#((I’m stumped a bit on threads/my ask box))

[more-than-a-princess]

Just a small update: I know some muns are waiting on asks (and I’ve got a few replies I still need to get to). With that in mind, I 1) thank you for your patience! I’m going to try and get to some of the headcanon and shorter asks today or tomorrow (I reached out to one of you about a longer starter because I’m still a bit stumped on it) and 2) Go back to posting thread replies 1x/day through the next two weeks or so. 

I have two big work events that I’ve been preparing for, plus a convention/vacation (sort of. Cosplay is never a vacation, really. I tend to feel more exhausted when I get back to work than when I left!), all before the end of May. And I’ve been slacking on styling a certain wig for a certain Fate character, as well as getting all my other costumes together.

Funny enough, I’ll not only be cosplaying my muse but two other mutuals’ muses. And another whom I don’t write with but I have mutuals who write in that fandom.

So! Until then, fewer posts per day but I’ll be around on tumblr and discord (when I don’t have hairspray and a curling wand in my hand. Or an iron. Or shouting expletives as I go through cosplay boxes asking where is (insert accessory/wig/shoes here)!?

Thanks for understanding!

[kettlequills]

the burning fire within

Henon's shirt rips while he is cutting wood. He takes it to Tinoryn to be mended.

My entry for TES Fest 21, prompts family and apotheosis. CW: referenced character death, fantastic racism - it’s set in Windhelm, you know the drill. I also wrote this in about an hour at 2am last night so, uh, enjoy. On A03 here.

Henon Virith was angry. Nothing new, that. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and brought it down with a satisfying crack. Two neat halves of firewood fell away to collapse perfectly onto the growing stack either side of the chopping stump. He swung the axe again.      Crack.    Again.      Crack. 

He could do this with his eyes closed. Sometimes he did, imagining sneering Windhelm guards under the axe’s blade. Imagined he’d found the insincere bastard that had come swaggering into the Grey Quarter one day, to inform    Henon his mother had been ‘found dead’.

 “Hunting accident, looks like, no sign of her partner,” the guard had said. Had the temerity to look at Henon softly. Henon remembered the words like they’d been burned into his soul.

 “My-”      Crack.     “-condolences-”      Crack.     “-lad.”      Crack.  

 Three more logs joined their split fellows. He rolled his neck until it cracked and kicked the piles in just the right spot to have them topple down neatly so it looked like he stacked them. Another log went on the stump.

 Henon had anger enough to fuel him for years.

 His next chop was powerful enough that his axe stuck into the chopping stump. Helon grunted. Placing one foot on the stump, he grabbed the axe handle and yanked. The burning muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt. He tugged, once, twice, then heaved as hard as he could. With a crunching rip, his shirt tore across the shoulders. The axe came loose.

 Henon bit down on his knuckled fist and the molten fury that ignited the sleeping fire in his body. Deliberately, he lowered the axe onto the stump. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his gritted teeth, tried to remember the breathing exercises the Priestess had taught him last winter to control his anger. Henon inhaled, exhaled.

 Once. Twice. Three times.

 In his mind’s eye, he pictured the searing rage inside of himself as a bonfire. It would be wild, messy, sparks ripping off the crackling wood like arrows. Heat would roll from it like a wall, and the flames inside would laugh and leap like crackling tongues.

 “That sounds like a good fire, Henon,”    the priestess’ encouraging voice was gentle in his memory. “It’ll keep lots of people warm. But an unchecked fire will set beds alight at night. How much fire do you think we need right now?” 

 “Not much,” Henon muttered aloud.

 Henon imagined, carefully, lovingly, pressing soft cold soil over the edges of the fire, tightening its circle. He kept going, shovelling handfuls round the edges, shaping the fire he saw until it was bright and strong, but no bigger than a hearth-fire, banked and safe for the night.

 One final time, Henon exhaled, then opened his eyes. Calm settled like a blanket onto his stiff shoulders. Without the punishing ache of the anger he’d used to fuel himself, Henon suddenly became aware of just how sore he was, how sweaty, how his arms trembled with fatigue.

 He glanced at the sky. The sun was halfway down the sky, hovering almost directly over the Palace of Kings. No wonder. He’d been chopping wood for hours.

 Henon cast an eye over the piles of wood. His mind ran quickly over the calculations as he vaulted the ice-slick rail onto the steps of Candlehearth Hall. The sums came easy to him; he didn’t need to look twice.

 No Susanna to watch him today, calling laughingly for him to take off his shirt; he’d have to go in and ask for his earnings directly. A shame. Henon liked Susanna. Liked kissing her even more, when she leant down over the railing rosy-cheeked. She was soft, everywhere soft, like bitter anger had never found her. She made quiet animal noises, warm breathy sighs, when he touched her, her breasts, her hips, between them. It was fun, and casual, and she was always happy to see him.

 It didn’t take Henon long to collect his wages and stack the fruits of his efforts by the fireplace. Even sour old Nils was grudgingly silent at the amount, though the door closed on a snappish comment when he saw the rip in Henon’s shirt baring his shoulders.

 Henon jogged down to the Grey Quarter, letting the surge of annoyance work itself out through the drum of his feet on stone. He’d get his sparking shirt fixed. Nils didn’t need -

 Exhaling raggedly, Henon focused on the hearth fire, the little curl of smoke that would lick out the chimney. By the time he had made it to Avalathil Tailoring, he was clearer-headed.

 The tailor’s was poky and small, and the old sign’s paint was curling. Below it, a brazier sat, thickly fed with coals and fire-runes. Henon paused by the brazier, looking down at the soft red glow of the runes, and felt a little surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the brazier.

 Tinoryn. He always left a little flick, right at the end, like a signature.

 Henon went inside.

 “Welcome to Avalathil - oh, hi, Henon.” Tinoryn was bright and cheerful as ever. He bounced up from his stool behind the counter with a wide, infectious grin. “How are you? I thought you were working today. Did you finish early? I’ve heard the ships are coming in, they might want more help unloading if you want extra work. We’ve had two sailors already come in with mendings, and one of them mentioned getting a whole new outfit commissioned, if you can believe that!

 Apparently they went to Solstheim, you know, that island off the coast, you can see it from the Point when it’s clear out? Anyway, well he liked the look of the clothes they wear, and he wanted something similar that wouldn’t ‘have him freeze to death faster than a skinned horker’.”

 Something in him settled at Tinoryn’s chatter. He was always the same, always happy, always with a story to share. Henon found himself smirking as Tinoryn imitated the sailor’s dour tones.

 “I’d want to see that,” he said.

 Tinoryn’s nose wrinkled. “Eurgh! A skinned horker? That’s gross, Henon. It would be all wet and red in there, like muscles! It would bleed everywhere! Though I suppose they do have to skin them to get the furs off. But definitely not while they’re alive! That would be horrible. We      add    clothes, not take them away here. Speaking of,” Tinoryn’s smile, somehow, became even brighter, until Henon swore he could see each and every one of his teeth, “Can I do anything for you? Ruvene’s not here, so you just have me.”

 “That’s just what I want,” Henon said, and shrugged off his shirt. He had to wrestle with the buttons for a moment, and when he looked up, the highs of Tinoryn’s cheekbones had flooded with pink and his soft lips were parted. He didn’t react when Henon thrust the ripped shirt towards him, his gaze trapped somewhere at Henon’s chest. “Tinoryn?”

 Self-consciously, Henon rubbed at his chest. He couldn’t see anything there, apart from maybe a bit of sweat in his chest hair. Tinoryn was much more fastidious than Henon, but it was just      sweat.    Tinoryn’s attention made him feel odd, prickly-warm, like he wanted to square his shoulders and straighten his back. He’d been shirtless around him plenty before.

 Tinoryn blinked, then his eyes refocused on Henon’s face and he was back to beaming. “Yes! Of course, I’ll take that. Just another fix? Hmm, yes, you’ve torn it, right across the shoulders. Nasty! But it won’t take that long and it’s been dead in here today, all of our orders are all done that I can do without Ruvene’s permission, and you      know    I’ve read everything I brought. I have been so bored I started talking to the mannequin. I’m calling it Dolly. Because it’s a doll? Or a mannequin, I suppose. A doll for clothes. I can do it for you right now! We’ll have to add in a panel here for you if you keep broadening up though.”

 “Not now,” Henon interrupted uneasily, “Just - can you fix it? Like it was?”

 Tinoryn’s eyes softened. “Yes, just like it was. I know how important this is. It suits you, by the way. It’s the last one, isn’t it? From your father, Azura keep him.”

 “Thanks. And yeah.” It sounded a bit strangled, but Henon couldn’t bring himself to care.

 It was stupid, probably, but he trusted Tinoryn not to mess it up. Ruvene would have just added the panel to the back, grumbling at Henon for sentimentality. But of the shirts that Henon had inherited from his father, the others were gone, all torn, ripped, mended to oblivion by Tinoryn, or lost over the years. When he wore it, he thought of their shapes, how they were probably the same in the arm, but that his father’s wrists had maybe been thicker, because it was stretched there. Henon didn’t remember much of his father. Henon had not been that old when he’d been found dead on the docks, sitting on one of the crates he was meant to be unloading, frozen to death with a peaceful smile.

  “Uh, how much?”

 He fumbled awkwardly for his belt pouch, but Tinoryn was already waving him away with a sunny smile.

 “Ruvene’s not here,” he said conspiratorially, “No one will know, let me just fetch my needle and thread. Besides, no need to charge for such a simple fix.” He hopped up and rummaged around under the counter, fishing out a small wooden box with a triumphant, “Ha! There you are. I swear it hides… You know I can teach you to do this, if you want.”

 Slipping a silver thimble onto his thumb, Tinoryn pulled Henon’s sweaty shirt into his lap. He eyed the rip critically, holding the needle between his lips as he threaded it. Henon watched, impressed by his dexterity.

 “I don’t need to know,” said Henon dismissively. “You’ll do it.”

 Tinoryn smiled down at Henon’s shirt. “That’s true.”

 Henon rounded the counter and dragged Ruvene’s unused stool over with a clattering scrape of groaning wood. He slumped onto it and rested his tired arms on the countertop with a groan. Their knees pushed together under the counter for space, Tinoryn’s bony leg warm against his even through layers of clothes.

 “You don’t have to stay, it’ll take me a moment,” Tinoryn added, glancing at him from under his eyelashes as he stitched. They were thick and dark, curly like his hair.

 “I’ll wait,” said Henon. He didn’t have many other shirts, and besides, whenever Tinoryn’s bright eyes strayed to Henon’s bare torso, the tips of his ears flushed cherry-red. It made Henon feel powerful in a way he couldn’t describe, like how he felt when Susanna clung to him brokenly when he touched her. Like Henon was the only ship in a storm he had created.

 “Alright then,” said Tinoryn, and then he quieted, concentrating on his work.

 Henon fiddled with a coin as he waited, a septim from this morning’s earnings. It flew, golden gleaming, around his slate-grey knuckles, spinning over the countertop like he held it on an invisible string. Idly, he played a counting game with himself, one taught over long hours of solitary boredom.      One, two, three    spins to the right,      seven, eight, nine,    to the left, one flick up,      twelve.    Then back around again, adding each number of spins, until he tired of it. Numbers were easy, but soothing, too. They were predictable.

 He was beginning to feel tired, sleepy, even. His fatigue was catching up to him. The pressure of Tinoryn’s leg against his was comfortable, the sound of his breathing familiar. The shop was warm and quiet, a little dusty in places, with thick bolts of fabric hanging down from the walls. The mullioned windows were frosted white, dim shapes passing by and setting distant shadows to chase each other across the rolling hillocks of prepared cloth. Dolly the mannequin waited patiently in one corner, crowned by a glorious confection of gull-feathers and snowberries wrapped in stained jade silk, someone’s earnest attempt, Henon thought, at making spring into a hat.

 Henon flipped the coin into the air and caught it, a shining disc like the sun held between his thumb and forefinger.

 “Wow,” said Tinoryn from beside him. “How did you do that? That’s amazing! You just caught it, so fast!”

 Henon glanced over, and Tinoryn’s expression was unreserved and inquisitive, brilliant with pleasure at the trick. “It’s not hard,” he said, uncertain how to name the feeling that Tinoryn’s eagerness aroused in him. “You just, look, like this,” he demonstrated.

 “Can I try?” Tinoryn asked, eyes round, and Henon handed the coin over.

 Tinoryn made a valiant attempt at throwing the coin, but it hit his hand as it fell, rebounding sharply off his knuckle and disappearing into the darkness below the counter. “Ouch!” exclaimed Tinoryn, “Oh, that is      much    harder than it looks. You made it seem so easy! Do you want me to find your coin - oh-”

 Henon had already slid off the stool into a crouch, scanning the darkness for a glint of gold. He grunted, it was dark, and dusty under the counter, cluttered with boxes and cloth scraps. He spotted one or two needles, but no coin.

 “Here, let me help,” Tinoryn said above him, and Henon looked up at the gentle      snap    of fire crackling into existence.

 What he saw then arrested him completely.

 It was Tinoryn, just Tinoryn, but… Tinoryn was leaning forward on the stool, his boot planted on the floor to stop him from falling. Henon reached to touch his calf, felt the muscles engaged in supporting his weight through his trousers, and had no words for the nameless surge of feeling that pooled in his gut.

 In one hand, Tinoryn held Henon’s shirt, the other, a crackling fire spell, humming with magic and energy. He was smiling, as always, bright and soft, and the flickering firelight shimmered off his dark, curly hair, the hint of wetness on his lip. The ties that held his shirt (soft green, like grass) were loose, leaving space for the shadows of the fire to race over his collarbones, a smooth triangle of soft grey skin of Tinoryn’s skinny chest. Henon felt his mouth flood with saliva, felt the strangest urge to lave his tongue along the arches of Tinoryn’s collarbones, scrape his teeth over the skin until it reddened like the tips of his ears.

 Tinoryn’s eyes had always been bright, ever since they were children. It was one marker of being a strong mage, that slight lambent glow, like the magic couldn’t quite be contained within him. But now, they looked like the heart of a fire, or maybe lava, brilliant, burning, changing everything in its path. Like a beginning, like being reforged anew, into something divine, Henon felt blood rise warm on his cheeks, knew Tinoryn could see how it flushed his chest ruddy. He wanted -

 “I think I see it,” Tinoryn said happily, breaking the spell. “Down there, see, just under that - yes, you’ve got it, there!”

 Henon cleared his throat, feeling bizarrely awkward as he slipped the coin back into his pouch. It was just Tinoryn. He straightened up, stretching his back until his spine popped.

 “Thanks,” he said, “for the light.”

 “Thank you for the practice!” Tinoryn’s face lit up again. “I finished your shirt, by the way! All done, good as new.”

 Henon traced his fingertip over the mend. He could barely see it. Tinoryn had done a great job.

 “Thanks,” he said again, and reached out to clasp the back of Tinoryn’s neck, his thumb pressing into his curls. They were soft. Tinoryn’s neck was warm and solid under his palm. “It looks good,” Henon added, not wanting to be churlish, but as he stared down at Tinoryn he was not quite sure if he could even remember what the shirt looked like.

“Oh,” said Tinoryn, and his hands clenched oddly in his lap like he was holding them down, and his face flamed red. His ears were pricked forward though, clearly pleased. “It’s my - pleasure, Henon, really.”

 “Say,” said Henon, “you want to get out of here? I reckon we could go and nail some helmets with rocks down in the training yard round this sort of time.”

 Clearly tempted, Tinoryn bit his lip. Henon watched his teeth press down on the soft flesh and catch on tiny ragged edges of skin, saw how it made his lips flush pinker, saw the wet dart of his tongue. He tightened his grasp on Tinoryn’s neck, thumb smoothing down his hairline, feeling the tiny feathery hairs there tickle his skin.

 “I can’t,” said Tinoryn, sounding truly disappointed. “I have to watch the shop for Ruvene.”

 “Alright,” shrugged Henon. He grabbed the edge of the counter and heaved himself up to sit on it, grinning at Tinoryn’s delighted surprise. Now he was here, Henon found that he didn’t particularly want to leave. After all, the tiny tailor’s shop did have      something    in it that held his interest. “Guess I’ll teach you that coin trick while we wait.”

 Tinoryn’s radiant smile in answer was more than enough.

[moral-turpitudes]

Butterflies 🦋: Part 1

A/N: Tumblr is a bitch so I had to re-upload this lol. Idek why I wrote this but I had an idea about butterflies and I just went with it. Sorry if the ending is a bit lame but I hope you enjoy this cute shit. There will be a Part 2 soon. 

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Tooth-rotting Fluff, Mentions of neglect, and Swearing.

Word Count: 2,435

Characters: Bonnie Gold x Reader

+ I also made Esmeralda have more of an appearance as well and mentioned his younger sister a tiny bit since they absolutely failed at acknowledging them in the show lol.

Summary: Y/n leaves her hometown after she and Bonnie learn they’re going to be parents. But after getting news of some urgent blinder business, Bonnie’s priorities shift as he prepares for his next mission by Tommy, and as he prepares for his new life with Y/n.

Requested: No

Part 1 | Part 2 

Y/n never thought that she’d leave Small Heath, knowing that the very city she was born in was nothing but trouble. She was like a butterfly trapped in a cocoon that wouldn’t budge, wanting to go off and live and do as she pleased without facing the hollow shell of her parents that awaited her at home.

But she never thought she’d get that chance so soon, until she met him. The brown haired boxer boy who came in with stars in his eyes to where she was working on sewing the fighters robes at the ring, asking if she’d do some repairs to his. She always stayed after hours to get time away from her parents, causing her to have more run-ins with him than she could count. And little did she know, he’d tear a small hole in his robe on purpose every now and then just to get the chance to stay after with her and talk, and ultimately walk her home after the sun went down.

The two quickly started dating after a couple more of his boxing matchups, causing a jealous stir in the crowd of girls that she’d always seen sitting up front. But in a flash, she and the infamous Bonnie Gold had been going steady for a full year now. During this whirlwind of a year, she found out she was pregnant with his child and they both, along with his father’s insistence, decided that having her move in would be good for the both of them considering the circumstances back at home and the fact that they had a new addition coming.

But because this was Small Heath, and because nothing ever happened without the blinders coming into any conversation, the town quickly knew of them, along with the growing tensions between outside gangs and the blinders. There had been explosions and chaos ever since the other gangs stepped foot in Small Heath, and they no doubt stalked the boxing rings while the blinders were there, which was making it more risky for her to stay there as Bonnie had been working with the blinders as of late. And everyone in town knew full well that anyone who carried a razor-blade cap also often carried a possible death sentence.

Y/n shuddered at the thought as she reminisced on how she got here. She hated he was working for them, but she wanted to support his dreams nonetheless. As she shook herself from her thoughts, she laid in the back of the vardo, watching the sunlight streaming into the wooden structure. The inside was painted a dark green color, much like the vast expanse of trees surrounding the spot they all stopped at. As she looked up aimlessly, she marveled at the intricate gold-painted wood details that lined the inside of the space, nicely contrasting with the rich colors of the various curtains and small decorations hanging from the windows. As her eyes wandered, she saw the small drawers and a lamp that was resting on the wooden flooring, and a rug with floral patterns and golden thread weaved throughout, taking up the majority of the space.

As she took in her new surroundings, she heard the voices of Bonnie and his father Aberama talking with some people outside. They were voices she didn’t fully recognize.

Y/n stepped out carefully, the fall air creeping up around her dress as she walked down towards them. On her way over, Bonnie’s sister - and her new best friend, stopped her and pulled her gently to the side over by where her and her other sister were setting up breakfast.

“Hey y/n, let me know what Bon says when he gets done meeting with them, I hate him getting involved in that blinder business.” She said, skeptically looking out at them talking with a stone-faced man with two others behind him. They all had their razor-blade caps on, including Bonnie. Y/n knew the men they were talking to as Bonnie had mentioned them before, back when he had just started working with them. She had also met them at plenty of his boxing matches over the year.

“I know Esmeralda. But I’ve met them enough to know they’re not all that bad, but I’ll have a talk with him. Promise.” Y/n said hugging her.

She walked over carefully, draping a hand over her small bump she had forming under her blue dress. The blinders looked over and Bonnie and his dad followed suit, Bonnie tensing a bit as she made her way over. He watched her with a sweet smile, desperately trying to hide the strain in his eyes as he had been told some news about the gangs.

“Good morning love. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” He said as she put her arm around his waist, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“What I was saying Mr. Gold, was that we’ll need you both in Small Heath by 9 tomorrow. We have to be ready.” The stone-faced man, Tommy Shelby said to Aberama quietly.

Y/n observed the others and saw that they looked a bit uncomfortable, their trigger-fingers itching for action as usual. But no blood would be spilled, not here anyways.

She felt Bonnie relax as they said goodbye to them, the two of them watching as they walked off towards their cars that were glistening in the sunlight.

“What was that about Bon?” She asked as he walked with her back to where everyone was gathering for breakfast.

“I’ll tell ya later. It’s nothing for you to worry about now love.” He said pulling out a chair for her to sit at and then fixing himself and y/n some of what Esmerelda had cooked.

Y/n tried her best to eat as the morning sickness was more prevalent than in the previous weeks. But she ended up running off anyways to bring it up once again, frustrated at not being able to keep anything down. After getting herself under control, she wandered off to the creek nearby to rest, loving the sounds of the water rushing amongst the trees.

Bonnie sat for a moment fumbling with a small ring in his pocket while talking quietly to his father about the plans for tomorrow. His father noticed and winked as he took it out to glance at it, it was Bonnie’s late mothers ring, but Aberama made sure to keep it for him when he found “the one.” As he talked about his plans, he couldn’t shake the thoughts of y/n and how she was doing, so he excused himself, hastily shoving the ring back in his pocket, and running towards where she went off to.

Bonnie knew she was having a hard time adjusting to being away from her family, while also not wanting to go back. Her family were like ghosts in a way, they were present, but were never available when she needed them. They never once offered to meet him nor did they take their daughter seriously when she told them her news, and when she left they barely muttered a goodbye.

As he walked into the forested area he remembered that day and how she was sad to leave the town she grew up in, but seeing her finally open up once she was out of the confines of her house was one of his favorite moments. In his eyes she was like a butterfly bursting from a cocoon, ready to see what this new life had to offer. She had always been fragile in a sense, but at the same time so strong which he admired her for.

He heard her crying as he saw her sitting by the creek in the distance.

Slowly walking down towards her, he saw her stand up, wiping away the last of her tears on her hands.

“Y/n? Love are you okay?” He asked quietly, not wanting to startle her.

She turned around and smiled weakly, more tears falling reluctantly to the ground.

She immediately hugged him to her, letting the rest of the tears fall that she had held in for so long.

“What’s wrong love? You can tell me ya know...” he said patting her back gently.

She looked up as he wiped some of the stray tears from her face and sighed.

“I guess I’m just frustrated. I’m frustrated that I can’t eat, and I’m frustrated that you have to go and get involved in all these things for Tommy and them. You all are basically my only family now and I just don’t want you all to get hurt.” She said.

Bonnie pulled her closer to him and kissed her forehead and sighed, looking out at the trees as their branches swayed around them. What he would give to not have to do the things he did, he just wanted to box and to be able to support her but he had to do what he had to in order to keep them safe. Even it meant killing people.

“I’m doing this for us love, you know that right? I know what I’m doing, and so does my dad. No one will hurt you. I promise.” He said.

“Why were they telling you to meet them tomorrow? What was all that about Bon? I doubt it’s about boxing.” She said, a bit of anger taking over as she undid herself from his grasp and sat on a nearby tree stump.

“It’s about the gangs y/n...they’re planning to attack him and have already blown up one of his supply yards and they need our help. He wanted to come to tell us his plan. We’re leaving at 8 tomorrow to meet him, just me and my dad and a couple of the lads.” He said.

“I’m going.” Y/n said looking away from him.

He came over and sat by her, putting his arms around her as she leaned into him.

“As much as I want you to, I can’t let you sweetheart. You need to stay here where it’s safe, because none of them know we’re out here, Tommy made sure of it. It’s not just you I’m thinking about anymore you know. I need you, and I need you both safe.” He said placing a hand on her small bump, as she placed her hand over his, sighing in defeat.

“I guess you’re right, but you better come back so help me god.” She said and got up. Bonnie smirked and joined her as they walked back. A pretty blue butterfly fluttering past, making him smile.

“What’re you smiling at?” She asked smirking as their steps crunched the leaves that were beginning to blanket the ground.

“Did you see that butterfly going past?” He asked.

“No, I was too busy looking at you.” She said smirking as she held his hand.

He grinned. “Well, I was just thinking about how you remind me of it. Beautiful, yet fragile in the best of ways.” He said.

“In what ways am I fragile? Do I look like a mirror or a glass vase or something?” She asked laughing.

“No my love, you’re just fragile in the sense that you’re precious and I’d never want to hurt you. You care so much about everyone and it’s one of the reasons I love you, and why I’m so glad you’re going to be the mother of my child. I mean that...you’re strong and you’ve always been the one to help me out and put up with all my shit for so long. I just want to be able to help you for once. I want you to know that I care about you and that no matter what I’ll always be there for you.” He said stopping and looking down at her.

Y/n smiled and looked up at him, feeling like she could stare at him forever if life permitted.

“I love you too. And I care about you more than you know. We care about you more than you know.” She said cradling her stomach.

“We just want you to be safe, we just want you to come back to us.” She said quietly and walking ahead.

“Y/n...I’ll always come back to you, and with this I definitely will.” He said as he fished for the small ring in his pocket.

Y/n turned around to see him on one knee holding the diamond ring shakily.

“Will ya marry me at least? I’m 100% sure I’d come back knowing you’re the one wearing this.” He asked cheekily.

Y/n stopped and smiled.

“Bonnie fucking Gold are you serious?” She asked stretching out her hand for him to put it on.

“C’mon is it a yes?” He asked as she looked at the ring.

“You could’ve proposed with a piece of string tied together and I would’ve said yes! of course I’ll marry you.” She said smirking and bringing him in for a kiss.

Not soon after, they made their way back to camp and y/n immediately went over to Esmeralda.

“So what’d he say? Oh my god why are you so happy?” She asked raising an eyebrow and sitting down with a cup of tea.

Y/n took a deep breath and told her, no matter the outcome, it had to be said.

“He said they’re going to help the blinders with some peaky business...I tried to tell him I’d go with him and he said no because they’re going to take down a gang that’s been fucking Tommy over. And despite my protests he said it was unsafe for both me and the baby. Anyways, that means it’s me and you running this place until they get back....” Y/n said looking off to see Aberama hugging Bonnie, congratulating him.

“Okay...and that’s a good thing?” She asked as you smiled.

“Well no, I obviously don’t want them to go, but we’d get the place to ourselves for a couple of days, save the couple of others around. Maybe then we could start planning...” Y/n said.

“Planning for wh-“ Esmeralda stopped short as Y/n slowly held her hand up.

“Oh my god yes! I was going to whack him upside the head if he didn’t do it soon. I’m so happy for you! We’re definitely planning this wedding.” She said giving y/n a hug.

Bonnie came over after their little convo and sat with them around the fire, his arm around Y/n’s shoulders as she curled up next to him. As much as she feared for him leaving tomorrow, she believed he’d come back to her, and no matter what happened he’d always make sure his family was safe.

[prairiesongserial]

12.12

The keys to the truck landed in Val’s hands before Val had quite processed that Johannes had thrown them.

“Here, you drive,” Johannes said.

This was the most preposterous thing Val had ever heard. He was speechless as he watched Johannes hoist himself up over the side of the truck bed. Johannes’s stomach rested on the edge, feet dangling down, as he strained to reach something in one of the boxes.

“I just asked you to take me home,” Val finally said. “And you want - I’m sorry, I got set on fire today.”

“Not your first time, though,” Johannes said, voice strained from the odd position he was in. “Ha!” he exclaimed, and slid back down to the ground holding a crumpled shirt. It was the shirt Val had changed out of earlier today.

Johannes clearly noticed the look Val was giving him, because he added, “The scars on your palms. Those are burns, obviously.”

Val didn’t think that was obvious. He clutched the keys tightly, waiting for Johannes to hand him his shirt so they could get this over with. Every word out of Johannes’s mouth made it harder to think of him charitably, which was a marvel in itself, considering Johannes had just saved his life.

Val extended his hand for his shirt. Johannes walked past him, around to the passenger side of the truck, without appearing to notice that Val expected his own shirt to be returned to him.

“Would you unlock it?” Johannes said.

“Unbelievable,” Val said, almost hysterical. He unlocked the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. He felt naked and filthy; there was so much ash adhered to the sweat on his skin that he didn’t recognize himself. It made him worry that his burns were worse than they seemed, that maybe he was still moving from sheer force of will, and that eventually the pain would catch up to him. He worried that if he pressed down on the wrong part of himself, he’d find that swaths of his flesh had turned to crumbling charcoal.

Val started the engine. He took a breath.

“Can I have my shirt?” he asked.

“No,” Johannes replied, shaking out the wrinkles. He turned Val’s shirt inside out.

“Great,” Val said.

Val’s shirt on his lap, Johannes dug in the glove box in a way that was hard to ignore. Val sighed, and began to figure out how the truck worked. He hadn’t been behind the wheel of something this size since he’d traveled with Hez. That was a startling thought. Val had forgotten all about Hez teaching him how to drive the van. He smiled bitterly as he put the truck in gear. He wasn’t sure if it counted as a good memory, but parts of it were good. He remembered how anxious Hez had been about him driving, saying “Jesus, careful” so often that it had become a call and response between him and Val. Val would reply, every time, “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” It was a pattern that had come to mean something else over time: first sincere, then playful, then finally tender. At least on Val’s part.

Val clutched the steering wheel. He didn’t want to think about Hez right now. Of course he would be preoccupied with the itch of a ten year old scar when he had open wounds he should be thinking about.

The truck was loud, but easy enough to drive. Val got it moving.

“Why am I driving?” he asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he wasn’t going to have the energy for Johannes’s response.

Instead, Johannes waved a hand dismissively. Whatever he was fiddling with in the glove box was a mystery for now. Val couldn’t both watch Johannes and drive.

Val drove fast. The truck quickly left behind the narrow lane that had led them to the beach, rejoining the Old World highway. Val picked up more speed with the long stretch of empty road before him. It was surprisingly comforting, feeling the roar of the engine vibrating the gas pedal under his foot as he pushed the truck to go faster. Val swerved around a pothole, then partially hopped the curb in order to get around a felled tree blocking three lanes.

“Would you slow down when you do that?” Johannes grouched. His finger was in his mouth, like he’d hurt himself. Val rolled down the window. “Hey, if you do that, I can’t - ”

“What? I can’t hear you. The wind is too loud,” Val said obnoxiously.

He caught Johannes’s eye. Johannes was staring at him like he was a difficult logic puzzle, the shirt trying to whip out of his hands as the wind tossed it around. Val was noticing that Johannes’s gaze always seemed more intense than it actually was. The fact that his eyes were mismatched made every expression more extreme - and Johannes rarely hesitated to lean into extreme expressions. This time, though, Val was sure he was reading into things. Val hastily looked away and focused on the road in front of him.

“Do your friends not know?” Johannes asked. He spoke loudly enough to be heard over the wind, but only barely.

Val knew what Johannes was talking about, and bit back a defensive “Know about what?” There was no point in avoiding the question; Johannes wasn’t going to let Val hide. He wouldn’t even give Val his shirt. The mutant arms on Val’s stomach were free to open and close their fists, experimenting with their new freedom of movement. They brushed themselves against the steering wheel in a way that was very distracting.

“It’s personal,” Val said, not answering the question.

Johannes sat up straighter.

“They don’t know? None of them know?” he said.

“I got burned at the stake today, so give me a fucking break,” Val snapped. He could feel Johannes’s eyes on him, and after a minute, he cracked. “Friday knows.”

“Is she - ”

“No! She’s normal.”

Val caught Johannes raising his eyebrows. He swerved more viciously than necessary around another pothole, and Johannes yelped, his finger going to his mouth again.

Val squinted at him. Johannes was doing something to Val’s shirt, despite having to fight the wind. Val clearly saw a needle and thread.

“Hey - ” he began. He had to return his attention to the road when the truck’s right wheels crossed the rumble strip. He jerked the truck back into the lane. “What are you doing? That’s mine.”

“I’m not doing any fine embroidery, that’s for sure.”

“You’re embroidering it? Give it back!”

Val grabbed for it, but Johannes was faster. He held the shirt out of Val’s reach.

“I said I’m not embroidering it. Would you put the window up?”

Val didn’t. The wind whipped what was left of his hair into his face, and he frustratedly pushed it back.

“I don’t see why you won’t give it back,” Val said. He realized he was dangerously close to revealing a tender spot, but he was going too fast to stop. “You know I don’t want people to see, but you’re making me sit here, and - and it’s not the first time. You looked while I was changing. Why would you…” Val swallowed. “What’s wrong with you?”

Johannes actually seemed stumped by that. He frowned down at Val’s shirt, moving his needle with careful precision. But Val could tell that what he had said had bothered Johannes. Johannes’s face was mostly turned away, but Val could see his ears were red.

Val looked back at the highway, throat tight. This was going to be a long drive.

As the minutes ticked by, Val felt angrier, until he was so worked up he felt like his stomach had turned to molten lead. He had said all that, and Johannes was still keeping his shirt from him. Johannes hadn’t even attempted to make an excuse for not giving it back. Val held every silent minute against him. He heard Johannes bite off a thread with his teeth. Then he heard a seam popping open.

“Johannes - ” Val yelled.

“Trust the process!” Johannes yelled back. “I’m sorry I looked when you were changing. If I give you the shirt now, you’ll wrap yourself up in that shit again and never take it off until you die.”

“That’s not your business, and it’s not your choice,” Val returned. He felt a strange sense of relief that at least they were arguing again, even if it was the same argument they’d just had at the beach. “I get that you’re a free spirit with a cute mutation, so you can’t relate, but I get to hide if I want to.”

“Oy, miskenchik,” Johannes said, in a tone that seeped with hostile irony - Val instantly got the idea that it meant “poor thing.”

“What?” Val challenged.

“You and I aren’t the only ones in the circus with mutations, and if you want to play who has it worst, there’s a long line,” Johannes said.

Val rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about the whole circus. I’m talking about you. You don’t understand how it feels to sit here right now, or you wouldn’t be playing keep away.”

Johannes released a sigh laden with several exasperated curses.

“Five minutes, ketsele,” he said testily.

Val bit the inside of his lip, glaring down the road.

“What does that word mean?” Val said.

“Annoying pain in my ass,” Johannes replied smoothly. He continued to whip his needle through Val’s shirt. It hadn’t been more than two minutes before he exclaimed, “There, done.”

He tossed the shirt into Val’s lap.

“Take the wheel,” Val snapped. He didn’t wait for Johannes to reply before letting go. He unbuckled his seat belt and wrestled himself into the button down shirt as Johannes lunged for the steering wheel. Val moved his fingers over the inside of the shirt, frowning. Johannes had sewn something into the lining.

Val took the wheel back, shirt still unbuttoned. He pulled over abruptly and parked at an odd angle on the side of the highway. The road was so empty that he didn’t have to look before throwing open the door and jumping down. Johannes was climbing out of the truck too, though less urgently. Val twisted himself and the shirt to try to see what Johannes had done. His eyes widened. Sewn into the lower half of the shirt, at just the right height for Val’s mutant arms, were two small, hidden sleeves. The stitching was clearly rushed, but skilled. Val carefully experimented with them, not caring that Johannes was watching. He guided each little arm, arms that he wasn’t used to touching, into its sleeve. He buttoned the shirt, noticing that it lay differently than he was used to. It was less fitted at some points, and more so at others.

Val swallowed, and looked down at himself. The sleeves held his mutant arms still inside his shirt. They lay at a comfortable diagonal across his stomach. Val ran a finger down a seam that Johannes had popped open and re-sewn at a slightly different angle. Whatever he had done, it worked to disguise that Val had anything unusual about his midriff.

“Are we cool?” Johannes asked.

Val nodded silently.

“Great. I’ll drive,” Johannes said. He walked past Val to open the driver’s side door. Val crossed to the other side of the truck. He buckled his seat belt and watched Johannes start the truck again.

The truck peeled onto the highway. Val kept looking down at his apparently flat stomach. He could feel the mutant arms snugly in their sleeves, but he couldn’t see them from the outside.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I did it?” Johannes asked. Val looked up at him. There was the beginning of a cocky smile on his face.

“I know how you did it. You took my shirt apart and put it back together.” There were little holes where the old seams had been, but those would close up in time.

Johannes was full-on beaming now.

“You’re impressed, I know,” he said. “But I can’t tell you. A magician is nothing without his secr- ”

Val shoved him, and Johannes burst into laughter.

“It would work even better with some flash for misdirection,” Johannes said, explaining himself after all. Clearly he couldn’t help it. “Or if the top of your shirt was a light color, while the bottom was dark. But barring that...I could sew some gold fringe along this seam, here…”

Johannes ran his finger across Val’s collar bone.

“Cut it out,” Val said, shrugging out from under Johannes’s hand. He opened the glovebox and pulled the map out from under Johannes’s sewing kit. He held it between himself and Johannes, though it was a flimsy barrier.

“Good idea,” Johannes said. “Where are we?”

12.11 || 12.13

[per-ineptia-ad-astra]

starhearth: episode five

Second Month of Spring, Day 5-6

Early in the morning, while the last of the rain from the day before is still petering out, the explorer who promised to trade us some cricket golems returns.

[ID: A screenshot of a notification box titled ‘The explorer returns!’ The text inside the box reads, “The explorer returns!--I’m back! It looks like you’ve made me the 5 Wooden Window Frame I asked for. Are you still interested in 2 Autonomous Cricket Golem in exchange? I assure you, they are more useful than any normal person at carrying things!”]

Once activated, the two little golems quickly go to work picking up items and moving them to the stockpiles. These guys will be very helpful to us. As more and more of the villagers become crafters or warriors and spend most of their time focused on that, there are fewer and fewer people to do the necessary work of just hauling stuff from one place to another. The cricket golems will help pick up the slack.

[ID: A screenshot of the item stockpile, containing animal pelts, bones, strips of rawhide and blocks of wood, as the two golems pick up items from the stockpile. The golems are dark gray and rectangular in shape, with four stubby legs, small square gray heads, two glowing yellow eyes, and two glowing rectangular antennae.]

More good news: we’ve got enough food and networth to pick up another villager.

Now, I realize that you may have increasingly been thinking, as this game continues to progress, “uh, where the hell is SPOCK? you’ve literally included LESLIE in your roster before SPOCK? what are you even doing here” or something along those lines. Well, you can rest assured I did not forget about Spock. The reason I haven’t made him a villager yet comes down to one simple thing: I had no absolutely no idea what to do with him. There is no position available to the Hearthlings that even remotely corresponds to ‘science officer’. Herbalist, maybe, at a stretch—but there are multiple characters who fit that job better by virtue of being actual medical professionals. I thought about making him a warrior of some kind, since Spock takes out a fair amount of foes throughout the series, but that didn’t seem to fit him very well. Spock’s not a warrior at heart. He’s just a guy who’s willing to nerve pinch a bad guy or two if the situation calls for it.

But of course, we’ve gotta have Spock in here somewhere. So in the end, after much deliberation, I decided...to make him a Weaver. Weavers are a crafting class that refine fibers and animal pelts into thread, leather and cloth, which can then be used either by the Weaver to make clothes that provide various benefits to Hearthlings, or by other crafters to make things like bows and armor.

My reasoning for this? Spock’s fabulous sense of fashion. That’s it. That’s literally it.

[ID: A screenshot of Spock’s Character Info window, which shows that his mood is content, his stats are 6 Mind, 5 Body and 4 Spirit, his class is Worker, he has the trait ‘Night Owl’--represented by a crescent moon icon—and his mood is being improved by the ‘Pioneering Spirit’ buff. Below, Spock’s portrait is seen in the information box at the bottom of the screen, showing him to be a white Hearthling with brown eyes, short square black hair, and thick black eyebrows.]

Spock has an impressive stat spread—6 Mind, 5 Body and 4 Spirit—and the trait Night Owl. You might remember that Kirk also has this trait; it makes the Hearthling stay up later at night and wake up later in the day. So Kirk and Spock can keep each other company. As it should be.

The character appearance options aren’t exactly equipped to make Vulcans, so the best I can do is give Spock some really big eyebrows. Unfortunately, a strange graphical glitch results in those eyebrows floating in the air next to his head instead of remaining on his face as eyebrows usually do.

[ID: A screenshot of Spock the Hearthling running over the grass with his eyebrows floating at the right height, but to the right of his head instead of on it.]

my god, those NBC execs were right all along! his eyebrows are demonic!

Well...it’ll probably sort itself out.

Meanwhile, McCoy needs to build himself a cauldron so he can craft potions. This requires a bit of stone. Once we start mining for ore, we’ll have more stone than we know what to do with, but for the moment we’re fresh out. Luckily there are some boulders standing out in the fields around the village, so McCoy goes out to break those down for stone. Apparently he doesn’t much feel like picking it up afterward, though, because he just kind of stands there while a cricket golem comes to collect the stone instead.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy standing in the grass staring at the stockpile and doing nothing, while behind him a cricket golem picks up a block of stone.]

what? did you not get your coffee today?

Once the stone is in the stockpile, though, McCoy—begrudgingly, I assume—goes to craft a cauldron out of it, and begins brewing some potions. A few energy potions made from the ad hoc little herb garden will make everyone move a bit faster for a while, which hopefully will speed up production of the tavern.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy bending over a bubbling cauldron next to his workstation in the grass. The information box below describes him as ‘crafting energy tonic.’]

Uhura has befriended another rabbit, this one named March. I really hope March and Thumpy don’t breed, because if we get into a Trouble With Tribbles situation I don’t think my CPU will be able to handle it.

[ID: A screenshot of the camp with a small rabbit sitting next to the empty hearth, while Kirk patrols nearby and McCoy gets something from the stockpile in the background.]

Night Owl Spock stays up to finish putting the roof on the tavern after everyone else has gone to bed. He’s not completely alone, though; he’s got his eyebrows to accompany him.

[ID: Spock walking across the roof of the tavern in the dark, eyebrows still hovering next to his head.]

The next morning is warm but a bit rainy. With the tavern itself completed, all that’s left is to place all the windows and doors. Everyone chips in to help.

[ID: A screenshot of several villagers walking across the grass towards the tavern, each carrying a door or window. Rand is selected in the information box below, which says she is ‘placing Wooden Door.’]

Some more Entlings attack...or rather, they try to, but they’re up on the cliffs surrounding the town to the north, and can’t get down. So they just kind of stand there angrily for a while before wandering off again.

[ID: A shot from the front of the tavern, showing four Entlings standing on the cliff some distance in the background.]

The tavern is finally finished, and everyone takes a moment to celebrate.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Leslie, Spock, Chekov, and Scotty all standing in front of the tavern with their hands in the air as confetti and clouds of dust fly up from the completed building.]

There’s not much time to stand around, though—now that the building is complete, it’s time to start moving things into it. Eventually we’ll make individual houses for people and use the tavern as, well, a tavern, but for the moment it’s more pressing to just get everyone under a roof, so the beds are moved into what’s theoretically the tavern pantry. Well, almost all the beds. One of them can’t be moved for a while, because Kirk is sleeping in it.

[ID: A screenshot of Kirk passed out in the one remaining bed next to the berry bushes.]

The berry bushes and herb garden are also moved over to be closer to the tavern, and the outside storepiles decommissioned in favor of moving all our supplies into some more neatly organized boxes inside. Scotty queues up some more storage boxes as well as a few more beds to support the growing population, but he needs wood to make them, and building the tavern has used up our whole supply of it. So a few people are sent to cut down some trees. Just cutting down the trees growing nearby has given us enough wood so far, but that’s not going to be a sustainable solution forever. We’re going to need an orchard for wood, so a few acorns are also planted out back to get that started.

One of the felled trees drops a bee’s nest. This is actually a good thing—a Herbalist can collect the bees and put them in a hive which will supply honey. McCoy is sent to go pick up the bees, but he decides he’d rather get a drink instead.

[ID: A screenshot of the field behind the tavern, mostly cleared but with a couple of tree stumps in the corner. One of the stumps has a swarming bee’s nest on the ground next to it. McCoy is running away from the stump, and the information box below says that he is ‘getting a drink.’]

Yeah I can’t really say I blame him.

[knittedkikwi]

I found a solo rpg!

So, Mark Hulmes has been playing Ironsworn on his personal stream because it has the ability to support solo play. I finally took some time to watch a little bit of it and, me being me, jumped right into my own campaign. I had this idea of finding out what happens if you make a character with no past. Could you come up with a coherent story for someone starting with amnesia? Solo play relies a lot on you rolling on random generator tables and then making them fit into the situation. Could this be used to reveal a character’s past or would it just turn out crazy. I’m gonna try it and post it here. I’m writing out the campaign as I go as if I were writing a story (with random inserts of the rolls I’ve made so I can remember what I’ve actually done.). I’ve written up her story so far below the cut if anyone’s interested. Be warned, it’s long and I am not a writer. Let’s see how this experiment goes, shall we?

The first thing Mira noticed as she awoke was the complete lack of light. The second thing was the staleness of the air. It was getting harder to breathe and she was starting to panic. Adrenaline surged through her as she took stock of her surroundings. There was something heavy resting on top of her and her hands were wrapped around it. It seemed to be poking her palm, so she released it and started feeling outward. It was a small space, the walls felt like wood. Mira brought her arms up and braced them against the top panel of this box. Using all the strength she could summon, Mira pushed upwards. After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, the panel moved. Dirt cascaded down on her as she continued to push. Coughing, Mira sat up and looked around. She was in a cheap pine box, whose top was about four inches below ground. Someone had buried her, but she didn’t know who, or why, or even where she was. Come to think of it, she didn’t know who she was either. She knew her name was Mira, but nothing else.

Mira sat there a while longer to get her breathing under control before attempting to stand. When she did, something heavy fell from her lap with a sold thunk. Her glance down revealed a battle axe, the hand worn smooth with use, the blade showing wear but the edge razor sharp. She frowned. A handle that smooth shouldn’t have been poking her hand, so what had she felt earlier. Mira picked up the axe the axe with ease, despite it being quite heavy. There, hidden under the axe’s head, was a piece of paper. It was folded small enough that it could easily have fit in her palm. She picked it up and unfolded it, revealing writing on the inside.

“Mira-

You must flee. You are no longer safe here. I will catch up with you when I can.

-        R”

Odd. The confirmation of her name was reassuring, but she couldn’t remember where she was running from. And who was this R she was supposed to meet? She started rifling through her clothes to see if there were any other notes. Unfortunately, she was only wearing a simple dress that she supposed had been cream colored, before the dirt bath, and a green cloak. The cloak caught her interest. Symbols she did not recognize were embroidered all over it in black thread. What could that mean? Mira supposed the only way to find out was to find a village and start asking questions. Now if only she knew which way the village was…

Mira wandered the woods for hours before she was found by an elf named Dotani Kerihu. They were surprised to see her, but showed her compassion nonetheless. They traveled with her for a month, teaching her how to hunt and navigate the area she now knew was called the Deep Wilds. Dotani showed her how to craft a simple shield, light a fire, set snares, and, eventually, how to befriend animals. Mira seemed to have a special affinity for owls and manage to convince one to travel with them. She named it Gabriel, though she does not know why.

She doesn’t know why she does a lot of things. Her axe, for example. When Dotani was trying to show her how to split wood for a fire, Mira was immediately able to choose the precise point on the log to split it cleanly into two. When her axe stuck into the stump they were using as a base, she was able to wrench it free as if she had done it hundreds of times. Dotani let her borrow the whetstone he used on his daggers one evening. Before he even had a chance to start explaining what it was or how it worked, she was running it along the edge of her axe with the ease of someone well versed in the practice. She found herself going through what she assumed were training stances every night. She wished she knew where she learned them. Dotani seemed impressed with her form, finding very little to correct.

Eventually, Dotani lead her to the edge of the Wilds. They explained that due east was a large village named Grimtree. It was safe and she would likely be able to find work there. Hopefully she would be able to find answers. He gave her a token before they parted, a small wooden circle with a symbol carved on it. They explained that should she ever return to the Wilds and need Dotani’s help, find someone and show them that token. Then Dotani disappeared into the dense forest and Mira headed off on the first leg of what would hopefully be the journey to her past.

Mira stumbled into town, nervous about what she might find. What she ended up finding was Sadia Chandra, the owner of the only inn in town. Mira knew she needed someplace to stay and realized she would not have much luck with the general populace once she saw the distrustful looks from the townsfolk. (Not that she could really blame them. She’d washed her clothes as best she could, but they were still stained from her time underground.) So she headed to the Dragon & Raven Lodge to see if she could make some sort of arrangement. That’s where she met Sadia, barking orders at some long suffering waitress while simultaneously getting people room keys or extra blankets. Sadia was a sever woman with a eyes that always made you feel like you’d done something wrong. She nearly threw Mira out when she asked to pay for a room through work. Mira mentally thank Dotani for everything they had taught her as she played up her skills as a hunter and laborer. She was eventually able to convince Sadia to let her stay in exchange for running odd errands and helping at the inn whenever needed. The room wasn’t much, but it was clean and had hot water. Sadia even gave her a sensible set of work clothes (although this might have been because Sadia couldn’t stand that dress. Mira kept it in hopes that it might mean something later on.).

After a month, Sadia even trusted her to make a purchase from the traveling merchant, Themon Kai. He had been in town when Mira arrived, but she hadn’t paid any attention, being rather focused on find someplace safe to stay. Now, she was seeking him out with a couple of silver pieces to hopefully purchase more cutlery for the inn. Themon was easily found, seeing as he wore more elaborate clothing than most of the folks in town and had the voice to match. He was set up in the square, shouting about his wares and laughing with customers as they talked. He seemed to know everyone in town, including Mira somehow. When she approached, he remembered seeing her pass through and remarked that she looked considerably better than last he saw her. Surprised, Mira found herself having a quite enjoyable conversation with him. Looking over his wares for new forks and spoons, Mira spotted some old armor that intrigued her. Themon caught her eyeing it and explained he’d picked it up from an old shield maiden who retired several years ago and no longer needed it. The price was 5 gold pieces, but he might be willing to lower it if she could tell him a good story.

Mira had no money beyond what Sadia had gave her for errands, but she couldn’t get the armor out of her mind. Mira asked Sadia if she could take extra jobs at the inn to earn some money. Sadia begrudgingly agreed (Mira thinks Sadia’s starting to warm up to her, even if she won’t admit it) and Mira started making money for the first time in her life (as far as she could remember, anyway). It took a couple of months, but Mira saved up the 5 gold for the armor. Themon had been through town a few more times and Mira found she really enjoyed his company.

This time, though, she had a mission. She wanted that armor and some extra supplies if possible. When Mira marched up to Themon, he seemed to already know what was on her mind.

“You look as if you intend to purchase some armor!” He said with a smile.

“I do, and some other items if you have them. But first, let me tell you about the first thing I remember.” Mira told him as much as she could about waking up in the grave, befriending an elf, and eventually making her way to Grimtree. She left out the note, sharing that felt a little too personal, but tried to dramatize in a way she knew Themon would enjoy.

By the time she finished, Themon appeared simultaneously delighted and concerned. “You most certainly have had an interesting few months. I believe that story was well worth a discount. Let’s say 3 gold for the armor. And….take care, Mira. If what you just told me is true, you must have run afoul of some very dangerous people. Don’t go charging into adventure foolishly, or you may end up in the same place again, but you won’t wake up that time.”

Mira gave him a nod, “I am aware, Themon. Though I may not know why I was there, I intend to not repeat the same mistakes. But I do need to uncover who I am, one way or another.”

“Alright, just so long as you’re careful. If you start traveling, we’ll likely run into each other again. While I stay mostly in the Havens, I have been known to go to more far-flung areas from time to time. Keep me updated and I’ll see what I can do about keeping you supplied.”

“Thank you, Themon. I look forward to it.”

Mira walked back to the inn with her armor, a new knife, some basic provisions, and a plan to start travelling around the Havens in search of her past. The next morning though, bells started ringing as the townsfolk swarmed to center of town. Emelyn Sayer, the Head Woman in town, was standing on the porch of the main hall. She was a cheery woman with a powerful voice and the ability to get her way no matter the resistance. She had lead the town well the past few years and people tended to rely on judgement and level headedness. So Mira was shocked when she saw Emelyn looking frazzled. Emelyn seemed to return to herself after a moment and her voice rang out clearly over the square.

“Townspeople, 140 years ago, when this town was founded, we made an agreement with the Firstborn of the Deep Wilds. We would protect their realm and in exchange we received the Iron Shield to protect us. That shield has hung in the Main Hall ever since to keep us safe from the monsters that roam this land. But now, it has disappeared. Stolen in the night, leaving us exposed. I need a volunteer to find whoever stole the shield and return it to us before the terrors of the land realize we are vulnerable.”

Gasps were heard throughout the crowd as Emelyn spoke. Mira knew of the Iron Shield. It was always hanging behind the Head Woman’s chair. Sadia had told her that it had never rusted and never needed polishing. This was her chance! She could test her skills and her armor now before heading off to find her past.

“I will go!” Mira shouted, “I will find the Iron Shield and bring it back.”

Emelyn looked at her appraisingly and then looked to Sadia. Mira wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she saw Sadia nod ever so slightly. “Step forth, Mira, and take the Iron Vow.”

Mira worked her way to the front of the crowd, excitement thrumming in her veins. The townsfolk parted for her as she got closer. Those faces that had seemed so distrustful her first day now showed some dawning respect as she pulled her axe from her belt and knelt in front of Emelyn.

“Mira of the Deep Wilds, do you swear to find the Iron Shield and return it to the people of Grimtree?” Emelyn did not state it, but Mira understood what would happen if she failed. The village would be raided and this small community she had started to like would be destroyed.

Gripping the iron of her axe head, Mira made her oath, “I swear to return the shield to its rightful place here in Grimtree, or die in the attempt.”

[thegladelf]

Killian Jones and The Girl Who Lived 1/8

It’s finally time for me to share my @captainswanbigbang 2017 story with all y’all. You have no idea how excited I am to finally be sharing this with you (or how hard it’s been NOT talking about it, y’all know how I like to ramble). First off, I have to thank @icecubelotr44 for being an Awesome™ beta and sometimes second brain. I was also lucky enough to be matched up with two lovely artists, @prongsie and @jemmingart who will be posting artwork to go along with this story. I’ve seen some of what they’re working on and, let me tell you, you’re in for a treat. 

You can check out prongsie’s are for the first chapter here.

As always, you can find this on both FF.net and Ao3. And I always love to hear what you have to say. Enjoy!

Summary: Every young witch or wizard’s first year at Hogwarts is life-changing, but Killian doesn’t know just how life-changing it will be until he meets Emma Swan. OUAT/Harry Potter AU following Killian and Emma’s first year.

Word Count: 2k

Rating: G

Chapter One: A Stranger at the Door

It was a rainy, gray Tuesday when a visitor knocked at the Joneses’ door. Not a hard, demanding knock, nor a soft, timid knock. If a knock could be polite, but firm, it was this knock.

The Joneses were hardly a normal family--even ensconced in the middle of  London as they were--as one might guess if they caught sight of their unusual visitor. He was a tall, thin old man with a beard long enough to tuck into his belt and hair nearly as long. From his purple cloak to his high, buckled boots every bit of him clashed with the busy street. However, the boy on the other side of the door wasn't fazed by the man's odd attire as he squinted through the peephole.

“Is it your father?” Mrs. Alice Jones appeared in the doorway, her younger son propped on one hip and an oddly carved stick in her hand. It was, in fact, a wand. Alice was a witch.

“It’s Professor Dumbledore.”

“Liam, come here,” his mother said with forced calm. “Take your brother for me.”

Liam jumped down from the little stool at the door. In the year or so since the Joneses moved in, few of their old friends had visited—in fact almost none of their old friends knew where they were—and so his perch held a constant vigil at the front door. Especially when Papa went out. He didn’t quite understand why he and his brother couldn’t leave the cramped flat, but he spent many contented afternoons watching the people pass by on the street.

He took his brother without complaint, though he had to wrap both arms around the toddler to keep from dropping him.

“Listen to me, Liam,” Alice Jones said, smoothing a hand over his dark curls. “I’m going to make sure it really is the professor. If you hear anything, anything at all that sounds bad, I want you to touch the boot on the mantle. Make sure you have Killian’s hand when you do, alright?”

“But you said I must never—”

“I know, baby. I’m giving you permission. Just this once.” She leaned down and kissed his curls with shaking lips.

Liam nodded solemnly and retreated to the sitting room.

The clicks from four different locks echoed in the tiny hall. Alice left the chain done up, a nice, sturdy brass thing that would do her no good against the kind of enemies who drove her into hiding, but it might buy her boys some time.

Albus Dumbledore stared at her over half-moon spectacles, his hair and beard curling in the damp air.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Alice said. "Tell me, what is your favorite candy?"

"Lemon drops," the rough voice replied.

Alice sighed. The door creaked mournfully as she closed it to undo the chain. “Come in, Albus. I’ll admit, I had hoped you were Brennan.” She smiled as she relocked the door. “But it is nice to see a new face.”

Liam, leaving his brother standing by the mantle, trotted over as their visitor followed his mother into the sitting room.

Dumbledore smiled fondly at the boy. “Ah, come to see what I’ve brought you today?”

"Yes, sir."

"Liam," Alice hissed. "What do you say?"

"Please," Liam said, remembering his manners.

Albus Dumbledore patted a few pockets before find the right one, he reached in and pulled out a yellow candy wrapped in white paper. "Perhaps you'd like to try a lemon drop? Quite a rarity in our world," he said with a conspiratorial wink. "It's muggle made."

Liam's blue eyes grew two sizes as he held his hand out. "Thank you, Professor."

"And I know lemon drops are a bit small for someone of Killian's age, but perhaps he'd like a chocolate frog?" Dumbledore said, pulling a purple box from another pocket. "I dare say, he'll probably enjoy chasing it more than eating it."

Alice nodded, brushing strands of dark, unruly hair from her face. "I imagine he will. I'm not sure which of my boys has cabin fever worse."

Dumbledore handed the box to Killian, who turned it over in chubby hands. “There now, young Master Liam, why don’t you go help your brother with that while I have a chat with your mother, hmm?”

“Here,” Alice said, scooping Killian up and setting him on the couch. “I’ll just be over there if you need me.”

Liam obediently scrambled up onto the couch, helping his brother with the candy wrapper as his mother and her one-time teacher retreated to the other side of the room.

“I assume you’ve come because you have news.” Alice wrapped her worn cardigan around herself.

“Quite a bit of it, I’m afraid. Not all of it good, but some...” He pulled his glasses off, cleaning them carefully on the sleeve of his robes. The spectacles went back on his nose and were carefully adjusted. He folded his hands inside his voluminous sleeves as he continued, “I’ll start with a bit of the bad first, as one leads to the other.”

Alice nodded. She clasped trembling hands together.

“It is my regret to inform you that Lily and James Swan were murdered last night,” he said in a low, practiced tone.

Alice gasped, then slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes darting to where Liam corralled his brother’s chocolate frog on the couch. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Was it…” she trailed off, her lips pressed tight together and eyes wide with fear.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid it was, but that leads to the bit of good news I have for you.  Rumplestiltskin is dead. He made a choice last night and it was not your son. It should be safe for you to return home.”

Alice swallowed. “What about Emma? Did he…”

“Quite safe. It appears she managed to throw his own curse back at him. It is quite remarkable.”

“How? She’s only a child.”

Dumbledore nodded. "Wiser men than I are stumped by this. It will take some thought, quite a lot of it, I imagine. However she did it, last night she vanquished the Dark One. They are calling her The Girl Who Lived.”

Alice turned her back to her boys, swiping at wet cheeks before drawing a shaky breath. "How is she? Did he hurt her at all?"

"Aside from a cut on her forehead, she came out quite well, I think."

"Except that she's an orphan," Alice said quietly.

"Compared to how it might have ended for her, my dear, I would say she is better than could have been hoped," Dumbledore said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of lemon drops. He offered them to Alice, shrugging when she declined. "I have already taken to steps to see that she is cared for."

“Lily and James had no family to speak of." Alice’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking of putting her with that wretched Petunia… You are. No, absolutely not.”

“I’m afraid the options are limited…”

“What about Ruby? She’s the girl’s godmother after all.” Alice lifted her chin, hand propped on her hips. “Or what about here? Brennan and I could give her a good home. Lily would want her with people who love her.”

Dumbledore looked at her gravely, his eyes very sad. “Perhaps we should retreat to a more private location, I’m afraid there’s more I have to tell you.”

# # #

Alice took her time putting the boys to bed that night, rocking Killian in her arms until he fell sound asleep and lingering as she tucked Liam in. She talked with him, keeping him awake as long as she dared and dreading the moment his eyes closed for the night and left her on her own.

“Mama?” he asked, his fingers picking sleepily at the loose thread of his blanket.

“Yes, my love?”

“Did Dumbledore say when Papa is coming back?”

Alice swallowed, pushing down the feelings that clawed at her throat. “No, baby.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She took a deep breath, taking her son’s small hands in her own. She had hoped to put this off for a few days more. Killian was too young to notice, a few days and he would have forgotten all about his Papa, but Liam would remember. And Liam would keep asking. “Because Papa isn’t coming home. Papa died today.”

Liam blinked at her. “How?”

“Bad wizards,” Alice said, her voice breaking. “Bad wizards killed him.”

She couldn’t tell him the whole truth, not yet. When he was older maybe, if he asked, she might give him all the gruesome details, but not now. Now, he just needed to know that his father was dead.

“So he’s never coming back? Never ever?”

Alice shook her head.

Tears welled up in his big, blue eyes and she gathered him up in her arms, muffling his sobs against her shoulder so he didn’t wake his brother. He cried until he fell asleep.

Alice was not so lucky. Even after she cried all her tears, she could not sleep. Eight years of marriage meant that she had trouble falling asleep alone even on the best of nights and now, though she longed for the numbness of sleep, it danced away from her. She lay there, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom, afraid to close her eyes. Each time she did her mind told her that if she reached out, Brennan would be there on the other side of the bed.

“Mama?” Liam’s voice broke the stillness well past midnight.

Alice propped herself on her elbow. “Yes, baby?”

“Killian can’t sleep.”

She smiled. “Can’t he now?”

Liam shook his head.

She reached out and tousled his hair. “Well, then, what say you and I keep him company in here and see if that helps?”

Her son nodded vigorously.

As expected, she found Killian sleeping soundly when she crept into the boys’ room. He melted into her, boneless and grumpy when she pulled him out of his crib and was already back asleep by the time she returned to her room. She helped Liam tuck him in beside her and then held the covers up as he crawled into bed on her other side, pulling him close and burying her nose in his fine hair. The curls tickled.

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you gonna go fight the bad wizards that killed Papa?”

Alice swallowed. “I have to. It’s my job and now that…” She knew she could say the name now. Should say the name and refuse to live in fear. But it stuck in her throat. “Now that You Know Who isn’t after your brother, it’s time for me to go back to work.” Especially since she had to provide for her family all on her own now.

“Good,” Liam said.

Alice sighed, glad that this wouldn’t end in another meltdown. Liam had been nearly ecstatic to have her home with him every day for the last year. He was young, but despite her best attempts to hide any injuries, he knew her job was dangerous.

“When I grow up,” Liam whispered. “I wanna fight bad wizards just like you. I wanna be an oro too.”

“Auror, sweet.” Alice chuckled. “And I think you would be very good at it.”

She fell asleep like that. Left arm curled around her oldest son, right hand holding her baby’s hand. And as she fell asleep, she thought of another child. A little girl she had only seen in the pictures her best friend sent. The best friend she would never see again. She wondered how long it might be before she met The Girl Who Lived.

All those letters and pictures…Alice decided she would save them for later, so that someday, little Emma might know just how much her parents loved her.

She and Lily had had such plans when they found out their children would be born around the same time. It seemed fate when the two babies were born within a day of each other. They thought they would raise their children together. Be each other’s family and give their children the family neither of them ever had. But now, letters and pictures were all she had of her best friends. Of her husband.

She swallowed back the tears. She would keep it together for her boys, they needed her now more than ever.

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Phantom Thread

Paul Thomas Anderson kicked me while I was down, and I think I’m alright with it. 

Last night, venturing home from a friend’s house, I took the long way home in an attempt to summarize and understand the magnitude of what I’d just spent two hours and ten minutes observing. Anderson’s Phantom Thread- nominated for 6 Oscars- is a hypnotic, riveting work depicting the close quartered living of two aesthetics; one meticulously crafted and routinely molded, another free form and curious of its boundaries. In this, we see a man’s life quite literally sewn together by the fabric of his work and the woman that weaves her way into it. Leaving little room for error or adventure, the back and forth of the endeavor of the marriage between the two characters simultaneously presents itself as wittily sardonic and tastefully passionate. 

Anderson, as a film maker, has ticked every box on a checklist I could have written up for him, and I like that. What I like more is that he added to it in a way that was so under the table and unbeknownst to me at first glance. What I like is the style he presents, not just in costume and architecture, but in the way he makes it feel similar to the creation of Inherent Vice. Slow burning, a bit condensed and small, and brainwashing. In a good way. The sense that it feels almost claustrophobic because of the lack of variation in setting sets you in the house that Reynolds (Daniel Day Lewis) has spent his entire life in. The house and his work is just as much a fiber of his being as his own flesh is. I found that this was one thing where substance and sound mattered equally to me. Often times where a film lacks in regards to dialogue, the presentation makes up for it. Vice versa with films that are dialogue dense and lacking in the actual look of the screen. This was one where I found neither outweighing another. The breakfast scene, the conversation between Cyril and Alma, the banter back and forth between the main characters and the scene where they discuss Alma’s asparagus with Reynolds asking if she was a spy sent to ruin his night or quite possibly his entire life. All of this, the scene where she tells Reynolds she wants him to be sick and weak and tender and then strong again- set perfectly aside these captivating faces, dresses, gloomily lit rooms and shots that are so tranquil and then so bold- it just makes for something so absolutely cunning and marvelous. 

In summary, the film is about Reynolds Woodcock and his life. His house, his dresses, the women who work for and surround him- all of these things that give him this sense of stability and routine. He has little to no room for interruption or error, and quite literally has a complete break down when his course is thrown off ever so slightly. He is an absurdly poised character with mannerisms sure to make any and every woman swoon- also, I really would set Day Lewis on a pedestal just to admire how handsome he was in this film. He is accompanied closely by his sister who is somewhat of a work partner and almost a care taker in her own way. She sees that things are handled accordingly and handles minor infractions such as telling the woman Reynolds had previously been involved with to leave once he’s lost his interest in her. Upon the first scene, I certainly felt a tinge of contempt for the character. You always want to hate the workaholic who can’t give the time of day to someone who just wants to care about him, but for this character, it reaches past that. Losing his mother, Reynolds is faced with a tugging inside of him that looms over him in a mild mannered way. Inferentially, they had quite a bond and the loss of her most likely drove him to burrow in his work and never come out of it. He meets a waitress when he visits the country, and this is where the plot picks up and we see his life begin to falter on its tracks. Alma, a sweet woman infatuated with Reynolds from the start, is far stronger a character than I ever expected. Throughout, we see the piecing together of two people who are nothing but equals, and that is what has impressed me so much from this. Reynolds struggles with what is new and different in his life, and Alma tests him in a way that isn’t so much cynical, but more so effortful in the chance she may get him to open up and become anew. There is a lot of back and forth, a lot of learning, and a lot of acceptance and patience. There is a lot of patience. The twist comes in the last 10-15 minutes, and though it’s surely a sick and sociopathic sort of ending, you take that piece and start back from the beginning and analyze the characters with this information and see just how their dynamics really came together.

As aforementioned, something I really found worthy of talking about with this film, the dynamics of the characters are so artfully crafted. The relationship played out between the two was something so entrancing because you could not feel for who had the greater pull. In this, I mean that I recall a scene where I sat there and said in my head, “I could not tell you which one needs the other more.” Throughout, both characters seem to play the entire course of the submissive and dominant spectrum. You have Reynolds who is not accustomed to this sort of love and companionship, and all throughout the film, I could not tell you if he would have been hurt by Alma leaving. In the same sense, I couldn’t say on Alma’s behalf if he’d asked her to leave. Both characters have moments where they’re seemingly infantile in nature and in need of nurturing, and both have moments where they’re taking prideful strides around the lion’s den in contest to have the upper hand. I thought the complexity of two characters who struggled with developing senses of confidence in their relationship was refreshing and found that two people who play complete equals was entirely admirable. 

In discussing the relationship, it goes to say that this is one that does stump me. In the end, you realize that this is such a sociopathic and sick thing to be a part of, but, throughout, I was a penny off from tipping my scales in favor of one or the other. The relationship as a whole is something deemed unhealthy because it is, but Reynolds relationships with things like work and the world outside of it aren’t necessarily normal and healthy in nature. Alma and Reynolds have this piece of themselves that they can set aside for one another, and Reynolds is more routine and timely in finding his than Alma. She appears, at times, to be less capable of holding back what she feels for him and professes there are many things she’d like to do in hopes of pleasing him, but Reynolds is simply so hard to get ahold of at times. In a desperate  attempt to gain attention from him, she poisons Reynolds so that he becomes weak and in need of her presence. This is the time that Alma is able to feel superior in a house the Reynolds has made inferior to him. The two thrive in cyclical motions, and it becomes that Alma is as routine as Reynolds in some ways. Maybe not that she has become as routine, but that she has become aware and complacent of them so that they play into her ideals. When taking into account the ending of the film, we see that this really has become such a twisted and sick sort of cycle. Reynolds is aware of Alma’s poisoning him and is seemingly alright with it. He knows that Alma will take care of him and he will be in a state of agony and submissiveness. He will need her, she will thrive off of giving and caring for him, and then he will become strong and the man she wants to depend on and love while he does his work. She right out tells him during dinner that he will be sick, but he will not die. He will want to, but she will take care of him. Then, he will get strong again, and the cycle would ultimately just continue. Reynolds is dementedly complacent in this, and this is how the routine of the two beings to fall into place. Throughout the film, Alma is seen speaking with a doctor by the fire in a therapy like session. She admits that, if he dies, it is okay, because he will be waiting for her in all of their next lives. In a sense, it was shocking to hear such obsessive sounding words from her because you don’t see them as two people so clung-to and in need of one another. The development of the relationship and the marriage is floated out and carried on and you’re left to assume that the two live in this sick mirage of love and care with one another, continuing their unbroken routines. 

And because it’s not really got much to it, there are just a handful of pieces of the film I wanted to have an aside for. When you watch it, you’ll note the discussion Alma and Reynolds have about his mother. You’ll also witness his mother’s ghost and the things that seem to loom over him as he copes with his loss of her and how much she meant. Reading about Anderson as a person outside of his film work, you learn that he did not have much of a relationship with his mother at all. I do find it really interesting to know these things and would like to think that it plays a part in the way he portrays this image of a mother. As a writer, I do think a lot of us take from our own lives and find ways to incorporate that into the things we want to write about and express, and though it may be a reach and not part of the film as a whole, it was just sort of cool to see that that could potentially be something he added in from his own life and his own struggles. It definitely has a feel of personal belonging to someone, and I like that. It feels like it’s being graciously shared and like it couldn’t not go appreciated. Another bit of the film I really found unique and nicely placed was the way Reynolds sowed little things into the linings of the dress. He sowed his mother’s portrait into his jacket, and he sowed Alma’s name into a dress he made for her. The wedding dress he made, following late after a conversation between he and newly met Alma about superstitions, had the term “never cursed” sowed inside of it, which Alma rips out. A slightly telling sign of Reynolds actually being one to believe in superstitions, which would seem so out of character for him, but just the touch of that was so assuring. It felt so particular and unique and was really a thought that I’d like to ask about in regards to its origin. I found it to be a really nice easter egg in the film and am more so curious who thought it up and how that came to be. I’ve also read this was supposedly Daniel Day Lewis’ last screen performance, and am so convinced that it was the best he could have given. He truly made the character something it never could’ve been had it been played by anybody else, and I think he’s got an honest shot in winning Best Actor this year. I’ve never seen somebody so obsessive and so embodied in a moment the way I’d seen him in playing Reynolds Woodcock. Marks for both Lesley Manville and Vicky Krieps for performances that managed to stand beside Lewis’. The acting was phenomenal all around, but I never expected any less. And dare I forget Cyril, played by Manville, who was the sister and work partner of Reynolds. What a stunning character. She was one character that played witness to the whole ordeal, almost as the audience did. Her pure drive and even headedness throughout the venture made her a character I found really enjoyable because of the vast difference she brought. You see someone dedicated to her work and brother, but someone who has not let it become her. Cyril is a woman who is simply just her own thoughts and way of being and there is nothing that could make her change. She is- like the rest of the females in the film- very firm in her ways and deserving of the upmost respect. I couldn’t leave out on not speaking of her and her performance, but felt there wasn’t enough rambling on about her to make an entire paragraph. Felt she was a character that had to have been sculpted from previous encounters of either Day Lewis or Anderson. She was such a particular charm in the film, and I loved how unexpected it was to become so fond of her. 

It’s a bit hard to really explain the feel of the film without experiencing it. I do think that it is absolutely one of Anderson’s finest, and I was moved enough by the work and craft to have stayed up contemplating pieces of it. There is something about the way the two characters had little exposition and little build in development- they are the way they are and they do not become their surroundings. It seemed like they could never blend into the backdrop with just how ornate and fine they were. Anderson constructed characters that have made names for themselves before we have even been introduced to them, and this is not about the love and triumph and sickness of a relationship conducive to an “air of death” in the house, it is about two people who span such broad spectrums of every day life that we can’t help but be interested in how their days play out and weave into one anothers. This was, without a doubt, one film I think has to be watched multiple times to pick up things that you just can’t always get the fist time around. There’s also got to be a rose thrown on stage for Johnny Greenwood who’s produced an incredible score for the film- not surprising after his work with Inherent Vice- because it was a piece you couldn’t miss. The score was so beautiful and fit like a glove to the feel and movement of the film.

 As for the overall rating, it was five star. Partly because I’m blown away at what Anderson’s managed to do with something so seemingly beige in context, and partly because of the actual context. This is not something you try to explain to your friends and they come off so interested in what it all is, and this is not something you are baffled by because of the twist at the end. There is the unexplainable feeling when you can’t yet place a finger on how you feel about the simultaneous toxicity and beauty of something. The complexity, the mastery, the overall fineness of what Anderson’s done is something you shouldn’t miss. It’s something that you will find yourself transcending into and feeling like one of the dressmakers in the home, watching it unfold and becoming a pattern piece to the routine. This was one film I believe ranks so incredibly high for me because you can tell that this was a film driven solely by a love for the work. You could not have made something in a way this was made and it come off the same had it not been made by a man so talented and full of interest. There are such high marks from me for making something where it’s not just about the ending. So often, things are summed up to their ending, and this is just not so with Phantom Thread. The entirety of the development, the whole production of a life they’ve mangled together, it just holds volumes far surpassing what I’d have expected of it. Slow as it may be, the feeling of being a part of something so personal was surreal. In all respect, this was one of the greatest things I’ve just started to wrap my hands and mind around. 

[lazerdragoon]

Inside review (ORIGINAL POST DATE: 08/12/16)

The sophomore effort of Danish studio Playdead, Inside is in many ways similar to its predecessor, Limbo. Both follow young children in a strange and dark locale, traversing from left to right, for no immediately obvious reason, besides to solve environmental puzzles and die a lot. While Inside is, in many ways, the superior game between the two, I still can’t stop myself from having niggling issues with the game that prevent me from holding it up as great. Not to say that Inside is a bad game, by any stretch. It’s just that it left me wanting, in many ways.

To start positive, Inside looks fantastic. While it keeps the dark and oppressive nature of Limbo’s world, Inside is not afraid to add detail and slight splashes of color missing from Limbo’s monochrome setting. In addition, the camera is perfectly willing to shift from its straight-on position, allowing more dynamic views of the landscape around your character. The audio design of the game is also superb, with sounds echoing just right for every situation the player finds themselves in. The music, while sparingly used, is oppressive and droning; a perfect fit for the tone of Inside.

The actual gameplay of Inside is, again, like Limbo; 2D puzzles solved by using various objects in the environment. While the primary means of doing this is to push and pull various boxes into position as you would expect from its predecessor, the game adds more than enough variety to stave off any feelings of repetition. One segment of the game forces you to move quickly from cover to cover to avoid a periodic sonic boom which will kill the main character should they be in the open. Another takes place within a bathysphere, ramming through walls and doors in an underwater environment. Several sections rely on using zombie-like people in a wide variety of ways to help you move obstacles. While the puzzles are never so hard as to stump for any particular period of time, figuring out the solution and putting it into action remains satisfying throughout the game, especially during multi-part puzzles.

The same cannot be said, unfortunately, of the game’s story, or to be more precise, the lack thereof. Your player character, this child, is constantly moving forward deeper and deeper into this...facility? I guess? Towards their almost-certain doom, but there’s no reason for it. Adults are trying to capture you but don’t ask me why. There is a girl with long hair in the water who will try to drown you but I don’t know her motivations. Some people are being mind-controlled while others look on uncaring, but if I was supposed to pick up on some sort of dynamic that explains this I never did. The same can easily be said of the environments of Inside, which you will see a wide variety of: a dense forest where masked men and attack dogs chase you relentlessly; a city where a mind-controlled population is corralled into trucks to be shipped off to god-knows-where; a sunken school that is far too large. Each individual area of the game is interesting and detailed and overwhelming and inventive and God I wish there was any sort of context or sense of their connection to each other. If there is any sort of intended cohesion to the areas and events of Inside, if someone at Playdead knows exactly what’s going on, then no hints towards that exist in the game, or at least, I did not pick up on any.

As far as confusion and a lack of answers goes, I must make special mention of the ending sequence of the game. I won’t spoil it here, but needless to say events occur which are incredibly silly. I am very, very aware that I was supposed to find the events grotesque, or nauseating, or any other number of unpleasant adjectives, but quite frankly, I’m still a bit surprised that I wasn’t laughing so hard I couldn’t play the game anymore. The last section of the game is entirely ludicrous, and while I enjoyed myself a great deal and the puzzles on display are the best in the game, I can’t help but feel pretty sure that the emotions I felt at the time were not what the developer intended.

Despite the not-supposed-to-be-a-blast-but-totally-is ending bit, Inside does not so much end as it peters out. There’s no last hurrah, no real conclusion, not even One Last Puzzle like Limbo that ends with a bang and tells you, definitively, that the game is Over And Done With and you can go on to try and figure out what was happening. In fact, the game ends with your character no longer moving, an agonizing 50+ second wait (I counted) wherein you can do nothing and which left me assuming the game had some sort of terrible bug… and then credits. The developers, I think, wanted the ending to be a somber moment of reflection on the events of the game. I was just left feeling deeply unsatisfied with the whole experience.

That’s what’s stuck with me about the game. Not any particular moment, though there are many good moments. Not any puzzle, though there are many good puzzles. Just a feeling of dissatisfaction at how little I know about anything in the game. Inside is a game of questions that has absolutely no interest in providing an answer. Maybe other people will be satisfied wondering about everything and anything in the game. I was not. I’m a little surprised at how much this feeling is affecting my thoughts on the game, considering that it’s an engaging puzzler that supersedes its predecessor in every way otherwise. If there was a single thread, just one real hint as to what was going on to work with, I’d feel much better about the whole thing. Instead, I just sort of feel…empty inside.

[all-things-all-the-time]

It's Christmas!! And Ryan can't think of anything to get Michael what's he gonna do???

12 Days Until Christmas

‘what do u get for someone who has everything?’

That’s what Ryan typed into Google on December 13, 2016. Mike really does have everything - the newest tech, every article of clothing, homewares, things for his dog, and Ryan, which is probably the best thing to have in the world if Ryan says so himself.

Of course, everything that comes up is something stupid or something Mike wouldn’t like - like a cooking class or driving a race-car around a track a couple of times.

Ryan huffs and shuts his computer, rolling off the bed to go find Mike. Maybe he’ll be able to think better after some sex.

11 Days Until Christmas.

“So uhm…what do you want for Christmas?” Ryan asks carefully over dinner. He’s afraid Michael is going to freak out because Christmas is like 2 seconds away and Ryan doesn’t have anything.

Mike shrugs as he sticks a piece of broccoli into his mouth. “Dunno,” he says around his food. “Anything. Something cool.”

Ryan pouts, and he thinks he hides it, but then Michael is laughing at him. “Really dude, don’t sweat it. We’ve been together for so long. There are only so many presents we can come up with.”

Ryan glances up at Mike, and he’s smiling that stupidly perfect smile and it makes Ryan feel so much better about the whole thing. “Yeah, okay.”

10 Days Until Christmas

“I got you the best ever gift,” Mike says after a particularly dirty round of sex. 

Ryan is flopped on the bed, still breathing hard and sweating. He looks over at Mike, glowering. “Fuck you, dude. What happened to the whole 'don’t worry about finding something awesome?’”

Mike shrugs and looks over at Ryan. The bastard isn’t even breaking a sweat. Then again, Ryan did all the work this time. “Yeah, but I found something so awesome so obviously I had to get it.”

And that just brings all the anxiety right back.

9 Days Until Christmas

“Mom?" 

"Hi, baby, Merry Almost Christmas!”

“I don’t know what to get for Mike.”

“Oh honey, I’m sure you’re gift enough.”

“Yeah, but he said he has a really good gift for me!”

“Maybe a nice watch.”

“He already has a thousand watches, Mom.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but I have to run. Devon just went out on his skateboard and I don’t think he brought a helmet. Love you.”

8 Days Until Christmas

It’s 3am and Ryan is almost asleep. Until Mike slips his cold fingers under Ryan’s shirt to rest on his stomach. Ryan groans and shifts, wanting to push Michael away, but not having the willpower. 

“Ry,” Mike whispers, now pressing his cold-ass nose to Ryan’s cheek.

“What?” Ryan asks with another groan.

“Can we come out on New Years? Like…publicly?”

This is not the conversation Ryan wants to be having at 3am. “Babe,” he says slowly, with a sigh.

Mike sighs too, and it’s far more disappointed than Ryan’s. “Yeah, I get it. It’s cool, Ry. No problem…Night.”

“Night.”

7 Days Until Christmas

Ryan feels guilty about the conversation he and Mike had the night previous. He’s hesitant to come out. Mike feels like he’s done with swimming and he can live his real life now. But Ryan is still planning on swimming in Tokyo, and he doesn’t know if the world is ready for them to come out as a couple.

Mike has asked him to come out a few times, and each time, Ryan has had to let him down. He doesn’t like doing it, but he just isn’t ready yet.

Michael is in the pool because, yeah, he says he’s done, but Ryan doesn’t believe it for a second. Ryan’s inside, morning practice over, chugging a Gatorade and looking down at Mike’s ring on their dresser. He's wearing a matching one, on his right ring finger.

Fuck. He can’t even get Mike a ring for Christmas because of course he already has one.

6 Days Until Christmas

ryan lochte, 2:27pm: hey babe

cheryl burke, 2:27pm: hey hey :-* merry holidays!!

ryan lochte, 2:27pm: u 2!

ryan lochte, 2:28pm: wat shud i get for mike?

cheryl burke, 2:28pm: shit ry

cheryl burke, 2:28pm: that’s a hard one.

cheryl burke, 2:28pm: he has everything

ryan lochte, 2:29pm: tell me about it!!!!

cheryl burke, 2:32pm: how about one of those fancy coffee makers?

cheryl burke, 2:32pm: or maybe a trip somewhere

cheryl burke, 2:32pm: idk baby. i’ll keep my thinking cap on for you

5 Days Until Christmas

“Five days 'til Christmas,” Allison comments, playing with a loose thread on one of the blankets. “What did you get for Mike?”

“I don’t know what to get him!” Ryan says, panicked.

“Five golden rings?” Allison teases, and Ryan hates the way her lips curl up in a shit-eating grin.

“Asshole,” he mutters, flopping down on the bed. “I’m actually panicking here. I have five days and no fucking gift besides a mug that says ’#2 Swimmer.’”

Allison is quiet for a few minutes, and so is Ryan, as they sit together on the bed. Basically everything he thinks of, Mike either already has or wouldn’t want. He assumes Allison is having the same problem.

“What about some kitchen stuff? He’s getting into cooking.”

Ryan sighs and nods. “Yeah, I thought of that. We could use some new pots and stuff…thanks, Schmitty.”

4 Days Until Christmas

“Dude, I got Mike the best present.”

Ryan’s jaw drops and he feels like the air has just been knocked out of him. “You got Mike a gift?” he asks, shocked his little brother even remembered it was Christmastime.

“Fuck yeah, and Mom helped me pick it out!”

Ryan’s anger bubbles over at that point. “She helped you?! Dude, I asked her for help and she rushed off to deal with your stupid ass!”

Devon laughs and Ryan wants to throw his phone across the room.

“What did you get him?”

“I got him an Amazon Alexa. The one thing your house doesn’t have.” Devon pauses, and Ryan can basically hear his smile over the phone. “With all that smart house equipment so you can just yell at a robot to turn your lights on.”

“Well thanks for outfitting my whole home,” Ryan grumbles before ending the call.

3 Days Until Christmas

Mike’s presents for Ryan are meticulously wrapped and under the tree in a neat pile. Ryan sighs when he looks at it, hoping there’s nothing too extravagant. Mike always goes overboard on gifts. It’s not like money is an issue, but Ryan is so shit at coming up with gifts. 

Mike has always assured Ryan it’s just because he likes showering the people he loves with things they're gonna love, and Ryan wishes he had the same talent. 

2 Days Until Christmas

Ryan manages to come up with a few good gifts for Mike. Of course, he still needs one big one, because he knows Michael has something big for him.

Still stumped, Ryan wraps up the rest of Mike’s gifts and puts them under the tree. Their piles, luckily, are pretty much even, so Ryan, so far, feels confident in his choices.

Too bad he only has a few hours to come up with the big gift of 2016.

Christmas Eve

“One present?” Mike pleads, plugging in the tree lights and sitting down by the pile of presents. 

“Fine,” Ryan concedes, sitting down with Mike. “One present.”

It’s an old Phelps tradition to open one gift on Christmas Eve, and every year, Ryan says no. And every year, Mike begs until Ryan says yes.

Michael surveys the presents with his name on them and he picks one from the pile. Ryan grins, because he knows exactly what it is.

Mike tears open the paper to reveal a cardboard box, which he opens, and he immediately breaks out into a huge grin.

“You don’t expect me to actually wear this?” Mike asks, holding up the chef’s coat, complete with his name embroidered on the chest.

“Yes I fucking do,” Ryan insists, leaning over for a quick kiss.

Ryan picks out a gift from his pile, a small and light one, and unceremoniously rips off the bow and paper. Inside an envelope are tickets to Italy for a week in April, and Ryan feels dizzy with excitement. They’ve been talking about a trip abroad, minus Olympics, for a while now, and Ryan immediately lurches forward to hug Mike.

“Thanks, Mikey.”

“Merry Christmas Eve, Ry.”

Christmas Day

Michael is up at 8am and he shoves at Ryan’s side. “Get up,” he says, sounding like a five year old. “Presents time.”

It takes a few minutes to get Ryan out of bed, but as soon as he has coffee in his hand, he’s fully awake and down by the tree. Soon, the room is a flurry of torn paper, bows, and new gifts, and there’s a bit of a pause. Ryan knows what comes next. The big gifts.

Luckily, without prompting, Michael goes first. He hands Ryan a box and inside he finds a laurel from their first Olympics, but it’s been dipped in gold and silver. 

“Remember this?” Mike purrs as Ryan runs his fingers over the gold leaves. “You refused to take it off and it got all stuck in your hair the first time we had sex.”

Ryan blushes, but he also feels tears prick at his eyes. He blinks quickly, looking up at Michael when he feels confident that he won’t actually cry. “Thank you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss Michael. 

When he pulls back, Ryan knows it’s his turn. He takes out his phone, and Michael looks confused for a second when Ryan hands it to him. Michael unlocks it and it opens to the most recent post on Ryan’s Instagram page, which Michael hasn’t seen yet as Ryan posted it just before they started unwrapping gifts. 

It’s a selfie of them kissing right before they left Athens, paired with a selfie of them kissing just the other day. The caption reads, “the best gift I’ve ever gotten” and it already has thousands of likes. 

Ryan is nervous because Michael is quiet for so long, but he looks up at Ryan with tears streaking his cheeks and a huge smile on his face. 

Yeah, Ryan nailed Christmas this year.