#I think literally the only things from this book I accurately remembered were | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

icarusignite · 27 days ago

Text

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd headcanon #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #dc comics #dc universe #batfamily #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #batfam #jason todd imagine

419 notes · View notes

chu-uu · 5 months ago

Text

Why is nobody talking about how cute this story is???

I'll write roughly what happened so majoorr spoillerr

Mind you that i used google translation so it's definitely not accurate

It all starts with kid!Gil exchanging letters with his mother. He wanted to write her something other than the usual about what he does with his only friend Chevalier, which was reading books and eating at food stalls. He then suggests they play a rhodolitian game.

Gil can't play with other kids because he runs out of breath quickly + he's not good at walking or running so he couldn't play with them in the end. After countless rejections from chevalier, he suggests they host a tea party (a rhodolitan tradition) that's what he observed clavis doing with other kids.

The whole story goes on by chev saying to gil " I dont remember being your friend". He's being a tiny tsun tsun whenever gil calls him my friend.

On that day, gil keeps waiting until the sun sets. He senses something wrong because chev isn't the type to break a promise. Finally, Chevalier appears and Gil immediately notices that chev is sick, he has a fever, a poisonous one. He asks him how could nobody in his family notice! Well, we already know how everyone walks on eggshells around Chev (except for clavis). Gil asks he why he'd come if he is poisoned, chev replied by saying that gilbert would keep waiting for him until the morning.

Gil literally cried

So Gil decides ( while holding chev's hands) that he'll take care of chev and stay by his side while he rests since chev already reached his limits

Here's what he said

* I think they meant chev sweaty hands never left Gil's cold hands.

Now back to when they are adults.

Kind of the same thing happens

Chev notices Gil's fever from his irregular breathing and tells him indirectly to rest → "shut yourself in your room and be quiet I'm responsible if anything happens to our guests"

The story ends in a sad way where they talk about what changed ever since they were young

gil says he has a lot of friends now !

As chev snorts and leaves majestically gil continues..

#ikemen prince #ikepri #gilbert von obsidian #chevalier michel #ikemen prince gilbert #ikemen prince chevalier

280 notes · View notes

strikexlightning · 4 months ago

Text

Ryan Howard x Male Reader

notes: this might not be show timeline accurate, I'm not even gonna lie :'), it's supposed to take place in season 6, I had the wiki open the whole time so hopefully it's at least passable, also sorry if the characters are ooc a little, I'm still in the process of rewatching the show.

cws: mention of ryan being into pain, fucking at work, they don't use lube

Your head falls into your hands, overwhelmed by whatever bullshit Jim was doing to Dwight today. Sometimes you found it funny, but on days like today, it made you question why you accepted the accounting position all those years ago. You at least wished you could work in the annex, or in that cozy little closet Jim put Ryan in.

You push back your chair, getting up and walking into the kitchen, deciding to get more coffee because you couldn't possibly think of going back into that area of the office without any sort of caffeine.

“Hey.” Someone behind you says. It makes you jump and almost spill scalding hot coffee all over your hand, and you turn, wondering how you didn't hear anyone walk in before you remember Ryan's “office” is directly behind you.

You give him a little nod in return, not in the mood for listening to his pretentious bullshit. The last time you came into the kitchen, the closet door was open and he made you look at the…interesting pictures he's been taking, trying to be artsy. He literally made you stand there for 30 minutes straight while the phone on your desk rang.

As he looks through the fridge, it's clear he's just pretending, using it to hide the fact that he keeps glancing over at you, trying to see if you acknowledge his presence. As you finish up making your coffee, he shuts the fridge, realizing it's not gonna work.

He passes behind you, leaning against the counter as you clean up the small amount of coffee you spilled. He's too close, his elbow almost touching yours.

“Got any plans after work?” He asks, and you shrug.

“I think everyone's planning on going out for drinks.” You answer, taking a sip from the mug. You weren't really interested in talking to him but you didn't want to be rude.

“Well I was asking about you specifically…silly.” He says, with a weird, awkward laugh. He added the “silly” at the end in a way that made it sound like he was debating on whether or not to say that, and you can tell he instantly regrets saying it as he awkwardly glances towards the film crew when you don't respond and then retreats back to his closet, shutting the door.

You squint at the door before slowly walking back to your desk, Dwight now back in his seat and Jim nowhere to be found. You work for a little bit before you start to get bored, switching tabs to a random game. When lunch comes, a few people leave together, leaving the break room empty because the few people still there were up to other things. You didn't really care, all you heard was ‘empty room all to yourself’.

You grab your food and get comfortable, being the only one in there. You read as you eat, some random fantasy book you had picked up somewhere. It was peaceful, without any shenanigans, no camera crew because they were off filming the interesting stuff.

And you jinxed it, because the second you start to enjoy your lunch, Ryan himself comes striding in, straight towards you. You didn't know exactly why you disliked him so much. He wasn't really that horrible to you, though he did kind of suck, and you didn't really care much about the others’ to hate him for any personal reasons. Part of you wondered if it was some kind of sexual frustration, because he was kind of hot and clearly didn't have anything against sleeping with coworkers. Maybe it was the sex dreams you had of him when he was VP, you just really wanted to put that man in his place, but he kind of did it to himself when he got arrested so after that the dreams kind of just stopped.

The fact that you found him sexually attractive freaked you out, not because he was a guy, but because it was Ryan of all people. The last thing he needed was another ego boost.

He stands in front of the table you're sitting at, staring at you until you look up at him. He sits next to you, getting comfortable and once again, way too close. He's practically on top of you, his hand squeezing your arm tightly, probably so you can't get up and leave.

“Listen, man. I found this new…business venture, let's say. I figured you'd be interested.” His voice is a low whisper, like he's telling you some mystical secret or something, and he stares at you expectantly.

You have literally no idea what the fuck he's talking about.

You stare back at him, a confused look taking over your face. “...you’re not doing coke again, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I just think you and I should…discuss…business strategies. After work. Tonight.”

You're pretty sure he's just trying to fuck you and can't come up with a better reason to get you alone other than straight out asking. You're not completely opposed, so you shrug.

“Sure, I guess.” You glance over and see someone from the camera crew recording you through the window from outside of the door. There goes your undisturbed lunch break.

He grins, letting go of your arm and patting your back, his hand lingering for a little bit. “Sweet.”

You nod in response, not knowing what to say. Now that you're aware of what he's doing, it just makes it weirder that he's doing that rather than coming right out and saying it. You saw how he was with women usually, so you figured he just didn't know how to flirt with men.

He stands back up and stops in his place when he sees the crew filming the both of you, and then he continues to leave. You can see him saying something to them, but you can't hear it. You sigh when you check the clock, realizing your lunch is over and you barely got through the first ten pages of the book. You retreat back to your desk, finishing out the rest of the day playing computer games and avoiding doing actual work.

When it's time to leave, you grab your jacket, relieved that the day was over. You were actually intrigued to see where Ryan was going with his horrible attempt at asking you to come over. You knew it was some kind of sexual advance just by how see through he is to you, but you didn't exactly know how it would play out and it was a little exciting.

“Are you coming to the bar with us?” Meridith asks you as she comes up next to you. You shake your head.

“No, I'm…going straight home. Gonna get some rest. You have fun though.” You respond in a suspicious manner. Luckily she doesn't care and says goodbye to you before leaving with everyone else.

You see Ryan out of the corner of your eye, and you turn your head, not expecting him to be staring directly at you as Michael is trying to talk to him. Michael sees that Ryan is looking in your direction and he waves you over. You give him a small smile as you walk over.

“I was just telling Ryan about that new Mexican restaurant that just opened, we should check it out one of these days. You know, just us three guys. Hangin’ out.” Michael tells you. He seems really excited at the idea of that so you nod along, not wanting to decline.

But Ryan isn't even paying attention, eyes still locked on you. He's basically just eyefucking you, running down your body and back up to your face. He doesn't look away when you stare back at him. The two of you stay locked in a sexually charged staring contest, and neither of you notice when Michael realizes you aren't paying attention to him and leaves.

You make the first move, lightly pushing him against Jim's desk, to which he leans back immediately. That one action seems to awaken both of your urges, urges that were held back for the sake of being professional. He pushes a few things out of the way to fully get onto the desk, pulling you closer by your tie as your hands fall to his waist.

He presses his lips to yours in a heated kiss, letting you get in between his legs as he holds a hand in your hair and the other gripping your arm tightly. You unbutton his shirt and loosen his tie, hands grabbing at his waist and torso underneath his shirt. He wraps his legs around your waist, pulling you even closer as you make out while he bucks his hips up against you, moaning into your mouth. He pulls away, hands unbuttoning your shirt and then sliding down to your belt.

“I've always wanted to do it here.” He says, his face slightly flushed as he catches his breath.

“Why?” You ask. It didn't surprise you that he wanted to though.

Ryan shrugs as he gets your belt off. You do the same for him and he ruts his hips against you again, groaning softly.

“It's one thing you're not supposed to do, obviously I'd want to do it.”

You make a short humming sound to acknowledge what he said as you grab his hips again, grinding your clothed erection against his, straining against his pants. He moans, looking up at you with the most desperate look you've ever seen from him.

You lean forward, lips brushing against the man's neck. He lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to give you access to his neck. You kiss down to his shoulder before biting down, pulling a moan from him. One of your hands comes up to the back of his head, tangling itself in his hair as you kiss and suck at his neck and shoulder, trying not to make marks in spots that could be easily seen.

“Fuck..you can do them wherever, I don't care if people see.” He says, his voice breathy.

You raise a curious eyebrow and then move upwards, your hand sliding up to the side of his head and pulling it to the side more, which he softly moans at. You leave a mark in a very visible spot before you can tell Ryan is getting impatient.

Your fingers loop around the waist of his pants and you pull them and his underwear down, his painfully hard cock springing out. You do the same for yourself, your dick against his thigh. He stares down at it, biting down on his bottom lip. You stop what you're doing and he looks up at you.

“We don't have lube. Unless you have some.” You say. He looks off towards where the closet is, thinking for a minute.

“There's some in my desk.” He responds, but he grabs your arm to stop you from going to get it. “Just leave it, it's fine.”

You raise an eyebrow again. “Are you sure? It'll hurt.”

He looks away from you, grip on you loosening and moving to rub at his eye. “I don't, uh. I don't mind.”

You instantly understand and you even laugh slightly. You wrap a hand around the base of his dick, rock hard and dripping. It throbs when you slowly start to move your hand, pumping it up and down a few times. Ryan bucks his hips into your hand, letting out breathy, desperate moans.

You lift your other hand, spitting into it and wrapping it around your cock. Moving to hold his thigh, you guide yourself into him, making him suck in a sharp breath. He presses a hand to his forehead, and once you're fully in, he releases a high pitched moan. You're about to comment on it but decided against it, slowly starting to thrust in and out.

Ryan's eyes are shut tight, his mouth open as breathy high pitched moans escape him every time you push back in. You start to speed up, your hold on his hips getting tighter as you groan. One of his arms reaches out behind him, looking for something to grab onto and knocking over a cup of pencils and pens in the process. He grabs onto the edge of the desk, the whole thing rocking with you, things falling over and being knocked onto the floor.

You dig your nails into the man's skin, and his head falls back as he cums, landing on his chest and stomach. His cock twitches from the sensitivity when you only speed up more, pounding into him. He moans loudly, not caring if there's anyone still in the vicinity.

His legs squeeze tighter around you as he loudly begs you not to pull out with a lot of expletives. You groan out a “fuck” and bury yourself in him, releasing your load and riding out your high before slowing to a stop.

You both are silent while trying to catch your breath. Eventually, you pull out slowly, and back up, letting Ryan hop off the desk. He stumbles a little bit, his legs weak underneath him. He pulls his pants back up.

“I'm gonna go clean up, I'll be back.” He says, going off to the bathroom. You readjust your clothes, buttoning your shirt back up, and tying your tie back on the right way.

You try your best to fix Jim's desk, picking up all the stuff you knocked over and hoping he doesn't notice something is off. While you wait for Ryan, you think about the fact that you had sex with a coworker. In the place you work at. On top of your other coworkers desk.

You kind of understand why Ryan wanted to now, it was fun.

He comes back out, tie still loose and the top few buttons of his shirt undone, but his hair is fixed and he's less flushed. The two of you walk outside, walking past a few cleaners you did not know were in the building yet. Some of the camera crew are standing outside when you walk out the door and you almost jump. You and Ryan are silent before awkwardly going your separate ways to separate cars, the cameraman zooming into Ryan's marked up neck.

They had a lot of interesting questions to ask on Monday.

#the office x reader #the office x male reader #ryan howard x male reader #x male reader #dom male reader #top male reader #ryan howard x reader

71 notes · View notes

nalyra-dreaming · 24 days ago

Note

I have to be honest, I am a tad anxious about how the show will be handling Akasha and the casting for Akasha, Maharet, and Mekare.

I'm sure the show will cast BIPOC actresses for those 3 characters, since they are actually BIPOC in the books with Akasha being from Uruk, which is modern day Iraq, and Maharet and Mekare being Palestinian (I believe they're from Palestine?).

However, I have worries, because while so many people want a Black actress (I would still love this!) for Akasha because we all remember Aaliyah's iconic performance; I honestly don't think the people saying that know what she actually did in the books, because the QotD movie wasn't very book accurate at all. And now we're getting the books adapted and that means they might show us the things Akasha did in the book, which were horrific. Since the show has allowed the vampires to be able to have sex unlike in the books, we might see (or have it mentioned, at least) that Akasha sexually assaults Lestat and does this repeatedly. And we'll learn that Akasha had Maharet and Mekare sexually assaulted. Akasha massacres people and literally commits mass murder. And I really don't think that a lot of the people excited to see her know this, because she is undoubtedly the most evil character in the books. Like evil evil.

And the optics of having the most evil character be killed by Mekare might not look so good, depending on who they cast.

I really think they should try and cast actresses that are both Black and SWANA (Southwest Asian and North African) for all 3 characters. That way fans of Akasha from the QotD movie will be happy, while also making them SWANA would make book fans happy and finally give us SWANA representation, especially since all 3 are canonically SWANA (Iraqi and Palestinian. Please correct me if I'm incorrect about Mekare and Maharet's origins).

I just think the optics of having the most evil character (Akasha) be Black while Mekare/Maharet are not or having Akasha be SWANA and Mekare/Maharet are not would not look so great.

I really respect your opinion and wanted your thoughts on this. I hope the show walks this line carefully.

Yeah, the "optics" of their casting choices as you put it... will be difficult no matter what they'll do.

People have that image of Akasha in their head that Aaliyah made iconic, but the QotD movie literally skirted all the problematic stuff (or almost all of it).

The show... this show... won't.

They also already added sexual assault to the canon list of it (of which there is quite a lot in the Chronicles).

I'm not sure I'd call Akasha evil per se... but she is a cruel and quite brutal ruler - I do hope the show gives us flashbacks not only to the beginnings with Mekare, Maharet and Khayman, but that they also add the Blood Wars, the First Brood going against the Queen's army. But it will indeed be heavy if they choose to add the "ordered rape" - but then, how could they not, at least if they want to bring in the "Great Family".

And yes, Akasha threatens and abuses Lestat, too, and this show won't shy away from that either.

*sighs* It's going to grate, no matter what they do.

If they do not cast a black actress, people will complain, and if they do, people will likely cheer at first, only to then be horrified when the proverbial canon story shit hits the fan, to put it a bit glibly.

Casting a mixed representation might be the way to go, yes, but even then... I fear there will be complaints no matter what. 😅

I don't have a solution for this, I have to say, and I think casting Akasha (and Khayman and Maharet and Mekare) in this show might be one of the most daunting tasks for Rolin & co ... and not because there are no great actresses to fill Aaliyah's shoes, but because of the problems coming with it through the story, especially maybe through that indeed canon origin of Mekare and Maharet being from the region of today's Palestine - especially given our current... events :/

#Anonymous #ask nalyra #amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire #akasha

30 notes · View notes

jasonsknight3 · 10 months ago

Text

Welp, it’s time, the new story has officially begun. This story takes place in Arkham knight. The Halloween that ruined so many lives and brought o the worst of the worst. However, what part do you play in it? How do you fit into the story? Well, fear not because I have to e answer.

Side note: this story is planed to literally take place during the time of the Arkham game and comic book. I will keep it as accurate as possible however, I will be taking and changing some things because I’m adding you in it. It will largely stay the same though. Enjoy!

The longest night

Chapter one

“Memory lane”

Jason. The closest thing to love you felt. Being with him felt good. Even though you were only 15, you felt that you could marry the guy. A match made in heaven. He was your voice when you couldn’t speak up, you were his reason when he had none. The emotional connection between you two was undeniable. Jason was also Robin, a hero, a boy with a heart of gold. Maybe that’s why you felt for him. Despite his rough upbringing and living on his own from 13-15 with his troubles his heart had golden roots.

Shrugging on your jacket, you left your apartment to buy a week's worth of groceries like you usually do every Monday. The fall air was a little nippy but not too bad. The only downside was there wasn’t much foliage in gothams cores so, no colorful leaves to be found unless you went outside the city. The walk to the store is a good fifteen minute walk, your family only had one car to share between the parents and you hadn’t paid your monthly bus pass card yet so, that’s not an option either. However, a nice long walk was just the medicine to clear the chaos at home from your mind. Your family wasn’t bad, not at all. You loved your mom and dad and they you. It’s just that money is extremely tight. Sometimes parents argue. Say things. That’s just how it is.

Whistling a tune the sound of an engine slowing down a little too close for comfort made you pause and turn your eyes to whoever was deciding to cause trouble. All of the unsure feeling melted away the moment you laid eyes on a familiar face. “Well if it isn’t trouble chaser Todd.” You comment with a wide grin. “You flatter me, such high praise (y/n)” he replied, sliding off his bike helmet and setting it down to rest between his legs on his bike with a lopsided grin. “So, where’s a girl like you heading on this…fine evening?” He asked, mimicking a British accent. “I happen to be going to the market on this chilled eve.” You respond in the same manner. “Would thou like an escort fair maiden?” Laughing, you drop the accent. “This fair maiden would love a ride.” Jason held out the biker helmet to you “your chariot awaits.” The helmet was a little big but still would do its job. Jason was special, Everyone would know that if they just took a closer look. He was smart, loved literature, funny, and kind. The ride was nice, clinging to Jason, your head resting against his back as the wind blew your jacket behind you. Since Jason showed up tonight, everything felt like a moment to remember, a moment to think about when you felt low. A core memory. Pulling into the parking lot, he shut off the engine and kicked the motorcycle's kick stand before helping you dismantle the bike.

Walking inside “Got the list?” Jason asked, pulling his hand out of his pocket to take it. “Yea, I got it.” Handing him the list his eyes read over the scratchy writing. “This is the same list from last Monday.” Jason stated his eye locking with yours. “Well, it's cheap and still keeps us fed. Besides, even with all three of us working, my mom, dad and I make only enough to get by.” Looking over the list again he smiled. “I think I can spice up your food selection a little.” You open your mouth to protest but he beats you to the punch. “And before you say “oh you don’t have to do that” I know. I can and want to.” The smile and warmth you felt in your heart was involuntary. Throwing an arm around your shoulder he said “Come on, let’s go get some good stuff.”

As you went through the isles you guys talked about your week so far. His was the usual excitement, fighting crime, school, all the things. Yours was the same as usual as well, school, work, a few screaming fights between the parents about money. Jason enjoyed giving you small gifts and little things here and there for you. Jason selected some produce, fruits, healthy and unhealthy foods. After checking out a d bagging the items it was time for the awkward ride home. It was a small struggle, you held on to a few plastic bags, some evenly divided on the handle of the bike. You had to stop only once to pick up the bags you dropped. Honestly, you were impressed with how well you both did hanging on after the one incident. When you guys got to your home, Jason helped you and your mom unpack the groceries and put them away. Your mom liked Jason but your dad was a little skeptical, as expected. Jason’s kindness earned a homemade dinner and a movie with you, your mother, and himself.

A fond day to cling to now

The sounds of laughter and cocky attitudes echoed in the batcave. “Remember (y/n) keep your hands up to protect your face and or swing, elbows low and in to protect damage to your ribs. Keep light on your feet so you can move quickly. Also-“ cutting him off you lunge at him tackling him to the mat on the floor. Jason cried out in surprise. “Oh shi-“ Alfred cut him off “language Master Todd.” Jason looked up at Alfred. “Sorry Alfred.” Alfred nodded and turned his attention back to nightwing and tending to his physical ailments from the night’s festivities. Jason turned back to you. “Now that wasn’t very fair of you.” Giving a triumphant smile you retort “Aren’t you supposed to be ready for anything?” Pursing his lips he thought about it. “Yea, I guess you're right.” In one swift moment he flipped you on your stomach having you I. A choke hold. No to together though, his legs wrapped around yours locking them I. Place. Your hands automatically shoot up to try and pry his hold off. Jason's breath tickled his ear “admit I’m the best.”

You: “you stink.”

Jason: “say I’m the coolest guy you know.”

You: “You're the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.”

Jason: “Admit I’m smart.”

You: “You have the brain of a toddler.”

Jason: “Say you think I'm sexy.”

You: “Look like a wet dog.” You snicker enjoying the banter. “Ugh, if I wanted to watch teenagers get it on I would rather watch a trashy romance movie. You guys are ridiculous.” Dick commenter to which Jason snapped back. “You’re just jealous I’m able to maintain a relationship.” The expression on Dicks face spoke volumes. Jason definitely hit a nerve. “Oh yea?” He inquired. “Yeah.” Jason nodded. Dick got off the seat. “Get up Todd.” Jason let go and whispered in your ear. “Watch this.”

Getting up you decided to stand next to Alfred who protested against dick fighting falling on deaf ears. Alfred realizing that this was happening whether he wanted it to or not he sighed. “I don’t know what to do with those boys.” Sitting back the duel began. Jason was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on chickenwing! Bawk! Bawk!” Jason taunted with a wicked grin. “It’s Nightwing.”Dick corrected seething. The battle of honor began. Jason swung first, his fist connecting with Dicks lower run cage which seemed to just make Dick angrier. Dick swept Jason’s leg knocking him to the floor before pinning him and having Jason in a tight choke hold. “It's not so fun when it's not your girlfriend is it!” Dick said with a smug look. “Screw you!” Jason yelled anger very apparent in his voice as he jabbed his elbow into Dick’s rib again making him let go. With the new found freedom, Jason straddles him and starts pounding on him, punching him where he could. It was honestly a little scary watching from the outside. “Master Todd! Master Grayson! Enough of this childish behavior!” Jason stopped looking up at Alfred with a guilty expression before a fist connected to his chin knocking him off of Dick. Alfred and you intervene, you take Jason while Alfred takes hold of Grayson. “You mother-“ Dick cut Jason off “I will always do better than you, be better than you.” He said venom in his words. “At least I don't dress like I’m going to a fuckimg disco party to fight crime and look like a little bitch.” Jason yelled at him, that caught you so off guard. You had to fight to stifle the laugh. “I designed the suit myself you ass!” Dick retorted. “Yea, I can tell, Dick.” “Boys, enough for the last time! Separate or so, help me I will tell Bruce to keep you both off missions for a Week!” Alfred is clearly fed up.

Both boys went to their rooms to calm down. “You really did a low blow going after the wardrobe.” You started breaking the silence as the both of you sat on the bed. “He’s an ass.” Jason was still very clearly in a mood. You take his hand, “I dot. Have siblings, but I do have a family. Family can be your worst enemy and your best friend. The rough patch will pass.

It’s a terrible thing, just as they were starting to work things out. He was gone.

Harsh words sounded through the off white walls of the apartment. Same old thing, money this, money that, we have to this, we have to that. After a day of work and school, arguing was the absolute last thing you wanted to hear. What better place to go to escape the noise than the fire escape.

There you were, eyes closed, the breeze gently cooling your skin. A wonderful feeling. That’s when another sensation touched your cheek, a warmth, something soft. Opening one eye you see what you knew was there. Jason’s lips left your cheek. “Hey.” He smiled. You wave your hand in front of your face trying to wave away the smell. “Geez you smell, and you're sweaty, wanna shower?” You offer jokingly but with kindness. “That would be amazing. Thanks.” He commented. “Oh, uh don’t be alarmed by the way. They are just arguing. That’s all.” Jason nodded knowingly, “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.” Following him inside he tossed his duffle bag to the ground and pulled out some clean clothes and stuffed his sweaty red shirt in the duffles bag before disappearing to the bathroom and turning on the shower.

A few minutes later you found yourself reading a magazine. Something about Bruce Wayne and another charity he supported. Seems like a nice guy. Shortly after you thought maybe you’d be nice and wash his clothes. You needed to do your own laundry anyway. It was starting to pile up. Reaching into the back you pull out the shirt with just your pointer finger and thumb and the shorts. That’s when something caught your eye, something bright yellow. Touching the fabric it felt soft. Pulling it out more revealed the rest of the suit, the yellow turned out to be a cape with black on the other side. Under the cape however…was a suit. Not just any red and green suit, the Robin suit. Your mouth practically dropped to the floor. Is Jason Robin? Is this fake? No it could be, the suit is too well made to be a costume. Wait, if Jason is Robin does that mean Bruce knows? Wait…is Bruce Batman? No that can’t be right could it? The sound of the bathroom door opening snagged your attention. There stood Jason with worry in his expression. “YOU’RE ROB-“ Jason tackled you to the bed, his hand cupping your mouth, his face panicking. “Shhhhh, please, just be calm. Relax. I’ll explain everything.” He took a moment to look at you and recompose himself. “If I let you go, will you be quiet?” After you nodded in agreement he let go and got off of you help g you sit up. “Okay, um, I am Robin. I’ve been Robin for a while now. You know, fighting crime and helping Batman.” You listened as he spilled everything. Putting his trust in you. “I need you to keep this to yourself, okay?” Nodding you agree. “I promise.your secret is safe with me. On a lighter note-“ you smile feeling excited “you being Robin explains so much. Would you be willing to…can you put on the suit and show me. I wanna see it up close!” Jason laughed and agreed,

Sometimes you wonder if you didn’t know if Jason suddenly disappearing and never being able to come back would have made it easier.

84 notes · View notes

taraxippos · 7 months ago

Note

I never touched it but I feel like i only ever hear positive things said about song of achilles.. in (rough strokes at least) what makes it dogshit to you?

Okay it's been a while since I actually read it so some of this might not be spot on accurate. Sorry if at any point I say 'the book never does xyz' and it actually does once or twice but I think my underlying criticisms are accurate

-Patroclus is made into like this soft gentle tender quivering little yaoi boy. In the source text, he's shown as compassionate and moved by the suffering of his own men (and apparently having some medical skill, tending to the wounded in the camp), but very much invested n combat and very, very good at it (pages worth of descriptions of the guys he's killing left and right). In this, the arguably more complex character from this 8th century BC text is flattened into Being A Healer, he doesn't want to go to war he just wants to help people, he only goes because Achilles has to but he doesn't want to fight he's a HEALER he's a gentle lover NOT A FIGHTER who just wants to help he just wants to help everyone around him he HEALS while Achilles is a doomed warrior who is so good at fighting and KILLING its a DICHOTOMY GUYS!!!LIKE THE BEAUTIFUL SUN AND MOON DOOMED LOVERS SO SAD patocluse HEALER . (I Think he's specifically characterized as being BAD at fighting but might be misremembering)

-I don't remember much about Achilles' characterization I think it just makes him less of a jackass while not adding anything of interest and levels out into being mad boring.

-Not getting into the literal millenias old debate whether the mythological characters Achilles and Patroclus were being characterized as some type of lover by the original oral sources of the Iliad or its Homeric writers. We will never know. We don't even know what (if any) culturally accepted conventions of male homosexuality existed in bronze age Greece (we know much more about their descendants). But there are some interesting elements of their characterization in this direction, with how unconventional their relationship is WITHIN the text itself- Patroclus is described as cooking for Achilles and his guests (very specifically a woman/wife's job), Achilles chides Patroclus like a father, but there's also scene where Achilles' mourning of him directly echoes a passage of Hector's wife mourning her husband, Patroclus is explicitly stated to Achilles' elder, and is overall treated as his equal or near-equal, closest confidant and most beloved friend (to the point that pederastic classical Greeks would debate over who was erastes (older authority figure lover) and who was eromenos (adolescent 'beloved')- many took it as a given that this text depicted their present-day cultural norms of homosexual behavior but it existed so Outside of these norms that it had to be debated who was who). Their relationship is non-standard both within the text and to the descendants of the civilization that wrote them.

Basically what I'm saying is this book had opportunities to like, explore the unconventionality of the relationship (being presented here as explicitly lovers), explore the dynamics of why Patroclus wants to do 'women's work' (besides being a tenderhearted softboy), the weird dynamics where they take on paternal roles to each other but also roles of wives, how they feel about being this way, and just kind of Doesn't. Which I guess isn't an intrinsic fault (because it omits much of what I just talked about to begin with). it's just like.... Lame. This book takes jsut abandons everything interesting about the source text in favor of flattening it into bland Doomed Yaoi.

-The conflict that sets off the core story of the Iliad is Achilles and Agamemnon fighting over Briseis, an enslaved Trojan woman taken by Achilles as a war-trophy, Achilles spends most of the story moping because he was dishonored by his 'trophy' being taken. Achilles and Patroclus and everyone else are raping their captives, all the women in the story are either captured Trojans (or in the case of the free women within the walls of Troy, soon to be enslaved, and are slave owners themselves). Slavery as an institution and extreme patriarchal conventions are innate to the text and reflective of the context in which it was developed. You cannot avoid it.

But obviously you can't have your soft yaoi boys doing this, so the author has them capturing women to Protect Them from the other men. Their slaves are UNDER THEIR PROTECTION and VERY SAFE (and they might even Like And Befriend Them but I might be misremembering that. Briseis does though). Our heroes have apparently absorbed none of the ideals of the culture they exist in and the author seems to think "they're gay and aren't sexually attracted to their captives" would translate to them being outright benevolent (also as if wartime sexual violence is just about attraction and not part of a wider spectrum of violent acts to dehumanize and brutalize an accepted 'enemy')

In the source text, Briseis mourns Patroclus as being the kindest to her of her captors, who tried to get her a slightly better outcome by getting her married to Achilles (which probably would be the Least Bad of all possible outcomes for a woman in that situation, becoming a legal wife instead of a slave), and wonders what will happen to her now that he's gone. This is a really really sad, horrible, and compelling dynamic which could be fleshed out in very interesting ways but is instead is tossed entirely aside in favor of them being Besties. Like brother and sister.

All of the above pisses me off so much. If you don't want to engage in the icky parts of ancient/bronze age Greece then don't write a retelling of a story taking place in bronze age Greece. I'm not gonna get mad at children's adaptations of Greek myths or silly fun stories loosely based on them for omitting the rape and slavery but it is SO fundamental to the Iliad. If you're not willing to handle it, either fully omit it or better yet set your Iliad inspired yaoi in an invented swords-and-sandals setting where you can have all your heartbreaking tragic doomed lovers plot beats and not have to clumsily write around the women they're brutalizing.

-The author didn't seem to know what to do with Thetis and she made her just like, Achilles bitch mother who spends most of the story trying to separate our Yaoi Boys (iirc her disguising Achilles as a girl and hiding him on Scyros is made to be more about getting him away from Patroclus than trying to save her son from his prophesied doom in the Trojan War) until she sees how much they loooove each other and I think helps Patroclus' spirit get to the afterlife or something in the end?

-This is more of a personal taste gripe but it has that writing style I loathe where the prose feels less like a story and more like an attempt to string together Deep Beautiful Hard Hitting Poetic Lines that will look great as excerpts on booktok (might predate booktok but same vibe). It's all very Pretty and Haunting and Deep but feels devoid of real substance.

I really like The Iliad and The Odyssey in of themselves. They're fascinating historical texts that give a window into how 8th century BC Greeks told their stories, saw their world, interpreted their ancestors, etc. And genuinely I think these texts have 'good' characters, there's a lot of complexity and humanity to it.

WRT the Iliad- all of the main Achaeans are pretty fascinating, the one singular part where Briseis Gets To Talk and laments her situation is great, Achilles fantasizing that all of the Trojans AND the Achaeans die so he and Patroclus alone can have the glory of conquering Troy (wild), Achilles asking to embrace Patroclus' shade and reaching out for him but it's immaterial (and the shade being sucked back underground with a 'squeak' (the squeak kinda gets me it's disturbing and sad)), Hecuba talking about wanting to tear out Achilles' liver and eat it in a (taboo, exceptioally pointed) expression of rage and grief for his mutilation of her son's corpse, just one tiny line where the enslaved women performing ritual wailing for their dead captors are described as using it as an outlet to 'grieve for their own troubles' is heartrending, etc. A lot of grappling with anger and grief and the inevitability of death, a lot of groundwork laid for characters that could be very interesting when expanded upon in the framework of a conventional novel.

And Song Of Achilles really doesn't do much with all that. I know a lot of my gripes here are kind of just "It's different from the Iliad", I would have thought of it as mostly mediocre and forgettable rather than infuriating if it wasn't a retelling (and I DEFINITELY have strong biases here). But I think the ways in which it is different are less just a product of a retelling (of course there's going to be omissions and differences) and more a complete and utter disinterest in vast majority of its own subject matter, to the book's detriment. I think a retelling has a point when it EXPANDS on the source, or provides a NEW ANGLE to the source. This book doesn't Really do either, it just shaves off the complexity of its source material, renders the characters into a really boring archetype of a gay relationship, and gives very little else. Its content boils down to a middling tragic romance that has been inserted into the hollowed out defleshed skeleton of the Iliad.

Bottom line: I definitely would not be as mad about it if I wasn't familiar with the source material but I think it's fair to expect a retelling to Engage with/expand on its source, and I also think it's weak purely on its own merits. This book was set up to disappoint Me specifically.

#Sorry this turned into a 100000 word essay on The Iliad it can't be helped #I read Circe by the same author and thought it was like.. better? Definitely not great just less aggravating and kind of boring #Just rote 'you heard about this villainous woman from a Greek myth... Here's the REAL story' shit #It did have a few things I thought were good I remember it starting kind of strong and then just going limp for the remaining duration #I think part of it is that in that case she's expanding on a figure that Didn't have a whole lot of characterization in the source so #like. She had to actually Expand The Character #Again Silence of the Girls is the only Greek Mythology Retelling I have like....positive?.leaning positive? feelings towards #I've got BIG issues with it too but it does pretty much the exact opposite of everything I'm mad at SOA for and in some very #compelling ways (it's just that the author seems way more interested in Achilles and Patroclus than The Main Character Briseis #to the point of randomly starting to have Achilles POV interjections (which I thought were Good in of themselves but #really really really really really really really didn't need to be there) and then get kind of lampshaded by Briseis narrating 'I guess I #was trapped in Achilles' story the whole time lol!!!!!!')#It undermines the book on both a thematic level and just like. a construction level like it's real sloppy at times.#Also the Briseis POV sometimes has these like really out of place Author Mouthpiece Moments where she's very obviously #Stating The Point to the audience and it's like yeah we get it. We get it.#Wow in the scene were our mostly silent enslaved protagonist removes the gag from the mouth of a dead sacrificed girl as a #small but significant act of defiance and grieving in a book called 'Silence of the Girls' you inserted an ironic repeat of the line #'silence befits a woman'. in italics even. Thanks for that. I could not possibly have grasped the meaning of this scene if you didn't #spell it out for me like that. Thank you.#Actually hang on the only Greek mythology retelling I have unequivocally positive feelings for are the 'Minotaur Forgiving'#songs on 'This One's For The Dancer And This One's For The Dancer's Bouquet'. Fully love it. Like not just as songs I think it #does function well as a narrative and engages with and expands on the source in really beautiful and creative ways

46 notes · View notes

khattikeri · 8 months ago

Text

i really love that mdzs pioneered the idea of golden cores in cultivation fantasy fiction being a transferable organ-like body part and especially that mxtx used it as a metaphor for social class.

jiang cheng, whose abilities are consistently evaluated as average and who has been envious and bitter about it for decades, could not have maintained his position if not for the efforts of the servant beneath him (wei wuxian) literally being carved out and implanted into jiang cheng's own now empty cavity. it elevates jiang cheng and leaves wei wuxian ultimately losing whatever flimsy place he originally had among other upper class cultivators.

jiang cheng may have been tricked about the specifics of the transfer, but remember: when wei wuxian suggested sacrificing his own personal gift from his mother's shizun, baoshan-sanren, meant for wei wuxian’s exclusive emergency use, jiang cheng snapped up the offer immediately and without any concern whatsoever for wei wuxian possibly getting harmed for it. the only thing he does is get excited that he can get his core back and get suspicious that wei wuxian is lying.

jiang cheng takes this gift that renewed his own core completely for granted. to him, it's practically a given that wei wuxian should offer a gift like this up to him; he questions the mechanics and specifics of baoshan-sanren and her mountain, but never once worries or even seems to think of the impact it might have on wei wuxian.

nor does this incredibly generous use of wei wuxian’s mother's gift temper jiang cheng's later choices to force wei wuxian out of the yunmeng jiang clan to save his own face (even if they faked a falling out at first), and to lead the siege of the burial mounds which kills wei wuxian.

naturally you can argue that jiang cheng's parents and all their fellow disciples were just killed, their home was just destroyed, they're hardly 18 years old and clearly mentally and emotionally unstable from everything... but wouldn't someone in that position worry equally as much about the safety of the one and only other companion they escaped alive with?

what happened to asking "what about you?"

it's a very natural turn of phrase that makes it easy to reciprocate concern. but it didn't come out of jiang cheng's mouth even once.

it all makes the ending of the book emotionally that much more impactful. because when jiang cheng finally finds out the truth-- that too, from wen ning, arguably the one person he hates more than wei wuxian, while wei wuxian had just fallen unconscious after jiang cheng stressed him out to the point of bleeding from all seven apertures-- jiang cheng realizes exactly how unequal he and wei wuxian have been.

after screaming, crying, and running around the whole night frantically demanding everyone test out the sword, jiang cheng is unavoidably confronted with what he was unconsciously always expecting and demanding of wei wuxian, and the way wei wuxian delivered without a word.

and it leads to jiang cheng letting go. he stops chasing, stops demanding eternal payback, and lets wei wuxian go. they both move on without each other. a phenomenal end to a relationship that was ultimately never healthy for either of them.

golden cores as used in mdzs are such an accurate and unique metaphor for lower classes propping up and later being scapegoated by upper classes. i have to applaud mxtx for crafting it.

#mo dao zu shi #mdzs spoilers #mo dao zu shi spoilers #keri chats #long post #im not tagging the characters some of yall get annoying on analysis posts #mdzs #danmei

50 notes · View notes

mdhwrites · 5 months ago

Note

Sorry If we keep bringing this up agan and again but: I was going through the TV tropes page of The Owl House, and I found this listed as an example of the "Common Knowledge" trope on the YMMV page: "Luz is often stated to have let loose poisonous snakes and set off fireworks in the middle of her class during the first episode. However, her book report seems to have gone well, the issue being that her backup snakes escaped when she wasn't watching. As for the fireworks, Luz is shown to have not set them off, implying she decided not to."

Any thoughts?

Okay so we all know what bad faith criticism is, right? It's where you take the worst possible reading of something because you have an inherent bias. This is the opposite.

Her response to the question "What about these (the fireworks)?" is "Those were for the act three closer." This implies that she did not get to the act three closer. So that part is already wrong but it's better to say she chose not to. It paints her in a better light. She is, factually, stated by the principal, in the office because of how her book report went which means it went bad enough to land her in the principal's office which means that part is also inaccurate. He LITERALLY says "Your book report is why you're in here."

The only part of this analysis that is accurate is that no, she did not mean to release the snakes... Kind of. The principal gestures outside, she looks, she looks back with a cute, quirky smile and says, "Oh, that's where the backup snakes were." So she already knew the backup snakes were missing but she didn't bother telling anyone wild snakes had gotten loose in the school. Which is actually just in character for her. Remember, one of the last three times she's been in the principal's office is for releasing a swarm of spiders as part of her project.

This is not hard to check. It is literally less than thirty seconds of dialogue. It all happens within the first MINUTE of the show. But... This person doesn't care about correcting to what actually happened. The goal is to say critics like me are simply stating the facts in bad faith because the facts themselves are bad for the show and for Luz. I mean, she sees someone being attacked by a snake and smiles. That is... Not a great starting point for someone who will not grow throughout the runtime of the show and be told this was an entirely okay thing to do eventually.

But I also want to point out that you are asking me for my thoughts on a fan page of a kind of wikipedia that takes less than thirty seconds to fact check. If I could not talk about how you can absolutely show something too much good faith, I would have zero reason to discuss this because... Check for yourself. Use your own critical thinking skills. Don't just believe what you see on the internet because that's not useful for everyone. Even now, I provided quotes but you can, and even probably ought to, double check that I got them right because that's how this goes. If you question something, check it.

Using something like this as a reason to beat the same dead horse for the half a dozenth time though? Don't we have something better we can all do with our lives? The show is flawed, incredibly so, and at this point it's probably just best to move on if this is where we're having to go for more talking points. See you next tale.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#the owl house criticism #toh critical #toh #the owl house #luz noceda #Even you felt the need to apologize #Come on guys.

18 notes · View notes

dragons-in-spaceee · 30 days ago

Text

Welcome to my over the top breakdown of every scrap of information I can find on the phm trailer :)👍 This is just me rambling for a few hundred words so yeah I dunno what I’m talking about really, just having loads of fun coming up with ideas! Also I’m VERY bad at remembering the specifics of books so I might’ve gotten some of the comparisons with the book wrong!! Feel free to correct me or add anything!

First of all: PICTURES!!!

We’ve got a bunch from Gosling’s speech about the film, handily with a couple of stills from the film in the background. The ones used in articles have Grace in the front with Stratt maybe next to him?? Not sure about that. These pictures are another reason for me to be soooo excited about Grace’s design in the film because oh my goshhhhhh look at his wee glasses and curly hair it’s so perfect to me. Also good to see a bit of variety in his outfits with something more chill (just a t shirt and overshirt here, which I think suits him so well) than the outfits he was wearing in the behind the scenes pictures leaked where he’s wearing that big yellow jacket with a suit and tie underneath.

Other picture here is from @saturn-is-sick and I am absolutely batshit insane about this photo because oh my god literally everything is perfect look at ittttttt!!!! The outfit is absolutely EVERYTHING TO ME because AUGH it’s sooooo Grace I love it. The glasses hanging off his head is so cute and silly as well <333 But ofc the best thing in this image is the SPACESHIP DESIGN?!?!!? I was genuinely so so worried they would make the interior of the hail mary all shiny led futuristic Blue Glow screens (y know the kind) but this is so Apollo/Shuttle era or Star Trek style buttons and glowing lights it’s so so cute and soooo exactly the vibe I think really fits. I think I also just really love how warm toned that whole image is. Our warm boy Gracie <3333

Okay now digging into the trailer itself!! This description is coming from this article here, and I’ll intersperse with random things I’ve picked up from other articles and reviews.

“In the footage, we meet Ryan Gosling as Ryland Grace, a college professor at what appears to be a rather small school. A woman named Eva (Sandra Hüller) comes into his classroom and asks him if he wrote a specific paper. He says he did, but he was fired for it. Well, it seems, his theories could be useful because the rumors everyone has heard on Earth are true. The Sun is dying. He’s whisked off by Eva to help.”

I like the idea that he’s at a small school in the beginning. It was never really implied otherwise but I like them sticking with the “he’s just some guy” vibes. Though he’s defo a teacher not a professor.

All of this seems very accurate to the book so far, and I feel this description implies the vibes of the book remain the same as well!!

There is one thing that concerns me a little, which is some confusion surrounding what Grace’s theories were? This summary doesn’t really imply anything other than what’s in the book, but in the two separate YouTube videos I watched giving a run down of the trailer, they described his theories as predicting the Sun was dimming before anyone noticed? I wonder if the trailer just accidentally implies that or leaves it a bit ambiguous, making people think that’s what his original work was on. It does just make me wonder though, because nothing I’ve read or watched about the trailer mentions the Petrova line, and there’s so much more focus on ‘the Sun is dying!!!’.

““This is Project Hail Mary,” Eva says as she and Ryland enter a massive room filled with very smart-looking people.”

Nice, all matching up so far, although I didn’t think they named/came up with the actual project till later? I thought when Grace was first recruited it was just a bunch of scientists across the world and not an actual coalesced plan yet.

“Later, Eva explains that the sun isn’t the only star that’s dying. Many stars are all showing a pattern of infection across the universe, except one. A plan is in place, but Ryland almost can’t believe it so he lays it out. It involves near-light-speed travel that doesn’t exist and travelling so many miles the astronauts will never make it home. He’s told it’s that or the entire world dies. “Who is gonna sign up for that?” Ryland asks. And everyone is quiet, staring at him. He can’t believe it. He’s not an astronaut, but Eva says they say they don’t need an astronaut, they need an expert. “I put the ‘not’ In astronaut,” he says. “You have the right stuff, but I have the wrong stuff.””

So this takes place “later”, where now they’ve found out about other stars and Tau Ceti, and the Hail Mary mission is first coming together. All sounds good and faithful to the book.

It’s this conversation after Grace lays out the mission where I’m… confused at best, and worried at worst. Grace appears to be told from the start that he is being recruited to be one of the astronauts???? I thought the whole point of the book was that he was being manipulated by Stratt, that he thought he was just a scientific adviser until the very end, at which point he felt to betrayed to be led along like that. Grace is very much not the first choice on the list of astronaut candidates anyway, where’s Shapiro and our other astronauts??? I’m not giving up hope about this, given just how many reviews of the trailer have been raving about its accuracy to the book, but this would be an insanely major thing to change, so even the possibility worries me a little.

“As you can guess, Ryland goes into space anyway. There are some super cool images of the ship in a deep, dark nothing. He wakes up out of a sleep with a big beard. We see him doing a bunch of weird stuff on the ship. He floats into space for a second. Eventually, the ship enters a shimmering pink area and, on the other side, we see another spaceship.”

Okay so these scenes sound soooo awesome oh my goshhhh!!!!! I looove the sound of “deep, dark nothing”! That really conveys what space is actually like to me, and emphasises just how HUGE the distance he’s travelling is!!! I love the idea that they’re really hitting that home. The “shimmering pink area” is intriguing, I wonder if it’s just the effect from the light of the star, or some of the Petrova light? Shoutout to Grace’s beard also haha!!! It’s gonna be so cool to see how much his appearance changes throughout the film!

“This other ship looks like it’s almost made out of wood. Very thin, sharp pieces of wood, all stacked on top of each other.”

I’ve heard other sources raving about Rocky’s ship design as well so apparently it looks amazing. It certainly sounds really cool, and I love how truly alien it feels.

“It slows down next to Ryland’s ship. Out shoots a small cylinder. Ryland freaks out that the ship is sending him something. He thinks it’s a bomb but, when it just bounces off his ship, he realizes it’s a message. We see the ships connect and Ryland go into the alien ship, which is much more biological than Ryland’s. “Anybody home?” he asks as he drops in a light. But then the light comes back. He gets to a window at the end of the tunnel and a two-fingered hand touches the window.”

Classic Grace moments here, very much his attitude and style. The fact that Rocky’s ship is “much more biological than Ryland’s” is so so so cool!!! I can’t wait to see the two side by side, I bet it’s going to show as such a vast contrast, which is such a cool way of showing that - this is first contact with another species from another planet!!! Two-fingered hand is weird though - I thought Rocky had three?

“Cut to Ryland doing a video. “So, I met an alien,” he says. “And he’s growing on me. Not in me, which was at one point a concern.” There are a few more shots of Ryland seemingly working with the alien though we don’t see it, and that’s that.””

So now we find out how they’re going to translate all his internal monologue to something for the big screen - the same video logs that Mark Watney did in The Martian. Do feel that’s copying his style a bit but honestly there’s no other way to do it and it still makes for a very fun format. Plus, since at some point Grace I’ll have Rocky to converse with, the video monologues will probably take a back seat. Also some good old Gracie humour there hah!

Some other notes from various other articles:

Basically everywhere is super hyped about it, saying it’s really faithful to the story and the vibes of the book. There’s been so much talk of it being “the scifi film of 2026”, and even someone speculating about Oscar winnings already?! If you just watch a couple of the YouTube videos on it (which is like, the most filmbro content I’ve ever watched in my life, but they’re actually not bad), people just seem soooooo excited about it and I’m totally feeding off that energy!!!! It genuinely just feels so exciting and wonderful to be surrounded by so many good reviews and so much anticipation.

Gosling described it as “ambitious”, and that it’s made for the big screen, not just watching it at home on the telly. The ambitious thing makes me a little nervous but I think it’s probably just a testament to how faithful they have tried to be to the book, and how much this kind of film really has never been done before. I personally cannot WAIT to see it in cinemas!!!! Imagine what an experience that will be!!!!

The trailer is apparently set to “Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles, which when I started listening to it, seemed a bit overdramatic for the phm vibe, but I actually think it really fits the vibe at the end of the book? Where Grace and Rocky are just throwing everything they possibly can at this mission to save their species - that kind of desperation and reckless hope and determination. Something like that anyway. I do wonder what the actual film soundtrack will be like. One of the directors commented a while back that fans of the Martian film will love project hail mary, and for me, what really makes the Martian is the use of the music. It’s part of the human nature of it all to me - Mark is stuck in this awful situation but he still dances and listens to music, and it’s really upbeat and happy in the face of his situation. Obviously with Rocky however, I don’t know if they’ll have Grace listen to music? What would that sound like to Rocky? I don’t know if they’ll work it in somehow, because I’m not sure how they would retain the magic that the Martian has without some banging tunes.

Anywayyy I think that’s well enough rambling from me, the main takeaway I think is that everyone seems really hyped about the trailer, so think this is going to be good!!!!!!

#project hail mary

11 notes · View notes

rosesfox · 2 years ago

Text

✿ acftl review! ✿ (spoilers!)

🚨 i'm seriously warning you, it's a review and therefore there will be spoilers. read at your own risk! 🚨

✿

things i really liked:

❥ the rhythm of the book was perfect for me. i was able to dive into the story very easily and it's something constant for me in sg's books. the way she develops the plot is perfect. i thought everything was well placed and the pages were used wisely.

❥ the evolution of jacks and evangeline for me is something totally palpable; evangeline continues to have the same essence as always and i love that about her. she is a romantic girl, she is a soft girl and she is sweet. but she is also intelligent, she is strong and she doesn't let herself get carried away by situations. she makes her decisions and she is in control of her life. most of all, i loved that evangeline loves jacks and believes in her love more than anything. all she wanted was him and after three books, seeing them both embrace their desires so openly was extremely satisfying.

the same goes for jacks, who also had two other books to develop as a character. his essence is the same, he remains the sociopath we all love. but he is in love. he is desperately in love. and in this book there was no room for anything other than the two of them fighting for each other. it was everything evajacks needed, and sg delivered it to us perfectly.

i would like to add that i found jacks' povs completely necessary. i saw someone saying they weren't, while i thought they helped us understand his evolution, more of his character and the way he feels about evangeline. i particularly loved it and i don't know how Stephanie thought about not including it!

btw i think it's very important to read this book remembering that it's the third in a trilogy and stephanie is not underestimating our intelligence. she will act as if this is the third book and waste no time drawing so that we understand. she has already established that evangeline and jacks love each other, here they are just on the journey to actually be together.

❥ i loved the way jacks' curse unfolded. it was better than i could have expected and i also love the way eva managed to kiss him. there is no doubt that evangeline, throughout this time, was the only girl on jacks' mind. and she is literally the only one he has ever truly loved.

❥ apollo was disgusting from the beginning to the end. i think that, for what the character proposes, he was developed very well and to some degree i think his participation was quite interesting. aurora is a pest, but i like how stephanie decided to build her.

❥ chaos and lala! i really want the two of them to have a solo book (mainly to read more about evajacks), and i really liked their occasional appearances.

❥ i honestly thought it was an amazing closing for evajacks. there was absolutely nothing missing for me (mainly because of one of the epilogues), and i'm very grateful to stephanie!

some of my analyzes that were accurate: (im so happy about it)

❥ jacks says that since the day at his church he couldn't take his eyes off her. since that day he had to convince himself that she was just a tool. since that day, he started to care. i always said that since ouabh he cared, but i didn't even imagine that it would be from the literal beginning and i loved that.

❥ eva says that the first time jacks betrayed her trust, she felt her heart break. she says that she had been in love with him ever since, so, again, i was right when i said that the two of them fell in love right from the start.

points that I found strange:

❥ where is luc? didn't he even think about visiting eva? i understand that there wasn't time for him in the book, but i would have liked to have seen him.

❥ where is marisol? (do i really care? no)

❥ kisses! i would have liked a more descriptive kiss, but what we had was incredible and cute and really suited the context and i wouldn't trade it for anything. i just wanted others.

i give the book 5 stars and i'm very happy because my favorite couple had a worthy, brilliant and wonderful closure! i don't know what i'm going to do with my life now and what i'm going to think about.

#acftl spoilers #acftl #evajacks #tbona #ouabh #evangeline fox #jacks prince of hearts

125 notes · View notes

lamestteenagegirlever · 1 year ago

Text

as a book reader i ADORE the series but if theres one thing i love more than anything is seeing baby percabeth from an unbiased perspective bc theyre so cute but also percy is so LAME like hes so embarrassing i love him. like in the books hes just like yeah i think she looks like a princess and we only hear his internal thoughts so i LOVEEE actually seeing how awkward he is with his crush on annabeth.

its so cute and i honestly think pretty important for the viewers because it rlly helps to drive how young they all are and how insane it is that theyre being put in these crazy situations. like his dorky face when annabeth smiled when he started singing the consensus song? his voice cracking after annabeth laughed at his potty joke?? the look of brief panic on his face when he realized grover saw the face he was making when he hugged annabeth back followed by the really awkward smile??? THE WAY HE WAS THINKING ABOUT THE FACT THAT A PRETTY GIRL HUGGED HIM FOR SEVERAL DAYS STRAIGHT AND SAW ANNABETH WAS ACTING WEIRD SO HE ASSUMED SHE WAS DOING THE SAME BUT SHE HAD ACTUAL SERIOUS STUFF TO WORRY ABOUT SO HE JUST ENDED UP TELLING ON HIMSELF???? LIKE THAT IS ACTUALLY SO EMBARRASSING I WAS DYING WATCHING THAT PART. THE WAY HE INDIRECTLY ASKED HER ON A MOVIE DATE AND WOULDNT MAKE EYE CONTACT EXCEPT FOR A MILLISECOND TO SEE HER REACTION BEFORE DARTING HIS EYES AWAY SO FAST????? THE TUNNEL OF LOVE SCENE OVERALL?????? THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER LIKE YOU CAN LITERALLY SEE THAT HIS PUPILS ARE DILATED IN A GOOD COUPLE OF SCENES WHEN HES LOOKING AT HER LIKE THIS LITTLE BOY IS DOWN ASTRONOMICALLY HE IS SO FUCKING LAME. like we obviously knew the way they were both ready to sacrifice their lives for eachother in a heartbeat and how well they complimented one another and the way they changed each others world views and made the other strive to be better versions of themselves like ive known they were the blueprint since like literally 2nd grade like that didnt stop me from repeatedly bawling my eyes out over it but thats not the point. like we knew this and we could see it in the books but we couldnt see, or at least not fully see, how big of a stupid embarrassing crush percy had on annabeth and how she obviously feels the same way but is better at hiding it like oh my god i love them i wanna squeeze them until their eyes pop out like those old pens at the scholastic book fair do yall remember those?? im sorry guys im so autistic pjo and specifically percabeth has been my special interest since i was 7 and now 10 years later i get to watch them on tv in an adaptation WITH YOUNG RYAN REYNOLDS ARYAN SIMHADRI AND THE ONE AND ONLY MISS LEAH JEFFRIES thats almost entirely book accurate but also adds in fun stuff that works great in the plot and for the most part even better than the original scenes in the books bc the show is how rick would write the series NOW with all of his new gained writing experience like im actually going to explode the show is so good

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy series #percabeth #percy pjo #percy and annabeth #annabeth chase #leah is my annabeth #leah is our annabeth #grover underwood

59 notes · View notes

badass-at-fandoming · 5 months ago

Note

Hi, you were recommended to me by ryttu3k fir your knowledge of Anatole.

Their is one question from clan novel saga by the Prophet that always confuses me.

"the young wizard’s sire is within the clay.”

A bit of context- he is saying this with two Kindred present, Victoria Ash, and Jeremiah (an obfuscated nosferatu). It is said within Leopold's art studio.

The young wizard is obviously Leopold. It is revealed that he is not a toreador but is the childe of tremere antitribu, Nikolai.

But the sire is in the stone????

There are a few named statues at the art studio. A bozetto of Petrodon, but he's the deceased nosferatu Justicar and Sire of Cock robin and Julio Martinez. There is also a bust of Victoria Ash. Later their is a tower made of gangrel and Hannah (a tremere) fuses with it. But neither are Leopold's sire.

This causes Ms Ash, unaware of Jeremiah or the Justicar bozetto, to think that Anatole is saying Leopold is her childe. He is not. This causes the nosferatu to gain this incorrect info temporarily too.

It does save the day at the end, as Ms Ash walks up to Leopold (and eye of hazimel) and this distracts him long enough to be killed by Ramona.

But, as far as I'm aware, their is no Nikolai sculpture in the book. Cock robin is not a "young wizard" so it can't be about the bozetto.

The only thing I can think of, was that Anatole deliberately lied to cause Leopold to be distracted later in the book and die. But why would the prophet of Gehenna deliberately lie?

What is the answer to "the young wizard’s sire is within the clay.” since I swear there's no Nikolai sculture?

If you can't tell, Anatole is one of my favourite non nosferatu vtm characters of all time.

Hello! Awww, I'm honored to be considered to have insight into Anatole and his Malkavian prophecies. Thanks @ryttu3k! You seem anxious for an answer, @roseate-felidae, so I'll do my best. Honestly, I'd probably need to have read the Clan Novel Saga for a confident answer. Browsing the wiki and the context you've given me are good enough for guesses. In order of most to least likely:

1) Your first instinct is right, Anatole is lying. More accurately, Anatole could be manipulating his report of his vision to achieve a better final outcome. A fun layer to Malkavian visions is the difference between the vision itself and the interpretation of the vision. For example, Anatole used to think his visions were literally God talking to him, but now he's like, nah, just a Kindred power like Potence or Celerity. He could be false reporting what he's seeing or hearing, or only sharing a suggestive portion, like you first guessed.

As why would Anatole lie: well. He and Victoria Ash aren't friends. She manipulated hunters into burning down his Paris haven, with his ghoul Paul inside. She's too powerful and connected to eschew outright, but I wouldn't describe their relationship as "good." At the end of the Saga, Hesha Ruhadze has the Eye from Leopold, and Hesha is on friendly terms with Anatole and his faction, the Mnemosyne. It could be that Anatole foresaw that Ash & the Nos thinking Leopold was Ash's childe would benefit him in the long run. Maybe he foresaw and wanted the happier ending you described. That, or he just wanted to throw a spanner in the works of Victoria's plan and/or general unlife.

Being a Prophet of Gehenna and a Malkavian doesn't preclude Anatole from deceit. He has to lie to humans all the time, remember, about his identity and Kindred status. He lies to his friends, including Beckett, about what's under Jerusalem. Victoria Ash points out the obvious logical flaws in his prison "rehab" program, and he self-deceives that there's nothing wrong. "We're natural liars," as Beckett says.

2) Nickolai is in a stone/clay building. While the location in Leopold's studio jumps the mind to clay sculptures, the Malkavian Cobweb's reach is not limited by immediate geography. From the wiki, I can glean that Nickolai is in his haven in NYC, which is warded with blood sorcery. NYC has stone buildings, or clay might be a ward ingredient. It's probably not a reference to a basement encased in clay-type soil, because NYC's soil is the silt-loam type of dirt (yes, I looked this up). This theory can be disproved with a description of Nickolai's haven, so I kicked it down the list.

3) The young wizard is Aisling. This theory switches the young wizard part of the equation. Malkavian visions are not necessarily about the topic at hand, after all. To a methuselah like Anatole, Aisling Sturbridge is quite young and she's a Tremere. Instead of Leopold as the "young wizard," Anatole could mean Aisling, and the clay part a reference to her sire, Lucien de Maupassant. Lucien disappeared while on a mission from the Inner Council in 1948. "Within the clay" could be any number of hints to his fate, including his ashes mixing with dirt.

4) Nickolai is being controlled by the Eye. This is a biiiiiiig stretch, but whatever. Hazimel used to a stone mason, which is a profession that works clay. Compared to Hazimel, Nickolai is an incredibly young wizard. Nickolai thinks he's manipulating Leopold and the Eye to his own ends, but perhaps Hazimel is working him. Anatole is saying that Nickolai is within Hazimel's thrall, or influence, and Nickolai is being shaped like clay under a mason's hands.

The number of problems this theory has is Many, no matter how much I like it. First off, I don't think the Eye shows full sapient intelligence: it more like, makes its bearers into powerful rage machines, like the Beast. If someone as cool as Hazimel was controlling it, the Eye would be more sophisticated. The theory is also very Lord of the Rings-y with the whole "cursed object wants to return to its master." Vampire: the Masquerade doesn't draw inspiration from Tolkien. Last, the theory falls apart under a Doylist lens. In-universe, sure, Hazimel could know that manipulating Leopold and Nickolai would drop his Eye in Hesha's hands, and Hesha would find the Eye too hot to handle and therefore drop it on Beckett, and Beckett would return it to him. Out of universe, the Clan Novel Saga was published 1999 to 2000 in a hysterical frenzy. The story of the Eye's return appears in Beckett's Diary, which launched its Kickstarter in 2016. Sixteen years is a loooonnnggg time to pay off one line in a previous book. Possibly longer than 16 years, depending on if the story was written after or before the Kickstarter was funded. A meticulous planner could do it, of course, and maybe a nebulous idea of the Eye's return existed in the White Wolf writers' heads, but I am full of doubt. The BJD story itself doesn't call back to Anatole's prophecy either, which weakens the idea further.

The prophecy is a fun puzzle! Thank you for bringing it to me to play with. If any other Clan Novel Saga or Anatole fans want to chime in with their ideas, feel free :D :D :D

12 notes · View notes

straightasaaro · 9 months ago

Text

my review of the agggtm live action tv show

hello! I just finished watching the agggtm tv show and I have some thoughts. Here are some warnings before you read below the cut.

I have literally only watched the show and (and read) book once so not every detail will be accurate. If I think I got something wrong, I will make it known.

This is my opinion!!! If you hated or loved the show with all your heart, don’t make that my problem!

I’m not British so I can’t comment on Emma Myers accent.

and finally because they are always some lurking in fandom, racists DNI

spoilers for the rest of the agggtm trilogy below

Alright so to start I think the show, on its own, is good television. It’s got intrigue and the pacing is good and the humor is pretty good at some parts however. I have three main issues with how it deviates from the book.

Show don’t tell.

what many shows have trouble with is telling the audience something instead of showing it. In the books, Pip pretends to be a CNN reporter and e-mails old students of the school about drink spiking. She’s told that it happened to quite a few female students. She hears that Andie sold roofies. She was told by Jesse that Becca got the morning after pill and wouldn’t tell who she slept with. She was told by Andie’s friend (or Becca’s, I do not remember) that Jason was controlling and pit them against each other often.

So pip makes the connection that Becca was raped by Max Hastings and found out that Andie was the one who sold the drugs. Pip is the one who connects the dots that Becca must’ve confronted Andie and it went awry. But in the show Pip is just told outright to protect her drink and that Becca was raped. I think the show did a lot of this, cutting Pip’s slow process of unraveling the murder in exchange for quick answers to immediate questions. It also dials down how clever yet morally questionable Pip is.

Cut cast and scenes

I get that a show with a low budget probably won’t be able to afford as many actors or sets as a high budget show but I’m genuinely shocked how many side characters (or interviews) were cut or down sized in the show. Stanley Forbes is the most obvious one because he plays a much larger role in the second season. Andie’s best friends too-in the book it was specifically mentioned how she could be emotionally manipulative and terrible. It showed how, while everyone thought that Andie was perfect and Sal was the villain, Andie was actually awful. It plays to the trilogies bigger theme of stories never being what they seem from the outside. The show did not show this as well.

Pip x Ravi took front and center

I get that BookTok prioritizes ships and romances and that well liked tropes and hot couples can be a great aisle of advertising. But what the fuck? Everyone on BookTok also talks about how much the romance as a subtle yet powerful thing was so beautiful. I don’t have a good enough memory but I really feel like way too much emphasis was but on their relationship, pushing away Pips love for her friends and family and even Ravi’s family. Was it just me but who else thinks it’s really weird that they cut the scene where Ravi’s parents passionately thank Pip for clearing Sal’s name? It showed how much the family had been freed from being the “shun” “scum” family.

Thank you for reading. Go watch the show if you want. Emma Myers was adorable. Good day ✌🏽

#agggtm #a good girls guide to murder #pippa fitz amobi #ravi singh #a good girls guide to murder tv show #agggtm tv show #emma myers #holly jackson #review #pip fitz amobi

18 notes · View notes

lucky-clover-gazette · 11 months ago

Text

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 8

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

It had not been easy to prise out all the information, but Damen had provided the mercenary with a sustained, methodical and unrelenting incentive to talk.

this is a fun line. also, another little hint that kinda offsets the flogging in book 1. like yeah it was bad, without or without the Brother Killer Context, but it’s not like damen is above similar methods of torture towards his enemies. and that’s what damen had been to laurent, at the time—literally his worst enemy in the entire world, except for maybe the regent.

Damen would need to take his horse off the road, and ride straight, as the crow flies, cross country. He didn’t hesitate, spurring his horse up the first slope.

and now i’m hearing the twilight princess hyrule field music. i am not complaining

It was a tactic that reeked of the Regent. All of this was: this convoluted trap reaching across the landscape to splinter the Prince from his troop and his messenger, so that to save one meant to sacrifice the other. As Laurent had proven. Laurent, to save his messenger, had surrendered his own safety, sending away his only protector.

context: yeah i think this is actually an accurate assessment of the situation

Damen tried, for a moment, to think his way into Laurent’s situation, to guess how Laurent would evade his pursuers, what he would do. And realised he didn’t know. He couldn’t even make a first guess. Laurent was impossible to predict.

damen: imagines laurent pulling off some kind of insane rube goldberg machine of tactical evasion, or taking out several armed men while cornered in an alleyway

laurent:

Laurent, the infuriating, obstinate man that he was, was impossible, wholly and completely.

His arrogance was unbearable. If he had deliberately left himself open to attack, if he was caught by one of his own games . . . Damen swore, and focused his attention on the ride to the camp.

oh i go CRAZY for the “i’m upset with you because you endangered yourself and i want/need you to be okay” trope

Laurent was alive. Laurent sidestepped everything he deserved. He was slippery and sly and he had escaped the attack in the town with chicanery and arrogance, as usual. Curse Laurent for this.

okay i’m lost, why is damen mad at laurent? to my understanding, it went like this:

people came to attack laurent and the messenger, splitting up between the two tasks

which then forced damen and laurent to split up. damen did not want to leave laurent unprotected, but knew that somebody had to make sure the messenger was okay. he told laurent to trust that he would succeed and return to camp, agreeing to make it back in a certain timeframe.

damen learned that the people pursuing the messenger were on horses, which meant that the timeframe was miscalculated. but still he went and stopped them, interrogated one, learned about planned attacks on laurent and the camp, and hustled to get there.

in the uber there, damen alternates between fretting about laurent’s safety and imagining all of the harmful ways laurent could have somehow manipulated him or the situation.

it’s unclear to me here if, at this point, damen has actually arrived and found laurent alive (and is pissed about it?), or if he’s just entertaining a hypothetical scenario in which laurent has manipulated him into… what? protecting the messenger and interrogating the pursuers? damen was going to do that anyway. it was in both of their best interests that it got done. and laurent hadn’t known about the horses, so the timeframe had seemed reasonable.

i thiiiiiink this is a hypothetical imagining, and an aftershock from the past 20 chapters, rather than an accurate assessment of the present situation. damen still expects laurent to screw him over, despite the night they shared, because he’s experienced the entirety of the captive prince and 7 chapters of the prince’s gambit. in terms of pattern recognition, it’s not an unreasonable thing to expect. still, it does frustrate me, which might be the entire point. a first-time reader might be thinking more along the lines of damen, which bodes well for that assumption being proven wrong shortly.

also - i could just be totally missing something, or underestimating laurent’s overall situational awareness. that’s what happened the first time i read the series—i felt so awful for laurent towards the end of book 2, and was frustrated with damen for keeping up the lie! although in this case i suppose i’m thinking less about laurent's awareness and more about his intentions? i don’t know. i’ve scrutinized this passage enough. i’m just going to keep reading.

The Laurent who had sprawled out by the fire seemed so far away, limbs unwound, relaxed, talking . . . Damen found that memory was inextricably tangled with the glint of Nicaise’s sapphire earring, the murmur of Laurent’s voice in his ear, the breathless brilliance of the chase, rooftop to rooftop, all of it woven into one long, mad, endless night.

laurent’s conscious delusion about damen not being the same person as damianos, vs. damen’s subconscious delusion about bitchy laurent not being the same person as charming laurent. everyone loses

None of the men he saw was a yellow-haired prince in a woollen cap. And just as he feared the worst, just as all that he had not let himself believe for the long ride began to push itself to the front of his mind, Damen saw him, drawn out of one of the mostly intact tents not six steps away, and gone still at the sight of Damen.

haha you didn’t want him to be deadddddd

it might be scarier to damen that laurent is not trying to screw him over and has survived, than if he had done something hurtful and/or died. given the way laurent freezes at the sight of damen, he’s probably thinking something similar about his voluntary return. like “shit—the worst hasn’t happened. what now? and how do i deal with the fact that laurent dying/damen leaving was, in fact, the worst-case scenario?”

His newly minted hair was uncovered, and he looked as fresh as he had emerging from the baths the night before, as he had waking beneath Damen’s hands.

context: laurent disguised himself as a prostitute in a brothel. the yassification was a convenient side effect of the overall scheme

‘You’re alive,’ Damen said, and the words came out on a rush of relief that made him feel weak. ‘I’m alive,’ said Laurent. They were gazing at one another. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come back.’ ‘I came back,’ said Damen.

“i wasn’t sure” there’s no way in hell you thought he would come back, laurent. maybe logically you weren’t sure, but in your heart you accepted the abandonment the second he left your sight. just like nicaise did, when you left arles :’(

also they do a lot of gazing. i should have started a count earlier but i’m too lazy to go back now. for the record: they do a lot of gazing.

Damen tried to stop looking at Laurent. He had a hundred questions. How had he escaped his pursuers? Had it been easy? Difficult? Had he suffered any injury? Was he all right?

“was he all right” SHUT THE FUCK UP 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 <3<3<3

With the damage of the insurgency still awaiting his attention outside...

wait, so if the insurgency was a part of the overall plan, that tells us conclusively that there are like. inside men working for regent within the camp. which yeah, we already knew, but they’re actively getting intel somehow. or maybe this was planned from the start? this couldn't have been all aimeric, right??

To Damen, it seemed obvious that the uprising was planned, that the instigators were paid, and that their plan had relied on the fact that the rest of the Regent’s men, rabble-rousers, thugs and mercenaries looking for an outlet, would take the first excuse to lash out at the Prince’s men, and join in.

okay cool i was right about that

Two weeks ago, the troop had been a rabble split into two factions. They had not developed the fledgling camaraderie that now held them together; they hadn’t been sent to their sleeping rolls night after night exhausted from trying to outdo one another at some mad, impossible exercise; finding to their surprise after they had stopped cursing their Prince’s name, how much they had enjoyed themselves.

two weeks ago, they had not participated in the “i’ll make a man out of you” montage/musical number from the animated film mulan

It could have been far, far worse. Damen thought of all the ways that this might have played out: Laurent dead, or returned to find his troop in tatters, his messenger cut down on the road. Laurent was alive. The troop was intact. The messenger had survived.

an interesting counterpoint to damen’s catastrophizing en route to the camp.

i think between damen and laurent, we’re seeing the way trauma affects people at different distances from the traumatic events:

damen has very recently been traumatized by his father’s death, his brother’s betrayal, and the events of book 1. he is hypervigilant, almost perpetually disoriented, and prone to spiraling and expecting the worst. because everything is so fresh, he is unable to separate logical expectations from fear-based pattern recognition. he is feeling this hurt, whether he wants to or not, and cannot prevent it from affecting his perception and judgment.

laurent, meanwhile, endured similar trauma—loss, betrayal, sexual abuse—seven years ago, and then for a few years after that. it isn’t raw anymore, but that doesn’t mean that it’s gone. laurent’s trauma absolutely impairs his judgment, both strategically and emotionally. his wounds have not closed properly, his bones have set out of place (i don’t know enough about injuries to make good metaphors here). but he has no intention to fix that, because it would mean exposing the wounds or breaking the bones again, and enduring more hurt.

This day was a victory, except that the men didn’t feel it. They needed to feel it. They needed to fight something, and to win.

i see you’ve taken laurent’s philosophy of taking great pleasure in small victories to heart, damen

‘I prefer to think my way out of traps,’ said Laurent, ‘rather than use brute force to simply smash through.’ The words had the air of finality to them. Damen nodded and began to rise when Laurent’s cool voice stopped him. ‘That’s why I think we should fight,’ said Laurent. ‘It’s the last thing I would ever do, and the last thing that anyone, knowing me, would expect.’ ‘Your Highness—’ began Jord. ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘I have made my decision. Call in Lazar. And Huet, he knows the hills. We plan the fight.’ Jord obeyed, and for a brief moment Damen and Laurent were left alone together. ‘I didn’t think you’d say yes,’ said Damen. Laurent said, ‘I have recently learned that sometimes it is better to simply smash a hole in the wall.’

and laurent has taken damen’s philosophy of Rip The Thing Out of The Wall to heart, too!!!

It was a succinct speech that was equal parts rallying and infuriating,

i would love to actually read a laurent speech on the page. i’m imagining something between a regina george/heather chandler backhanded bitchy monologue, a dungeons and dragons player explaining their convoluted plan to the dm, and a musical theater director addressing the cast on opening night after a week of grueling dress rehearsals

‘Orlant’s dead.’ ‘Dead?’ said Damen. ‘He was killed by one of the insurgents?’ ‘He was one of the insurgents,’ he was told, shortly. ‘He attacked the Prince as he was returning to camp. Aimeric was there. He was the one who took Orlant down. Got cut up doing it.’

context: pretty sure orlant was trying to warn the prince about aimeric being a traitor…

He remembered Aimeric’s tense, white face, and thought it best, before riding out into a fight, to check on the boy.

damen gets a pass for this misjudgment of character because everyone else fell for it too (i think laurent fell for it? at least at this point?)

‘A traitor,’ Aimeric echoed hollowly. ‘Would you have killed him for that? He was your friend.’ And then he said it again in a different voice, ‘He was your friend.’

context: aimeric is a traitor. he asks jord, his “friend,” if he would kill a traitor (like him). and then he repeats the sentiment in a different voice, because aimeric cares about jord, and he knows that he killed jord’s friend and feels guilty about that.

Damen and the group of fifty men he led were the bait. With them were the wagons that mimicked the appearance of a full troop making an attempt at tiptoeing their way stealthily south, under cover of night. When the enemy attacked, they would appear to fall back, and instead lead the way to the remainder of the troop led by Laurent. The two groups would trap the attackers between them, cutting off any escape. Simple.

foreshadowing of them both being kings—competently in charge of their own forces—but proving more effective as a unified team

He saw the flash of confusion in Lazar’s eyes and thought for a single heart-pounding second that his order might not be followed—despite the authority that Laurent had lent him for this mission—because he was a slave.

okay but like i think the second you came back instead of attempting escape, you made it pretty clear to laurent and everyone else that you’re not

Their attackers fell back, or simply fell. Pulling his sword from the man who had tried to knife him, Damen saw the mercenary at his right fall victim to a precise killing. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the bait,’ said Laurent. ‘There was a change of plan,’ said Damen.

stop flirting, you’re in battle (just kidding, i love battle couples)

‘I’m not used to my uncle miscalculating,’ said Laurent, after a pause. ‘It’s because he’s working at a distance,’ said Damen. ‘It’s because of you,’ said Laurent. ‘What?’ ‘He doesn’t know how to predict you,’ said Laurent. ‘After what I did to you in Arles, he thought you’d be—another Govart. Another one of his men. Another one of those men today. Ready to mutiny at a moment’s notice. That was what was supposed to have happened tonight.’

context: i think this is true! which is funny that i have to specify, but since like 70% of what laurent says is in some way untrue for the first two books of this series, it does help

‘Instead, you have saved my life, more than once. You have made fighters of these men, trained them, honed them. Tonight you handed me my first victory. My uncle never dreamed you’d be this kind of asset to me. If he had, he would never have allowed you to ride out of the palace.’ He could see in Laurent’s eyes, hear in his words, a question that he did not want to answer.

“why are you helping me?”

there are other ways damen could be helping akielos, without helping laurent. they both know it. but he’s choosing to do this instead, and they both know that too.

He pushed away from the tree. He felt an odd dizziness, a sense of displacement, and to his surprise he was prevented from moving off by Laurent’s hand clasping his arm. He looked down at it. He thought for a strange moment that it was the first time Laurent had ever touched him, though of course it wasn’t; the grip was more intimate than the flutter of Laurent’s lips against his fingertips, the sting of Laurent striking his face, or the press of Laurent’s body in a confined space. ‘Leave the repairs,’ said Laurent. His voice was soft. ‘Get some sleep.’ ‘I’m fine,’ said Damen. ‘It’s an order,’ said Laurent. He was fine, but he had no choice but to do as he was told; and when he tumbled onto his slave pallet and closed his eyes for the first time in two long days and nights, sleep was there, heavy and immediate, drawing him down past the strange new feeling in his chest into oblivion.

head in my hands, i love them so much. so many of these little details remind me of the way it feels to develop feelings for someone—little signs that you could potentially fall all the way in love. the sensation of innately understanding that you could give this person your heart, mind, and body, and they would understand what to do with them. that you could want them to have those things, and you could want theirs too. not right now, perhaps never at all—but the potential is there. it’s a strange feeling because it’s a million feelings at once: excitement, enchantment, fear, confusion, and so on…

also, i think i made a note previously on the nature of tenderness through damen’s perspective. inflicting pain vs. caring touch. if i do any kind of overview at the end of this re-read, i’ll want to take a quote from this passage for that specific theme.

#zelda references are getting out of hand i blame the horses #also i love lamen so much it's unreal #capri #sam reads capri #captive prince #prince's gambit #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #lamen

21 notes · View notes