fish on it or the walls are aquariums or there are dark windows that don’t look out onto anything. You might use words and figurative speech that invoke the ocean, such as “dive” or “drown.” For example, Ryan’s cold mien or the pressure of working for one of the most powerful people in the country.

Whatever you do, you should include several elements of the deep sea to drive home what you’re trying to invoke. There are ways to do this subtly—perhaps stretch them throughout a chapter or scene, or imply similarities through whole sentences or paragraphs as opposed to singular words—but if you want to make it stand out, you can be artless as balls. Who’s going to stop you?

Shirley follows that sentence with a description of McDonagh’s tools. So the answer to that question is “yourself.”

A Is Not B

Ask any schoolchild what the opposite of “up” is. They will say “Down!” So how did a sentence that says “going up is like going down” pop into existence?

I suspect that Shirley is referring to a peculiar sensation where you lose sense of which direction your elevator car is moving. However, you can’t trust that the reader understands that right away—this is far from a universal experience. For this concept to work, it has to be explicitly described.

I also don’t know if that’s what Shirley meant. Maybe he thought he was being artsy—that he was inverting the meanings so that right-side up is wrong-side down, or that McDonagh was passing into some kind of unreality (BioShock qualifies as magical realism). If so, Shirley didn’t set up for this meaning. This sentence is flat, technical, describes a physical action being taken in a physical world, and does not imply that “up” and “down” mean anything other than “up” and “down.”

Moreover, as this is a simile, it doesn’t imply an exact or specific experience. It implies a similar experience. It literally implies that “up” is similar to “down.” In what way? That both imply movement?

I assure you that nobody in the whole world has read this sentence with this kind of depth because they are sane and have meaningful things to do with their lives, and the fact I am attempting to make sense of it at all is to imply that I accept this work in good faith (I do not).

Which leads to the following paragraph that I actually typed with my own two hands:

How the actual hell is going up like going down? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but “up” and “down” are not relative except in space and bizarro-land.

The real question is: How did this happen? How did anyone think this was okay? Did John Shirley fight for this stupid line? Does this imply that there wasn’t an editor? I’ve noticed a ton of typos—mostly incorrect capitalization—and I’m only in Chapter 4. Take a little pride in your work, jesus christ.

The only major theme I’ve noticed in this whole stupid story is traits canceling each other out and the strangulation of any kind of meaningful tension at every possible moment. So this nonsense sentence is fitting and follows a pattern, but it’s also the kind of pattern that makes me go insane. This is like… non-Euclidean geometry. Non-Euclidean English? Oh god. Just typing that phrase made me 20 times dumber than I already am.

This book represents an eternal and unchanging present where things just exist and nothing means anything and everything simultaneously. I hate it and I am fascinated to an equal extent. This book was born in the deepest voids of extrastellar space to amuse Azathoth.

Shut Up Shut Up

I don’t care about that sentence anymore. Let’s move on.

They had looked at him with only the faintest interest when he’d walked into the Feeben, Leiber, and Quiffe Engineering Firm.

Oh. Oh I’m not laughing at that.

It’s funny how sometimes I see a nasty joke and I’m like huhu, u guys and me will get along great, but in this case the chapter started with “Almost a year later…” and a sentence that is so bad that I inaugurated a folder in my Writing Chest called “Worst Writing.”

See

My friend Salty, who also hates this book, told me that this kind of writing is typical, so I decided to turn it into a text file of its very own. This is where I will go for schadenfreude.

Bill heard them say it, through the door, after they’d dismissed him. “Another limey grease monkey…”

“Limey” is ancient-ass British slang for “Englishman.” Just one problem: the people who said it are explicitly New Yorkers and turned McDonagh down for an engineering job because of his accent. So is the speaker a judgmental American using slang from another continent (nani?), a British person being classist (while committing the same verbal sins lol), or McDonagh casually recounting the memory to the reader with a personal twist, the way he might to strangers at a bar?

All of these are wrong. I’m not sure I have the energy to tackle them.

Just kidding! Snobby indignation gives me superpowers!

The first two choices’ failures are self-explanatory. That last one is probably what Shirley intended. Remember, he’s writing prose that sounds like what his characters would say. He probably thinks putting quotation marks around the sentence implies that it is said and thus an opinion. This is correct. What is incorrect is the outcome: it’s unclear who has said it. The reader’s first thought, as they whip through sentences with the speed of a furious marmot, is that the interviewers explicitly stated this.

Shirley is writing third-person limited. In other words, he’s writing like a journalistic godlet from just outside Bill McDonagh. We’re limited to McDonagh’s viewpoint—we can see inside McDonagh, but we can’t see what the New Yorkers are really thinking or feeling. All we can see is how they act and speak.

Moreover, there are two levels here: Bill McDonagh’s opinions and observations, which may or may not be accurate, and the prose, which serves as a more neutral touchstone. The prose is more neutral in practice because the reader has to have some sense of what bedrock reality is. I say “more” because there’s always a bias toward the POV character in third-person limited.

I think of the bedrock reality as a faint thread running through a narrative. There’s what happened—this real, tactile event—and there’s how it is interpreted, and multiple viewpoints with multiple readings all fractaling out.

What I’m saying here is that I expect for the prose to tell me the truth about what certain characters actually said. I should not have to ask if an event actually happened or not… unless, of course, that’s the intent. And I don’t think it is, given the prose’s general style.

For clarification, you can have questionable realities in fiction. First-person is this way by default. But this is third-person limited, and it’s not particularly clever. Therefore, this is a fuck-up.

Also: “Another limey grease monkey”? They’re being inundated with British engineers? That’s a problem you can have?

I hate this book.

In Conclusion

I had to stop here. I’m not done telling you how I hate Chapter 1. I thought I could cover Chapters 1 and 2 here. That’s how goddamn optimistic I was. But I keep finding weird shit, and I have to ask myself over and over: “Wait, why does this annoy me? Is there a reason or am I mistaking my preferences for rules?”

This project is enlightening for me in a way I never expected. I keep having to ask what I think quality prose looks like. That’s a valuable exercise in itself. See, I’m terribly limited: I don’t know all the proper lit crit terms, I don’t study theory—I picked all of this up in the wild, and it’s to my detriment. How the hell do I research any of this? I feel like there’s a vast ocean of knowledge and I am stuck on dry land, examining a pipette. I have passed a certain threshold where most advice for creative writers is useless to me. I don’t really know where to start.

But just having to put my ideals and experiences into words, and being able to identify why certain elements bother me, is an extremely valuable exercise. So… this isn’t useless, and getting sassy has a purpose.

Long story short: if you know anything about more advanced writing advice, or books on literary criticism that might be good starting points, send me a line lol

Next time I’m gonna talk shit about Frank Fontaine because hoo boy it is embarrassing

<- Part 3: The Prologue's Prologue || Back to the Beginning || Part 5: Three Old Men Jerking Their Milk Sticks ->

[giggly-squiggily]

Bruuh when I saw that you read/re-read Chronicles of Vladimir Tod, I was like 'yaaaas'. I started re-reading it again (literally bought all 5 books), and I am literally dying for a ticklish!Vlad and tickler!Otis fic!

It has been 89 years...but finally, on this day...I have done it! I have written this fic! :D @nutzgunray-lvt I believe this was you? If not well- here you are anyway! :D I haven't read Vladmir Tod in so long, so this was a blast to write. I hope you like it!

“Vladimir.”

“What-hey!” The mentioned boy yelped when Otis’ hand came around him, snagging a cookie off his plate. “What the hell, that was mine!”

“Uncle Tax.” Otis grinned around a mouthful of chocolate goodness, shooting a wink as his nephew pouted. 

This was a running gag for them- the notorious “Uncle Tax.” Well- it wasn’t THAT notorious. All of Otis’ antics were fairly minor, ranging from stealing a sip of Vlad’s drink (“It’s O-negative!”O) or borrowing one of his many t-shirts (“Were the same size, Vladimir, and besides- how often do you see a vampire walking around with a ‘I went to Slayer School’ T-shirt?”). Really- Vlad didn’t mind them all that much.

But when it came to Aunt Nelly’s famous cookies though…

That’s where the line is drawn.

Watching his uncle with the grand stink eye of all the Tod bloodline, Vlad turned back to his plate and carried on his way, one cookie unburdened. He’d get his revenge in time. For now- let it seem he’s just being a bratty teenager over sweets.

It was as Uncle Otis taught him; diversion is the best sneak attack.

~~~3 weeks later~~~

“Oo, are those what I think they are?” Otis’ breathed in the warm smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, all but floating into the kitchen. Nelly had already gone to work, it seemed, a note on the counter letting the boys know she’s doing a double shift and how to heat up the dinner she left.

Also, on the back of the note- a clear instruction: “No cookies before dinner, Vladimir.”

“Good thing I’m not Vladimir, then.” Otis snickered in delight, carefully picking at the plastic wrap around the plate of sugary treats. He was pretty sure his mentioned nephew was over at Henry’s tonight, meaning he’d have the house- and these delectable treats- all to himself. For a brief moment, he considered leaving a few for Vladmir to find in the morning.

And then he thought about the sass the younger vampire had been giving him the past couple of days and decided against it. Can’t award bad behavior afterall. Giddy in mischief, he brought the cookie to his lips, taking a bite.

And immediately spit it out into the sink.

“Pfft- Oh god! Oh my word!” Otis grabbed the sink hose, rinsing his mouth out in a desperate attempt to rid the salty catacomb he bit into. What happened? Nelly’s baked treats were never this salty! It was as if she went mad and forgot sugar exists! How could-

“Well well, look what we have here.” Otis froze, eyes widening at the sound. Turning slowly, he found Vlad leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and brow raised. Something smug was in his eyes despite his expression being flat. “Uncle Otis- to spit out Aunt Nelly’s hard work like that- and into the sink. How shameful.”

“V-Vladmir! I thought- it’s not- why aren’t you-” The blonde sputtered, looking at the front door and back to the young man watching him.

“Henry’s out visiting his cousin this weekend.” Vlad jerked his chin towards the plate. “And I lied. Aunt Nelly didn’t make those cookies. I did.”

“What?” Otis reeled back in shock, betrayal cutting into him like a stake.

“Yep. I used her recipe, but I accidentally mixed up the sugar and salt.” There was nothing accidental in that tone. “Maybe I dropped an additional cup in there too for good measure- I’ve never been much of a baker.”

“You poisoned me!” Otis declared in horror, backing away into the stove. “Why, Vladimir?”

“It’s like you’ve taught us in class, Uncle Otis. If you unfairly tax the people of a country, they’re gonna fight back.” Vlad let his lips quirk up in a small victorious smirk. “Your Uncle Tax has reached a high point it shouldn’t have crossed.”

“Oh…so this is how I die…” Otis sank to the floor, a hand grasping his chest. “Betrayed by my own blood, at the mercy of my greed.” He closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. “Eu tu, Brute?”

“Liberty, freedom. Tyranny is dead.” Vlad replied, fighting down a grin as he watched his uncle fake-twitch in death. “You weren’t even gonna share, either. I could hear your thoughts without even having to read your mind!”

“So it seems…I’ve been bested.” Otis peeked up at him through blonde locks, a smirk of his own starting to form on his lips. “But alas, I am no mere mortal Vladmir. For I…am a god!” He was across the room in seconds-

The space Vlad once held was empty. Looking up, Otis turned to the living room, finding the younger boy on the defense.

“What kind of death scene was that?” He cried, yelping when Otis sped towards him again, just evading an outstretched hand. “What are you, a zombie?”

“No, but I am a vampire! A vampire who feeds off the betrayal of his own!” Otis darted again and again, each time just missing Vlad but getting closer. “And you’ve proven to be quite the feast I’m looking for, Vladimir!”

“You’re so freaking- AH!” Vlad yelped when the back of his hoodie was snatched, stopping him from bolting around the couch a third time. There was a tussle, limbs flailing and the world spinning. Finally, Vlad found himself pinned to the couch, eyes wide as Otis loomed over with long, wiggling fingers. “U-Uncle Otis! You don’t need to dohohoho this!” He giggled out, trying to squirm away.

“What’s so funny? I never thought you’d be the type to laugh in the face of death, Vladimir.” Otis smirked, all teeth before he attacked, hands flying over his Nephew’s torso. Vlad arched before letting out an honest to god scream, the sound dissolving into relentless laughter as he flailed and kicked beneath his uncle’s cruel clutches.

“GEhahahahahahhahahha! Whahahhahit! Whahahhaait Uncle Ohoohohohotis I’m shahahhhahahrry!” He cried out, cheeks already flushing a pretty shade of pink as he laughed. “Coohohoohohme on, quuhuhuhuhuhuit ihihihiihihihiht!”

“What? You’re sorry? After all that planning? My you give up too easily, Vladimir!” Otis chuckled alongside him, his fingers finding that awful spot along his lower ribs just to hear those adorable bird chirps. “Then again, this could just be your way of sneaking away for your next line of attack!”

“Maahahahhahybe it is, mahahahhaybe it ihihihihihisn’t!” Vlad wheezed around a snort, his hands shooting down when Otis prodded at his belly. “Nahhahahaha doohohoohohon’t!”

“Ah, so a non-answer eh? I know how to handle these!” Otis shot his hands up and under Vlad’s hoodie, further driving his nephew into hysterics as his fingers danced across his belly. “Now, are you ready to give up, Vladimir?”

“GHEHAHHAHAHAHAHA! OHOOHOHOHOHOHTIS PLEHEHEHEHAHAHHASE!” Vlad squealed, his laugh going near silent from just how ticklish everything was.

“I’m waiting, Vladimir.”

“FIHIHIHIIHNE FIHIIHIHIHINE YOU WIHIHIHIIHN! I GIHIHIHIIHVE UP!” Vlad cried out, gasping for air when Otis retracted his hands, ending his tickling. The smaller vampire curled into himself, rolling onto his side and falling off the cushions. “Gahhaha…ahahaha…mehehehean!”

“So is tampering with goldy relics.” Otis reminded, making his nephew giggle. “Did you really do that because of the Uncle Tax thing?”

“Hehe…heh…y-yeah?” Vlad rolled onto his back, pushing his bangs back with a tired hand. “And I’d do it again too.”

“Pfft- a true rebel in the making.” Otis laughed, poking Vlad in the belly before standing up, offering a hand. “Really though, I am sorry if I pushed it too far, Vladimir.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for eh…poisoning you.” Vlad snorted sheepishly, smoothing out his clothes. “Though it was kinda funny watching you rinse your mouth out with the sink hose.”

“It’s quite- hey!” Otis mock glared as Vlad cackled, shaking his head. “Fine fine, all is forgiven. Now, come help me put in dinner. We’ll make a proper batch of cookies after all our hard work.”

“Sounds good! I’ll add the sugar!” Vlad grinned, doubling over in mirth when Otis gave him a stink eye. “I’m kidding!”

The second batch turned out much sweeter.

Thanks for reading!

[reefer-reelz-n-reviews]

Scream 3 (2000)

Smoking: Splatter

This is the 3rd movie in the franchise and they are making the 3rd movie “Stab” during it.

Something that I guess I wouldn’t have thought of. The Voice is the same (at least in the first 3 movies) played by Roger Jackson.

I will say unlike the first 2 movies this movie doesn’t have as famous of a person dying. I’ve never seen Kelly Rutherford in anything else. At least that I know of. Maybe to others she is, I just looked at her list and she was on a show called Melrose Place. I’ve heard of it, but never seen it. She was also in the original Gossip Girl. Which I’ve seen but I don’t recognize her 🤣

I wanna know what Neve Campbell does to afford a house that nice in the middle of no where with all the security that she has. I don’t see how a Women’s Crisis Center would pay for that. I guess in the 2000’s it was a bit cheaper because it totally isn’t now. Especially in California.

Courtney Cox’s bangs… she let a 4-year-old do her hair? Looks awful, just like that meme about it 😂

We’ve got Kenny from the Cosby Show! Welcome Deon Richmond to your death 🤣 well I’m pretty sure he does lol. We will find out for sure in a little bit.

Tell me how I forgot that Jay and Silent Bob are in this!?! My favorite stoners! “Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts!” 🎶🎶

Why is the ghost face make that is huge and hanging a lime green color? It’s supposed to be white…

Jenny McCarthy-Wahlberg drops an award on the floor and breaks the head off. I laughed so hard 😂 foreshadowing? You’re literally on a movie lot and she’s trying to use knives to attack the killer, then she is surprised they’re fake. Like come on JMW.

Hmmm David Arquette’s bad arm switched… In the second movie it was his right arm… now it’s his left.

Love that Patrick Warburton is in this! Kronk is THE BEST! He’s a bit of a jerk, but I mean he’s a security guard for famous people, so I’m sure he’s a bit jaded. Hehehehe he steals the larger change from DA. Takes a frying pan to the head and a knife to the back. Still walks around and then dies in front of everyone.

Tells you how old this movie is, Parker Posey has a fax machine in her house 🤣

The eternally beautiful Carrier Fisher, even in the movie she talks about Princess Leia. Though she is stating that she didn’t get the part, but you know she did 😂 made a joke about sleeping with George Lucas, wonder how much basis there is for that? I know that he convinced her that in space there wouldn’t be a need for bras. So, who knows, maybe it is true 🤔

If this is about Stab 3, then why is the set up almost like exactly as the deaths in the first one? You had blood on the doggy door in the garage door for Rose McGowan’s death…

NC is carrying around pepper spray… if the killer is wearing a mask then how would it penetrate? Though I guess if it is some kind of soft cloth with holes it would make sense it would go through. But IDK seems suspicious to me.

Patrick Dempsey is really good at playing creepy and suspicious. I’ve heard that really, he’s a dickhead. Which I could totally see that. He kind of gives off dickhead vibes.

Snack time! Apple Pie, with whip cream and chocolate sauce 🤤

DR gets stabbed in the stomach and tires to run away. Nice little flip on the rug. Then over the balcony to die when he hits the ground. At least his wasn’t like a super easy death, right? He had a semi fighting chance.

So out of all the times through out the series that the killer gets knocked out this movie is my favorite. He is laying at the bottom of the stairs and as he’s, I guess dreaming, he goes, stab stab around him 🤣

Don’t understand why when PD opens the door, he has the gun come out first. Like what are you going to do? Shoot blindly? Risk hitting RC instead?

Just realized I haven’t even mentioned who the killer is in this. Maybe I will just leave it a “secret” even though I said what I did about the first one 😝 oh well.

🤣 She mentions Stab 3 and then stabs the killer a 3rd time.

Alright, that’s all for this review!

Toke on! 😶‍🌫️

-RRR

[humanoidalien27]

Content warning: Sebastian being Sebastian

.....

Chapter 4

Sebastian's Wand

      You were prepared for Draken to show up and even ask for you and Ominis to produce your wands, a fact which you were grateful for Sebastian's wand and that Draken hadn't seen yours before.

"What is this about?" Ominis asked politely once Draken said you could put your wands away.

"We had a prison break at Azkaban. A Sebastian Sallow and Mr. Williams escaped. I came here first because you have ties to both of them."

You screwed up your face at the accusation. "I'm trying to become an auror. That's to put dark wizards away. Not let them out."

You made sure your tone voiced disapproval, getting him to nod. "As you two still have your wands, I can see I was wrong. Good day."

You glanced at Ominis as his brows pinched and Draken disapparated. "A wand? How'd Sebastian get a wand?" His head moved your way when you didn't reply. "You didn't-"

"I know, but it was impulsive. Something he always brought out."

Hearing you sigh, he lightly patted your shoulder. "I understand, if he was telling the truth, I hope he finds out what he needs. If he's lying, you're going to get into a lot of trouble if they find your wand. Speaking of which, how do you have an extra wand?"

"I actually had four. I have Fig's, Miriam's, mine and... Sebastian's."

"You actually have his wand?"

"I picked it up that night. I never got the chance to give it back," I answered softly, looking at it.

"So, Sebastian's now on the loose. We have no idea where he is or what he's doing," he said, pausing for a second. "No, that was pretty much normal."

You laughed, knowing he did that to lighten the mood.

"Just do me a favor and don't get involved with whatever he's doing. I don't want to lose another friend."

"I can't promise that, but I promise to try."

"Alright, you said you were taking a trip to Hogsmeade today?"

Glad to get off the subject of Sebastian, you nodded. "Yes, I'm meeting Natty and Poppy today. They've been excited about this the whole week. Christmas break only comes once a year, so I decided to indulge them."

He smirked. "You have too many presents you bought for them, don't you?"

"That too, but you're not allowed to complain, you knew I was like this before moving in," I teased, earning a laugh.

"Pack rat of the year award goes to you, every year. Does your dormitory look as bad?"

You let out a scoff. "No, that would set a bad example and ruin my reputation."

"What?" He snickered, shaking his head. "You're not afraid to ruin your reputation when it comes to me?"

"No? You're family, I don't have to. You know pretty much every bad habit of mine and you stayed-"

"Coerced," he clarified.

You narrowed your eyes his way, not that he could see it. "Jerk."

He smirked. "Just be careful, alright?"

"Yes, dad. I'll look both ways before crossing the street. Check my surroundings to make sure I'm not followed."

Giving a deadpan expression for calling him "dad", he nodded, thanked you and then waved you to leave.

If only you knew how those words should have been guidelines for the day.

     Natsai and Poppy almost scolded you for buying them too many Christmas presents, but it was hardly that much, maybe six each.

It was nothing compared to the presents you bought for Sebastian that you knew you'd never be able to give him and you still got them anyway.

You couldn't help yourself, everything that reminded you of him or you'd think he'd like, you'd buy.

Ominis scolded you the first time he found them, but then calmly explained that you were only hurting yourself, so you got creative and used an extending charm, to hide them in the bag you kept in your pocket alongside your wand.

Ominis was a smart man, he'd put it together, if he hadn't already.

You knew why you were annoyed at the manipulation Sebastian put you through, why you took a chance and gave him your wand in Azkaban. You loved him, a feeling that hadn't gone away in the months he'd been locked up.

You didn't know if that was naivety on your part for falling for someone who played you so often or just hoped he'd been serious at least once. But, in the end, the silence was your answer.

Something poked you hard in the shoulder, making you jump, before you saw Imelda smirking at you.

"Weren't you doing a race today?" Poppy asked, barely drawing her gaze.

"Had to come back," she answered simply and held out her hand. "You dropped your wand."

Instantly understanding this was Sebastian, you quickly grabbed it from him.

"Oh, thank you."

"No problem," he said slipping into the booth beside you. "So, I feel like we haven't spoken in a while. How are things?"

Poppy laughed. "We spoke this morning. You told us you were going flying, remember?"

"It was cancelled, my opponent didn't show up."

Surprised by how nonchalantly he said that, Natty and Poppy side glanced.

"So, anyway. How're things going between you and Ominis?"

Confused, you looked at him. "Ominis?"

"You're living together, right?"

Poppy laughed softly. "If I didn't know Imelda, I'd think you were jealous."

You sent him a warning glare.

"Not at all, I'm just curious, you know."

Rolling your eyes you stood. "Well, I'm going to head back home."

"Yes, got to make it back home before Ominis gets there first."

Ignoring that, you walked outside after saying goodbye to Sirona.

It's like nothing changed in those months. Of course he'd go right back to fighting with you.

Shaking your head, you moved to head out of town, barely making it half way before you were grabbed and pushed into an alley.

When you spun, you saw Imelda behind you, taking a few steps back.

"Sorry, I needed to get you outside."

Casting a glance around, seeing nothing suspicious, you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Why? And why attack the friendship between Ominis and I?"

"Well, a man and a woman living together usually ends in one thing happening-"

"Oh, grow up Sebastian. Ominis is like a brother to me."

He raised his hands and sighed softly. "Alright, alright. But I need your help."

Crossing your arms, you sighed. "For what? I thought you were looking into the whole innocents in Azkaban thing. Why come to me?"

"You're an auror in training, you can grab the things we need to prove it."

Wondering who "we" meant, a familiar man moved out from under a cloak, making you jump.

"My apologies," he whispered, though amused.

Pressing a hand to your chest, you looked to Sebastian as he changed back to his original form.

"Look, I'm already under suspicion for just having ties to both of you."

Startled, Sebastian looked to Felix. "Both of us?"

"Yeah, he killed my mother."

Felix's eyes flickered closed as he sighed and moved to try explaining.

"I'm not broken up about it."

Their eyes widened in shock, before Sebastian babbled out random noises, before shaking his head. "Why would you-"

"Not the time Sebastian. Anyone could be around and recognize you," you said quickly, knowing he'd be curious about it being you never spoke of your past before.

Felix held out a piece of parchment. "This is the location of the documents and the password to the safe. Once you're safely away, read them and you'll know we're telling the truth."

Staring at Sebastian for a moment to gauge how serious he was about this, you took the parchment.

"Fine."

He visibly deflated and smiled. "Thank you."

Nodding, you reached into your pocket and took Sebastian's wand out.

"You did keep it," he whispered taking it carefully.

"You should go before you're seen."

You jumped when Sebastian rested his hand on your shoulder. "Thank you, I'll be around."

You nodded as Felix let him climb under the cloak. 

.....

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

[everloste]

a short fic about abuse, from a small series i did a few years ago while coming to terms with my own experiences.

axel and isa, post kh3, implied past relationship

Isa was exactly the same person he used to be. Neither of them changed, really. They just stayed the same and things ran their course. 

good morning moon ii

“I’m going to prove it to you.”

“What?” Axel asked, feigning innocence as he tried ever-so-gently to remove his arm from Isa’s grip.

It wouldn’t work. Isa wouldn’t let him go. He’d made up his mind. He was going to show Axel exactly what kind of people they both were.

“I’m going to kill you, Axel,” he said, shoving him back against the wall, “Just like I killed Lea. In every way that mattered.”

He didn't want Axel to mistake this for a joke. He was deadly serious. He was pressed against Axel just enough to be threatening… which was an unfortunate tell. If he was truly out of control, he wouldn’t be hiding how much he wanted him.

Axel only rolled his eyes, “You think you killed me, huh…?” he asked as though he was bored with the answer already, “You’re hardly the worst thing to happen to me, Isa. Sorry.”

Isa wished he knew why it bothered him so much… Was he of note at all? He clenched his teeth, “You concede nothing…” he croaked, hoarse from holding in his anger, “You give me nothing…”

“What were you expecting?” Axel asked, voice tired, “You want an award…?”

Without a thought, Isa jerked Axel forward by his shoulders and slammed him back into the wall, “I want my best friend back, you fucking monster!”

It got quiet.

With the force he'd put into that motion, it was a marvel Axel was even still conscious. He watched the look on his friend's face as it twisted in pain, then anguish... His knees buckled, his weight dropping into Isa’s guilty arms.

“I’m sorry…" Axel confessed, "I’m sorry I’m not who you remember.”

“No… I think you are,” Isa rasped. He was such a fucking idiot… Axel wasn’t exactly Lea, but his heart was rekindled from the same spark. They were the same. In every way that mattered.

“I can prove it.”

Axel tensed again, “Don’t— I don’t need that—” Of course Axel could tell when Isa’d made up his mind about something. Axel could read people well, especially his best friends. His memory was flawless. Isa was exactly the same person he used to be. Neither of them changed, really. They just stayed the same and things ran their course. 

Lea was too friendly to ever be satisfied with only one friend. No matter how close… Isa never would have been enough, and he would’ve gotten jealous all the same. And that alienation would have pushed them apart. He was the problem. He was always the problem. 

Lea always forgave him… and Axel always apologised. He was unforgivable… but Axel just kept trying anyway. And Isa, good friend that he was, kept proving to him that he didn’t deserve it.  

But Axel didn’t believe that. He never did. Sometimes it felt like he must know, right…? He must realise what he’s been doing to himself…

Isa pulled Axel along, fingers curled tensely around his elbow in a controlling grip that left the dancer stumbling to keep balanced. Usually Isa'd be more careful… They were in Radiant Garden, after all—Isa’s home, since he felt like a trespasser in Twilight Town—the walls here were hard, stone… But it didn’t really matter right now. Axel was going to get hurt either way.

Down by the old bailey, he threw Axel against the balustrade, grabbing him by the neck and tipping him back. There was a ravine on the other side; still full of terrible things, though now those terrible things belonged here.

They were echoes of the sins committed here… hearts that had yet to return to the light: Full of rage and sorrow, roiling and violent like the sea. Their numbers dwindled by the day, but they were expected to be a problem for years to come. A wound on their Garden, one Axel was here to assist in healing, as a key bearer.

Axel yelped, kicking his legs and grabbing Isa by the arm, “Please don’t do this, Isa…!” Isa’s eyes glowed with intent; those desperate little whispers reminded him of another time… “What, still can’t hold your own against a few thousand heartless…?”

“What the fuck does this prove!?” Axel asked indignantly, his anger finally coming to the surface. 

Isa felt a shiver run down his spine at the thrill of Axel’s fury… though he knew it wouldn’t last.  “Your weakness,” he said, cold as ice, “You never fight back.”

“So? Why should I?” Axel asked, “Is that what you want me to do!?”

Isa’s eyes closed for a moment, shutting out the question, the answer… Yes. Yes, if you'd only do what’s good for you…

“As though you’d ever do what I want…” Isa said in a low voice, pressing a hand against Axel’s hip, “No, I'd prefer to have my way... You already knew that.”

Axel’s eyelids fluttered as he took an overwhelmed breath, struggling for words. He was trapped between the valley below and Isa’s dispassionate abuse. He had little choice but to relax into his grip. Struggling would only put him at risk of being dropped… Isa so loved being the lesser of two evils.

“I can’t fucking believe this…” Axel laughed miserably.

“Can’t believe what?” Isa asked, the hand that held him aloft quietly shifted, cupping the nape of his neck, thumb tracing his pulse, “That I’d hurt you?”

“That I’d rather—” Axel glanced to his right, to the horde as his back, just a fall away.

“If it wasn’t me, then who did kill you, Lea?” Isa asked.

Everything fell silent… the wind stilled to a quiet chill in the air. Axel couldn’t hide his face, so Isa gave him the small, selfish mercy of looking elsewhere as he tried to speak.

“I did,” Axel finally confessed, more quietly than Isa had ever heard him speak.

He was wrong, though. Axel didn’t kill Lea… Axel was just taking the blame. Covering for his best friend again.

 “Liar…” Isa hissed, leaning closer, “You know better than this.”

“What’s your fucking problem with me!?” Axel demanded, sounding exasperated as he thrashed in frustration, pulling himself close to Isa, “Why do you pick on me so much, huh!?” His shouts petered out into a pitiful murmur, a fistful of Isa’s jacket in either hand, “What did I ever do to you…?”

“You forgave me,” Isa replied, his words jaded and cruel, “And you’d do it again if I asked nicely, wouldn’t you?”

“Shut up...” Axel’s demand sounded more like a desperate plea.

He wouldn't. This is where Isa sunk his teeth in every time. “You’d try to make it work. Curse your own stubborn nature for not giving up easier when you know you’re right. You’d stay silent when you deserve to be heard, like the only kind of love you know is sacrifice.”

Axel was quiet. Still. He was listening... Isa hadn’t trusted his intuition in a long time. It led him astray for so long that he’d begun contradicting it on purpose; shutting it out when it assumed anything. But this time, he couldn’t. 

“How many times has Roxas asked you not to visit me again?” “None,” Axel answered with a predictable quickness, “He wouldn’t—”

“You’re telling me he hasn’t seen the bruises?” Isa asked flatly. “He has! But—” 

“But he trusts you, doesn’t he?” Isa asked pointedly, shoving Axel back, “What a shame.”

Axel shrieked, his hands clasped, frightened, around Isa’s neck, face buried in his chest, “Stop, stop, stop…”

Isa didn’t imagine the threat below was of literal death for Axel, but of his own darkness. There were so many awful things lurking in the past, so much pain… If anything broke the seal, he’d be lost in an instant. His will wasn’t what it used to be… he was tired…

“If you fell here, do you think you’d even hit the ground?” Isa asked, “Or would there be nothing left?”

He just couldn't stop himself. He knew he was right, everything he said was right. He knew exactly what hurt people, what scared them. It was the worlds worst gift.

“The old man asked me about you,” Isa continued once Axel’s silence grew irritating, “Asked me if you’d make a suitable vessel… I told him not to waste any effort. Without Roxas, without Xion… you’d give up on your own. You wouldn’t be able to resist. You aren’t strong enough.”

“Fuck you,” Axel stammered, teeth chattering from the cold and his own nerves, “Let me down, I wanna leave… ”

Isa knew he’d prefer to sound angry instead of hurt. Still playing games… He couldn’t help but look down at him now, just for the view. His heart was racing, skin flushed as though he’d been trying not to cry. Of course there were tears in his eyes… He wore them so well.

“Let you down…?” Isa asked slowly, blinking until his thoughts came back to him, “Why don’t you ask nicely first.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Axel balked.

“Maybe you’d prefer to beg?” Isa offered cruelly. He was doing it again… why did he get off on twisting the knife? Was he really so desperate for a reaction?

“Stop it…” Axel demanded quietly, adding a softer, more shameful, “Please…” Axel hated hating people. It was his least favourite activity… if he could, he’d put it off forever. 

Isa sighed.

[getmemymicroscope]

Yes, it is very ridiculous. But it is also Alison Brie and John Cena and a lot of action, so, like - what more do you want, really?

Brie's character is a bit of a jerk at the beginning, but that quickly disappears (thankfully), and we don't have the typical movie fare - once they're on the run - of her trying to subvert him by holding him hostage to do against his will or of her taking her stuff and disappearing when he's not looking, or of her trying to help him but accidentally wounding him in the process (thankfully, this movie never goes full bad Bollywood), so you're never fully annoyed by their interactions or the progress of the movie.

There's probably more that could be said/analyzed about the backstory involving his past visit to this country, and about the underlying message the movie seems to be sending about corporate interests that don't give two shits about all the people living there, but like - we already know that, and we already know that the fucking greedy asshats in charge don't give a shit. Also, the idea of a dictator who actually cares about the people of his country - well, I guess that is why this is a movie. Even elected officials don't care, let alone a dictator.

This is by no means an award-winning movie, but it is fun and there is a bit of emotional maturity/maturing of our characters in between all the fighting, so at least we see some development of our characters as they're forced into this difficult situation. And best of all, they know their strengths and weaknesses, so it's not like he tries to take over her story or she suddenly becomes a hidden talent at fighting off an army (clearly I've been scarred by too much nonsense Bollywood), so things never go towards 'ridiculous beyond help' and we're able to just enjoy what they give us.

Again, not the best movie ever (or even the best movie of 2023), but it is fun. And it is John Cena and Alison Brie. I'll take it.

[7kh]

vibrator with albedo or scaramouche.... heehee

i. using a vibrator on scaramouche. ii. scaramouche + dom! reader. iii. degradation, use of a vibrator, scaramouche uses he/she/they here, you call him a good girl. mentions of cock is used, but you can imagine it as a strap.

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the very cunning individual, who has a very low tolerance towards his own acquaintances who constantly boasts his hobby of exerting his authority to people he seems as inferior.

so how was it that you have him hands tied above his head, back arching with you teasing him with a vibrator?

you could barely make out the events that happened prior to this, but now all you’re focusing on is scaramouche being right under you, squirming with hot tears streaming down his face.

she laid on her back, arching with every movement of the vibrator and every word that came out of your mouth. they had absolutely no idea how long this’ve been going for, but what he did know is each touch from the vibrator grazing their tip was driving her nuts.

“you gotta stay still for me scara, unless you want me to lift this vibrator off you.” you gave him a threatening glare as he shakes their head, “no, no! please don’t… i’ll stay still… jus’ please don’t stop..”

“good girl.”

you raised the setting higher once more and could see her eyes widening, chest going up and down and full body just trembling.

you could hear scaramouches little gasps for air and loud whimpers slowly becoming more and more rapid, his legs trembled as you move the vibrator side by side on his tip.

their hands grabbed your arms, hips, face, anything that he can hold onto. your hand lifted ever so slightly at his gestures and without any second thought she started begging.

“ffuckkkk… mgh- please- please master, please let me cum..” his whining and begging filled your ears combined with her face and body flushed and cheeks stained with tears set you off.

“mmm… who woulda known that the sixth of the fatui harbingers would call somebody they don’t even know ‘master’. have you got no shame, slut?” you spat.

your degrading words obviously didn’t reach him, too horny and overstimulated to care or give a snarky remark back.

to her surprise and lack of time to react, you flip her over, her pretty face now down on the pillow and ass straight up to the air. you grab the bottle of lube and squirted it onto your hands, scaramouches body flinching at the sudden coldness he feels in his ass.

surprisingly, his hole wasn’t too tight. after a couple of minutes you put in a second finger, while sliding down your other hand to her dick, causing scaramouche to let out a slutty moan as he was gripping the sheets.

“huh. so you’ve done this before… not much expected considering how good you’ve been holding up eariler. i think you deserve a award, hm?” scaramouche barely had the time to respond as you took your fingers out and slammed your dick in his hole.

“mmgfh, aAH…” his face was shoved into the pillow, muffling all of his needy whines and cries. you pounded into him as you jerk him off. he pushed his hips back on your cock, using you as if you’re some type off sex toy. you immediately held him in place, removing your hand from their dick, grabbing his hips, keeping it in place as you continue to fuck him.

he grabbed the sheets she was originally holding onto even tighter, body shaking and tensing up with each stroke you make. his whole head was foggy, he only felt how good you feel inside of him, the slutty squelching sounds thats coming from his hole, how badly he wanted to cum.

you grabbed a fist ball of hair, making scaramouches face meet yours, muffled sounds now wide in the open, being even louder than before.

“does my pretty whore wanna cum?” you manage to force out your throat.

“mgh- y..yes..! please master let me cum, i want it soso badly…” voice cracking, one of the only words that came out of his mouth.

“you can cum now, slut.” your last words to him, as you put your final thrust into him.

“yesyesyes… oh fuck- mmgh.. thank you so much master, thankyouthankyouthankyou…” she slurred , as she went limp on the bed after she came.

you lie down next to her, moving your body over so you can wipe her tears off her face and cleaning yourselves off.

“mm, you did really well. i don’t know when or where we’re gonna meet, but lets have some fun again. ❤︎”

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