#Shipwreck Point Mysteries

[barbh]

The Case of the Mysterious Madam (Shipwreck Point Mysteries - Book 1) by Elise M. Stone [REVIEW]

[starcanwreckedpulp-doyoushipit]

do you ship it?

[vanishedinvain]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄

—𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader (but she doesn't show up yet, sorry lol)

summary: benedict's last moment of contentment before the storm that marooned his dreams.

warnings: very very brief mention of a gun, baby's first fic (it's me, i'm baby)

wc: 1.6k

next chapter // series masterlist

The Wiminet Art House sits just outside the limits of Mayfair, owned by the Dowager Baroness Lyra Wiminet. It is only half the size of a wing at Somerset House, and most of the artists are either anonymous or so unknown, they are as good as anonymous. It crams in an overwhelming number of pieces, barely a centimeter between each frame. It features a myriad of styles: soft landscapes, portraits, absurd finger-paintings, violent war scenes. 

When it first opened, every London newspaper dismissed it as the eccentricity of a widow, mad without a man to guide her. There was no cohesion, they said. Downright tasteless. Where was the class? The refinement? It was a laughingstock for all of two days before the ton moved on as they always did.

It was also Benedict Bridgerton’s most frequented gallery. And Eloise had no idea why.

“You have been here at least twenty times in the past year, and they have only changed a single painting,” Eloise pointed out on one of these trips. Though she did not prefer to visit the same blasted gallery with the same blasted paintings, it was more merciful than watching Daphne and their mother flit about the house searching for the perfect dress to secure a proposal from the Prussian prince.

Plus her brother promised to buy her an apricot ice afterwards.

“What could possibly be left to see?” she asked.

They were standing in front of a rather large seascape, one that spanned a quarter of the wall. Benedict turned away to look at Eloise, a grimace upon her face as she tried to see what her brother saw. It was a quality Benedict most appreciated in her; she was stubborn and quick to snark, but she never wrote off his interests as frivolous. She was attempting to understand, even if she was staring at the painting like it personally offended her.  

“Do you remember when you were eleven and Colin brought home that mystery novel for all of us? The one where an opera singer was killed in the middle of a show.”

“An Aria Most Deadly,” she recalled, smiling, “I couldn’t put it down. Col was scolded for bringing home such a—how did Mama word it?—terribly gruesome and improper book.”

He chuckled, remembering their mother’s scandalized face. As Colin was being scolded, she had set the book down on the settee. Eloise, ever nimble, snatched it and ran up to her room with nary a scuff across the floor.

“You re-read it over and over, looking for the clues, even after you’d finished it days prior. A snide comment from the stagehand that was once humorous turned dark. The author’s insistence on describing the location of the candelabra suddenly became obvious.”

“The details were so much clearer in hindsight,” she remarked.

“That is usually the privilege of hindsight.” He gestured back to the painting in front of them. “What do you see?”

She stared for a moment, tilting her head to one side to see if a change in angle would help. It was a turbulent scene, violent even, with outbursts of red and orange screaming amongst the cerulean and imposing slate clouds as the ship went down.

“A shipwreck?” Eloise answered with a shrug. “An unfortunately timed storm?”

Benedict stepped back, and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders, shifting her to the right so that she could stand in his place. “Do you see that spot of red on the ship?”

She squinted slightly. “Clearly, a fire broke out on the ship. Likely from the gunpowder catching on the wood. I mean, it says it in the title, Ship on Fire in Water,” she said, reading off the plaque underneath.

“But look closer at this spot of red at the front of the ship. Or that one by the captain’s quarters. Compare it to how the artist paints the flames,” Benedict insisted, gesturing to each area of interest. “He or she blends out the flames with orange and a bit of yellow usually. But these particular spots aren’t. They’re blended with brown. Maybe even a bit of black. That’s not fire, is it?”

Her eyebrows raised as the realization dawned on her. “It’s blood! Someone was killed. The captain, maybe?” She turned back to look at him in unbridled excitement at the newly-uncovered narrative.

Benedict smiled widely, crinkles forming around his eyes, watching his little sister finally get it, get him. “Possibly.”

“What do you think was the motive? Was it a mutiny?”

He shrugged. “That I am unsure of, dear sister. Every time I come back, I see something new. So, perhaps we need to look at it longer. Or make our rounds and come back with fresh eyes.”

Eloise had bounded off before he even finished.

They spent another two hours in the gallery, making little comments on each one, attempting to decipher a story from it. They even requested a step-ladder for the ones that had been skied because Benedict, having met Lady Wiminet, knew that there was no rhyme or reason as to the placement of each painting.

There was a most brilliant park scene about half a meter down from the ceiling. The artist did not draw a realistic, soft sunset, but a heightened one with punchy plums and a bright tangerine shade to blend. It was a bold choice that Benedict would’ve never thought of. The scene itself was of a promenade, much to Eloise’s displeasure, but she found amusement in mapping out the interpersonal relationships of the swans in the lake.

They made their way back to the bloodied, fiery ship shipwreck, standing in amicable silence before Eloise spoke.

“I understand it now. Why you've been here twenty times. Why you sketch until your fingers shake at dinner, but then use your drawings as fire kindle at night. You’re chasing greatness.”

“I want to get one of mine on these walls one day, El,” he said quietly, as if they weren’t the only people in the room. It was the first time he had admitted that ambition out loud.

“You will,” she replied, equally quiet back.

He sighed in relief. He wasn’t worried about Eloise’s reaction, though her vote of confidence was cherished. He was worried about being so unworthy that the words would refuse to roll off his tongue, lodging in his throat as a croak. But the idea was out there now, and a mirthful giddiness sprouted forth in the soil where his insecurities were rooted.

“I’d be anonymous, though,” he added after a pause.

She frowned, but neither of them made further comments on the subject. He already understood what she didn't verbalize. She dreaded living and dying in anonymity without a university degree or prolific novel attached to her name, something to outlast her that wasn’t a dullard husband or terrifying child. She could not stand the thought that the world might feel zero impact from her existence. 

Benedict, however, was far less eager to sign his name on a canvas. He could be displayed in any gallery in England if he simply asked, regardless of whether he was even good enough. Who would dare criticize a Bridgerton painting, with nine generations of viscounts breathing down their necks? If he were to ever put his name on any of his work, he wanted—needed—to be so good that everyone would be too awestruck by what was in front of them to check whose name was etched onto the little copper plaque beneath the frame.

This was one of the only points of incongruence between the second eldest Bridgerton brother and sister that couldn’t be remedied by a simple anecdote or shift to the right. Though, perhaps there was no need for one; a painter would never ask a writer to adjust her palette and a writer would never tell a painter his meter was off-tempo.

It was an afternoon well spent away from the ornery obligations of the social season, coming home with their appetites spoiled from the promised apricot ices. Benedict grabbed An Aria Most Deadly from the library, and read the first few chapters before retiring for the night. He’d finished the novel after he pried it away from Eloise years ago, so he knew it was the conductor who had killed the opera singer. This knowledge only pulled the deftly placed clues into crisp focus upon this second reading; even the first chapter was littered with hints.

Perhaps that is why when he sits in the viscount’s study, the one that was never supposed to go to him, he often thinks about the night of Granville’s party. That night began with him feeling so alive, more alive than he could ever fathom. Yet, it ended with a sinking stone of dread taking up a months-long residence in the pit of his stomach.

Were there clues he should’ve seen?

If he’d been less drunk off the wine or the women or both, he’d have noticed Daphne wasn’t wearing the necklace gifted to her by the prince, even though he clocked the ostentatious clunk of jewelry when she left for the Trowbridge Ball. Or that the hem of her dress was muddy and her face was pinched, on the verge of tears.

If he wasn’t so preoccupied with how to take advantage of his freedoms as the spare of the family, he’d have noticed the blooming violet bruises on Anthony’s knuckles as he yanked Benedict into the study with considerable force.

It wasn’t until he was rolling his shoulder, about to complain that his arm could've been popped out of its socket, when the gun box was placed on the desk with a resounding thud. 

Things only clicked into place as Anthony began frantically talking about estates and dowries and an appointment with the duke at dawn, but there were signs from the moment he walked in the door.

The details were always so much clearer in hindsight.

next chapter // series masterlist

a/n: they dropped new abc pictures last month, and i decided to make it everyone else's problem by starting this fic. now it’s bridgerton eve!!! rejoice!!!

[tropetember]

[Image description. Image reads “Tropetember Prompt List (Hard Mode)”, in the background, a picture of a mug placed on an open book in front of a blanket invokes a cozy feel. End id. Thanks to @supericelight​ for the image description!]

Strangers To Lovers - Character A and Character B meet for the first time when Character A is at their lowest point. B, a stranger, is the kindest person A has ever met, and from that point on, B has A’s eternal loyalty. 

Case Fic - Character A and Character B are working on the same case from different perspectives. There is absolutely no flirting going on under the antagonistic banter about the case (or is there?)

Sickfic - Character A has a deadline / big commitment coming up and they’ve been running themselves ragged to make it in time. They can totally power through this little bout of allergies. Stop laughing, Character B!

Customer Service AU - Where Character A works Customer Service at a restaurant/business and Character B and their child are customers. Character A first notices a really cute kid only to notice that, hey, the parent is actually very beautiful too. What the hell?

Reality TV AU - Cooking contest where the participants are randomly paired up with someone who can’t cook at all - both of them have to collaborate on every dish. Character A thought this would be an easy win but Character B’s inability to even boil water is going to make this a challenge.

80’s Teen Movie AU - Two very different teens come to understand each other better during a very long after-school detention. (Breakfast Club style)

Futuristic AU - In a futuristic steampunk setting, a mysterious stranger collapses on the doorstep of a lonely scientist.

Time Travel - Character A meets their future self and they’re surprised by one very glaring difference between them.

Five Times + One Time - Five times Character A cooks for Character B when they’re at a low point in their life, and one time Character B returns the favour.

Accidental Confession - Character A thinks they are dying, and writes/records a message confessing their feelings for Character B, to be received by them posthumously. It turns out that A survives, but B has already read/seen the message.

Coworkers to Friends to Lovers - Character A and Character B work under Character C. C is friends with both of them, but A and B can’t stand each other. Despite, that they have to support each other through the disasters C keeps getting all of them into.

Touch Starvation - Original Hanahaki interpretation where Character A is touch starved (but can’t bring themselves to ask for comfort) and that’s what’s making flowers grow in their lungs.

Found Family - Character A’s biological family is better not spoken about. So how will A’s found family react when they show up out of the blue, disturbing any peace A has made for themselves?

Human/Monster Romance - Character A is a pirate in a shipwreck during a storm. Character B is a daydreamer mermaid who thinks A is actually royalty and saves them because of it.

Arranged Marriage - Character A’s family wants/needs an alliance with Character B’s tribe/kingdom, and the easiest way to do this is to form a marriage between their families, with A & B being the chosen sacrifices.

Friendship Centric - A character study of the friendships with the most important people in the main character’s life, and how each friendship manifests differently (ships can be included, but not the main focus).

Love Confessions - Character A is in love with Character B but has never summoned up the courage to say anything about it. Sadly, B is moving at the end of the week, but A has the perfect, most dramatic plan to make their feelings known. 

Soulmates - Character A and Character B have known each other since childhood. When B dies, A inherits their soulmate, together with B’s dream/life goal, and promises to treat them the way B would have.

Apocalypse - In a horrifying apocalypse, a wanderer stumbles across an oasis - and the person who created it.

Fantasy - Magic is corrupted, the world is ending, and small resistance groups are the only ones fighting against the dark. Characters A and B are part of the resistance, and they start to realise their relationship might be the key to saving everything they know and love.

Genderswap AU - Canon Divergence where everything is the same but A & B have always been the opposite gender. Some things change, but some things stay the same.

Canon Rewrite - The setting is canon, with one key difference: everything happens fifty years earlier (interpret as you wish).

Fairytale - Base a work around the theme of Little Red Riding Hood, where the main character is the metaphorical Big Bad Wolf.

Babysitting - Character A and Character B are old friends that haven’t spoken in a long time. A calls B out of the blue, asking for a favour - they really need someone to babysit their kid for the day. Character B is REALLY bad with children.

Misunderstandings - Character A wants to ask Character B to take their relationship to the next level, but B keeps avoiding the conversation. Character B has been broken up with multiple times before and is trying to delay the inevitable heartbreak.

Fake Relationship - Character A kind of (but not really) hates Character B, but both of them are dealing with unwanted suitors and the easiest solution is to help each other out by fabricating a relationship between the two of them to make them both appear off limits.

Repression - Character A knows that Character B loves them - probably. So why does it seem so hard for B to show it?

Proposal - Character A proposes to Character B but cultural/upbringing differences make B not understand what A means (Examples: Japanese Traditional Proposals Other Traditional Proposals From Around The World)

Pacific Rim AU - Character A and Character B discover that they are Drift Compatible.

Optional:

Songfic - “I know we will live again / like the greatest lovers of all time / I know we will laugh again / as we did flying kites into the sky” Estels al Vent - Els Catarres

“The Borrowers” AU - Some or all of the characters are Borrowers, tiny people who live in the walls and floors of human houses and ‘borrow’ items from the humans who live there in order to survive.

Wild Card! - Look around at the items in arm’s reach from where you are sitting. Now write at least one of them into a story with your favourite characters!

Link to Tropetember Welcome Post

Link to Original Prompt List

Link to Rules & FAQ

[jurassicshields]

Part of my Camp Cretaceous season 4 and 5 AU. Here Darius and Brooklyn find a photo on the yacht, showing Mitch, Tiff, Daniel, and Mila. It was dated for one month before the campers went to Isla Nublar, and that Mr. Kon was in touch with the poachers for an unknown job. The two also soon discover that Mila is Kenji's mother who he claimed died a few years ago. But what is the truth?

*Mitch Lang and Tiff Lang are running some operation for Mr. Kon. They are to begin once they get the go from Mr. Kon. *Photo taken somewhere inland by Kash Lang(most likely their son?) *Mila is Daniel's wife. She is said to have died at least 4 years ago after a car accident that Daniel managed to survive.  *Mila was known to collect various cultural outfits and objects, her style varying on her mood. 

AU OVERVIEW- The Campers have finally escaped Isla Nublar and are heading toward what they believe to be Costa Rica. But an unexpected turn of events leaves the six shipwrecked on an island full of secrets, mysteries, and threats they have never encountered before. 

SCENE SCRIPT-

Darius: What’s that?

Brooklyn jumps slightly and pulls back. Darius can now see the image that they found below, with its edge now folded. 

Darius: Do you know who they are?

Brooklyn: No, but you said he looks like Kenji’s father. Maybe there’s some relation?

She points to the man holding onto a woman, his face stone cold but looking like a person you respect. His hair was graying and an ebony tablet was in his other hand.

Brooklyn: Wonder what he was doing? Did our poachers know him at some point?

Darius goes closer, looking over all the details, then takes the photo and flips it over. On the back, he sees a small text written in the top left. It is barely noticeable and written in scratchy handwriting.

Brooklyn: I must have missed that.

Darius: November 8, 2015. Taken at-- I can’t read that part, their handwriting is too messed up. 

Brooklyn: The 8th was about a month before Jurassic World fell. So this is very recent and they all met not too long ago.

Darius(reading): Mitch Lang, Tiff Lang, Daniel Kon, Mila Kon, and the image is taken by Kash Lang.

Brooklyn quietly breathes in surprise.

Brooklyn: That is Kenji’s father! We called it! Wait! Is that his mother too? 

Brooklyn stares down at the photo, taking in the woman.

Brooklyn: She looks like him. They have the same facial expression when being forced to do something. Mrs. Kon must not like to stand for pictures.

Brooklyn says a few more things, but Darius doesn’t seem to hear them. Brooklyn shakes his arm and he looks at her.

Brooklyn: That’s Kenji’s mother! Ha! Not what I- What’s wrong?

Darius: Kenji… he… he told me that--

Darius: -his mother is dead.

Brooklyn takes a moment to register what he said, but once it does she looks sick. She glances back down at the photo, then back up.

Brooklyn: His parents wouldn’t lie to him? No one could do that to their kid.

Darius: Kenji said back when we first met that his mother died a few years ago. I think it was from a car wreck. He told me-

Kenji: (cuts in with a tired voice and a yawn) I told you what?

READ THE (NOT COMPLETED) STORY/SCRIPT HERE: https://www.wattpad.com/1340465160-camp-cretaceous-season-4-rewrite-rewrite

[aoxue]

hualian au role reversal?? where top paranormal investigator!hua cheng falls in love with 800-year-old ghost!xie lian

This is such a good concept?? I don't have the TGCF cred to do it justice, but let's see....

Hua Cheng's a leading expert in paranormal investigation because he's good at what he does -- thorough, efficient, and ghosts just seem to respect him? But also, he's got the cool, dark, mysterious persona. He rides around on a motorcycle. A majority of the ghost hunting community has had at least a small crush on him at some point

Lesser known fact: Hua Cheng has been a history nerd since childhood and the fall of the now-obscure Kingdom of Xianle is his Roman Empire. He comes across a haunted sword from this period... and eventually, it becomes apparent that the ghost attached to the sword is the last crown prince of Xianle. (Who was Hua Cheng's childhood crush, but the ghost doesn't need to know that in any hurry.)

Xie Lian has a lot of unresolved issues (Guilt™️) that have him stuck in the mortal plane. Included in said guilt is the death of one of his young but very loyal followers, who died protecting the prince. (Who is similar in a lot of ways to Hua Cheng, but Hua Cheng doesn't need to know that in any hurry, either.)

He Xuan does recovery dives at shipwrecks and works with Hua Cheng frequently when he comes across cursed items. Maybe this is where the Xie Lian sword was found.

There is definitely voluntary possession/body sharing that happens at some point in this AU, in some perilous scenario that requires it. Or not so perilous. Just recreationally. Who knows. Why not both

AU ask game

[qierxing]

Fathoms Below

Commissioned by the amazing rainbowsillz

TW/CW: Toxic Relationships, Unhealthy coping mechanisms and mindsets, Blackmailing, Threats of Violence Yan!Azul x Mer! Reader

You're not exactly a go-getter.

It's not in your species' nature to be so, when one of your greatest strengths is to simply go with the flow and see where the sea currents take you. Even in the darkest trench, you'll always find a way through (using your handy glow in the dark biology).

It is, however, just like you to be curious when the waves take you to the next interesting destination. 

This shipwreck must be recent. Last time you were here, you don't recall broken masts and a proud figurehead buried in the sand here. You float along while examining the wreckage with a meticulous gaze. The glimmers of buried jewelry here and there don't interest you. No, you have no interest in such trinkets.

There's a gaping hole within the port side, jagged wood ripped into razor sharp teeth revealing the insides. It's dark and cloudy with mud and debris, but that's no issue for you. Rot and time have claimed the interior, but there's still some items that survive. As you swim closer, you discover quite a few things littering a toppled desk. 

There's a glass bottle that is scratched and covered in dirt but still intact. Within, there's parchment rolled up, perfectly preserved and safe from the salt waters. You tuck the bottle away in your bag, making sure it's snug inside so there's no chance it would fall out. Another cursory glance has you catching a curious metal object, no bigger than a clam shell, with strangely colored needles inside. You decide to also pocket it, just in case it turns out to be useful.

All in all, it's a fruitful exploration that has you quite satisfied. You are tempted to continue, but the rays of light are already dimming above into sunset, and your parents would not be happy about having to spend hours finding you again, especially not in a new unfamiliar area.

But just as you're almost to the colony where your family has settled down, you hear some strange sounds. Mischievous laughter mixed with crying has you turning your head in mild confusion. Following the commotion, you find a clearing with a large metal pot, surrounded by several other merfolk. You vaguely recognize them as your neighbors, their faces somewhat flickering in your memory. 

"What's so funny?" The quiet question has them turning around in panic, surprised by your unexpected presence. There's some awkward coughs and furtive glances exchanged between the gaggle.

A nearly unnoticeable teary sniffling has you glancing at the pot, realizing someone must be inside. When your suspicious eyes meet the clique's again, their faces sour as they sheepishly swim away, clearly annoyed they were deprived of their fun. 

It doesn't take much to piece two and two together. Sighing, you wait for a moment, then two, but nothing else happens. The mysterious sniffling has stopped but there is no sign of them being willing to leave the dark pot.

The calls of your parents carry on the currents, lulling you back home. You chance another indifferent glance back before swimming off towards home.

—

Apparently, the metal circular item you found is called a ‘compass’ by humans. According to your father, at least. When you pester him more about it, he shrugs and says that human sailors would use it to find their way on their voyages. The red needle would supposedly point you to your path. That was the only thing he knew about it.

You’re absolutely delighted with this fascinating discovery. So much so, that you can barely contain your excitement during class to go and test your gadget. 

"[First] [Last], are you listening?!" You let out a shocked yelp at your compass being swiped away by another finned hand. Your teacher peers down at you with disapproval in her beady eyes. The compass glints in her claws, just out of reach. 

"Pay attention to the lesson. You can retrieve your toy tomorrow." And with that, you watch sullenly as she swims away with your treasure. Snickers echo around you from your classmates but you ignore them, propping open your notebook in annoyance. The day seems longer without your compass in hand, but finally, the bell rings and class is over for the day.

The rest of your classmates waste no time swimming out the door, chattering about plans and playdates and what not, but you still remain in your seat, vindictive and resentful. 

"I can't even test out that compass until tomorrow." You slump over and your head hits the coral slate with a dull thud. Ms. Ulyana can be so stingy sometimes. Besides, you already knew everything taught in the magical theory section today.

"Excuse me?" You don't bother raising your head, still moping about the loss of your precious gadget. 

"What." You're not in the mood to be made fun of or exchange polite conversations at the moment.

"Isn't this yours?" You sit up abruptly, and see a young octopus mer holding the compass in his hands. You vaguely remember him sitting in the back of the room, hunched over his notebook, his glossy silver locks covering his face. 

"How did you…?" He smiles faintly with mischief flickering in his pupils.

"Octo-mers are great at camouflage, did you know?" The boy shrugs casually, setting down the gadget in front of you. “And…” He starts mumbling, fidgeting nervously with his fingers where you can’t hear him. 

“Er, what did you say? I didn’t catch that.” You awkwardly interject. 

“It’s….it’s thanksforhelpingmeout!” He blurts out quickly. This time, you hear him perfectly clear and stare at him in mild confusion. When did you help him out? You wrack your brains but come up empty. Instead of embarrassing him by denying it, you just nod along.

“Well, still, thanks. I’ve been waiting all day to try this out.” You grin. “You’re the coolest, uh…”

“A-Azul. Azul Ashengrotto.”

“You’re the best, Azul,” You hold out a confident hand. “I’m [First]. Wanna be friends?”

He hesitates, eyes staring intensely at your open palm offered. “Y…You want to be friends with me?”

You tilt your head. “I think anyone willing to get into trouble for me is worth befriending.”

“Even if…I’m just a crybaby and octo-twerp?” His lower lip trembles, teary voice nearly cracking.

“Who called you that?!” You put your hands on your hips, raising a tentacle to intertwine with one of his own. “I’ll give them a hearty zap if they do such a thing!” Azul splutters as you administer a gentle shock through your tentacles. It’s absurd enough to make him burst out laughing and you join in happily. 

Within that small classroom, a fond memory is created with that childish laughter.

—

The compass seems to get wonky underwater in the depths, so you reluctantly take to the shallows where the sea pressure is a little nicer to your gadget. 

It's strange to be so close to the sky as merfolk. The clouds remind you of the sulfurous gasses that are spewed in the deeper marine trenches. But it's much more transparent compared to the opaque heavier gas, lighter and much more friendlier looking. 

The red needle points straight ahead, and you breach just slightly, spotting a beach in the distance. Despite reservations, you drift closer, still only keeping your face above to render your sight usable. 

Misty fog clears and reveals palm trees and jagged rocks littering the golden sands. It's no island, since the land stretches further back into the atmosphere, with no end in sight. But there's no sign of life, save for the seagulls circling above and tiny crabs scuttering below. A little bit disappointing for your destination.

The stories you heard from elders were always about wild islands with treacherous fauna and mysterious treasure buried deep underground. Maybe even a group of thieves lurking around. This was just a barren reef that held naught but the bones of those unfortunate to wash up here. 

Still, you move forward, trying to see if there’s anything at all on the sand. Some multi-colored sea shells here and there, hardly in the condition to be collected, let alone be traded for with others. You glance at the compass in your hands with an annoyed huff.

“Useless thing…” You mutter under your breath. It’s a childish hope, but you had thought it would lead you to somewhere amazing, that you could tell your own tale about. That way, Azul could finally stop scoffing at you for your ‘ridiculous’ dreams and prove everyone else wrong.

The item barely makes a sound when it meets sand, and you turn away. The disappointment has already dampened your spirit to the point where you want to find the darkest nook and curl up and sleep.

A throat clears behind you, and you freeze at the unexpected sound.

“I believe this is yours?” The voice is tinged with specks of haughtiness that has your hackles raising subconsciously. 

A human boy has the compass you tossed in hand, inspecting it with a thoughtful look, before turning that gaze to you. His purple eyes are mesmerizing; they remind you of the vibrant sea shells in the various reefs dotting the Coral Sea. It takes an embarrassing moment for you to compose yourself to finally reply.

“It isn’t anymore.” He raises a judgemental eyebrow, and you almost shrink in on yourself. 

“Why not?” You cross your arms defensively at the judgemental tone. “It isn’t good to litter, you know.”

Your ears burn at the pointed accusation. Is a human seriously going to lecture you about pollution when they’re one of the causes for said situations? 

“That item used to belong to humankind, how is it littering when I am merely returning it to its place on land?”

“In this condition? I’d be surprised if it still works.”

“Well, it clearly didn’t work when I was trying to use it.” You fold your arms petulantly as the boy’s eyes slant in judgemental surprise.

“What use does merfolk have for human gadgets?” You bristle at the questioning tone. “I thought your kind has no need for these kinds of things, since you have an innate sense of direction.”

“So what?” You snap. “Who said that mers weren’t also curious about exploring either?”

“Exploring?”

This back and forth ends in a humiliating embarrassment when Vil (he introduces himself with an air of elegance that makes you think of royalty) informs you that the compass is not some kind of magical gadget that can lead you to your desired location. You thought he would be more smug and condescending about it, but he only patiently explains the usage of the compass and how the red needle is only meant as a stalwart guide, as it will always point north wherever you are. It’s a little disappointing, but still. You could see how it was useful as a human.

“That sucks. I wanna explore a new land one day and be able to tell all about it to my folks.” You flick your tentacle and splash some water out in musing. Vil has settled on a rock near you and now the animosity has simmered away into genuine curiosity for each other. It’s nice. When was the last time you were able to talk this freely about your dreams?

“I’m sure you can,” Vil smiles, and your breath is momentarily taken away. 

It feels good to have someone who believes in you, for once.

—

"...I think he’s a good person.”

The sound of someone choking makes you whip your head to see Azul keeled over his large book volume. After recovering, he looks up at you with incredulous disbelief in his sapphire eyes.

"You can't be serious? He's a human!" He spits, hostility coating his words like tarred ink. 

"Ugh, so what?" You puff out your cheeks. “Why do you have a problem with this anyway?”

“Because he’s a human! And besides, how do you know he won’t do something suspicious like sell off your fins or tentacles once you turn your back, huh?!” Azul retorts, making you roll your eyes. 

“This is not the age of the Sea Witch, Azul, it’s the modern era,” you coldly reply. “And that’s rich coming from you. Did you get that tome from the library or someone else?”

Azul flinches, cheeks blotching into a mottled dark purple as his tentacles writhed around the book as if to protect it from your disdainful gaze. Of course. Last week you swore one of your classmates had become mute, and another one’s P.E grades had dropped drastically, despite performing well in the past years. Azul sure has been working hard perfecting his unique magic these days.

“I earned this book fair and square!” Azul protests. “That human is another thing completely!”

“His name is Vil.” It’s like talking to a stone wall. You knew Azul disliked hearing about Vil, but not to this extent. “And he’s my friend.”

“I’m your friend too!” Aquamarine eyes narrow as your closest friend snarls at you. “Doesn’t that mean anything?!”

“Not when you’re insulting my other friends!” Without meaning to, your own tentacles begin to thrash in irritation, buzzing with the hum of electricity. “Ugh, forget it. I knew you were going to be like this, just like when you make fun of me for my weird treasure hunting.”

You’re not a fast swimmer, so even if you storm off, it must look silly, just floating away as your tentacles drift behind you. Despite the desperate calls of your name echoing behind you, you don’t turn back at all.

—

Perhaps you should’ve thought about at least making up with Azul before you made your decision.

“How are you going to explore the world if you can’t even leave the sea?” Vil had said with a disapproving frown. “You can’t let sentimentality shackle you from your potential.”

The words echo in the back of your mind. Sentimentality. Yes, that was one way to put a label on your relationship with Azul. You can’t deny entirely that reaching out that hand to him that fateful day was entirely out of a genuine desire to make friends. That little regret permeates the way you end up having to cheer Azul up from another self loathing session or whenever you’re having to reassure him that you won’t ever leave him all alone. It’s not that you actually believe in your words, but rather, it was the quickest way to quiet his tantrums. And although Azul matured greatly in magic and smarts, he never did quite grow out of his childish belief that you would always be there to coddle him. Not even when those sly eels attached themselves to him, taking over your role of being an actual friend.

So you take to the surface with your parents’ tearful blessings, leaving only a brief message with an acquaintance you made in your elementary school days. Rielle had hesitated, but ultimately wished you luck up on the surface. You can’t blame him. If you were braver, you would have made the effort to say the bitter words to your friend yourself. But that would be wasted time on a flood of tears and ink and even worse, a complete meltdown that would take days to mend.

When the volunteers handed you the transformation potion, they told you that although you trade your fins for legs, most mers have to adjust for a long period of time, having been so accustomed to swimming and utilizing your unique biology. At the time, you threw those warnings to the wind and chugged down the potion. Nothing would matter if it meant you could break away from the sea foam. You hadn’t realized the gravity of this until you’re stumbling over yourself and constantly ending up with aching bruises on your knees and shins. 

You hadn’t quite realized, until Azul is the one pushing you back and shrugging your apartment door shut behind him with a deafening click. Although it took you weeks to figure out how to walk without falling, Azul moved with an ease as if he’s always been human. It almost makes you envious enough to forget that he’s pinning you back on a wall, pupils dilated and breathing heavily like a madman. 

“Azul, let go! What the hell? How did you even know where I lived–?!” You’re not entirely panicked, more confused and annoyed. Even if he was erratic at times, he was still that baby octopus. He wasn’t exactly like the Leech eels who were known for their sharp teeth and ability to maul things to shreds. 

“It wasn’t easy, you know,” Azul mutters, a thin sharp grin strained across his face. “Do you know how hard it is to follow your tracks after you abandoned me like that?!” You scoff. One month and he’s already thinking it’s the end of the world that you weren’t glued to his side night and day. 

“Abandon? Please. You must be insane to think that me going to the surface to study is the equivalent of abandoning someone,” you spit back in his face and he recoils only slightly, but still remains steadfast in his strong grip over your hands. Even as you wiggle, he gives no indication of letting go. 

“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” you bristle at the way he ignores your reply. Bad habits die hard– he’s always loved ignoring anything he didn’t want to hear from you when convenient. It’s almost relieving in a way, to see that he hasn’t changed a bit. “We’ll be returning back to the Coral Sea.”

“What?!” Now you’re angry. It’s one thing to hear Azul to be delusional, it’s another to have to entertain those delusions. “You must be out of your Sea Witch’s mind to think that I’ll–” Your words die in your throat when something cold and hard presses to your jugular, digging into your voice box.

“You will.” Azul’s pupils are still dilated, black taking over sapphire pools and leaving only a cold abyss. Your eyes dart down, following the magical pen that gleams with a silvery gemstone that makes your heart almost stop in place. “You will, and you know why, my dear?”

“Because I earned you first, fair and square.”

[neo-nomatrix]

She’s a princess, and you’re a Mandalorian

That’s something no amount of potion will ever change

Din Djarin x reader

summary: A princess has fallen in love with a mandalorian, and he can’t seem to figure out why

a/n: reader is from the made up kingdom of Avana

word count: 824

Mandalorians do not love, it’s simply a fact. If someone so happens to fall in love with one it would never be a princess.

You met Din Djarin when he crashed outside of the grounds of your kingdom. Villagers who lived near the gates of Avana soon started to talk about the mysterious ship that landed in the forest.

“Princess! Have you heard?” One of your mothers advisors asked.

“Heard what?”

“The ship that crashed outside, near the forest,” she said.

“Is anyone going to help?” You wonder.

“Technically, it’s not our grounds, so we don’t have to,” she finished before getting back to her papers.

How could they do that? Just leave someone, presumably helpless all on their own? You honestly thought it was horrible how they decided to just look the other way. You decided to take the matter and do something about it.

You packed a small bag with food, water, first aid, and a small dagger just in case. As you approach the ship you can tell it’s been through a lot of damage. Half of it is lodged into the ground with plenty of scratches and marks to prove its been through hell and back.

You enter through the small opening on the side of the ship, prying open the metal.

“Maker,” you whisper to yourself as you take in your surroundings.

“Hello!” Your voice echoes through the ship, yet no response.

You search through each room until you reach the cockpit. You glide your hands on the panels and intricate details of the room. Your hand grazes over a leaver that’s clearly had the top screwed off, wondering how that would even happen.

You halt in your steps as you feel the front of a blaster pressed against your head. Your shaky hands are lifted in the air as you slowly turn around.

“Who are you?” A gruff, muffled voice says, less of a question and more of a demand.

“I just want to help you,” You say, slightly scared.

“Answer the question.”

“I’m the princess of the kingdom who’s gates you’ve crashed in front of,” You say slightly aggressively.

“We have mechanics, we can fix your ship,” you mention.

“They sent a princess to look at a shipwreck? Without backup? I’m doubtful,” He says, finally putting down his blaster.

Dank Farrick, he’s got a hot voice.

“You can trust me okay? If you do, you're more than welcome to stay in the castle. Have a bed, a warm meal,” you offer.

“What’s the catch?” He wonders.

“You have to talk to me. Have dinner with me, I swear you’ll enjoy it,” you promise.

He starts to wonder why you’re acting like this. Why you’re treating a stranger with such kindness.

“Fine,” he relents.

_

You send mechanics out to the wreck and you bring the man to your castle.

“It’s breathtaking don’t you think?” You ask him as you sit down at the table, pointing out the paintings on the ceiling.

“Quite,” he murmurs.

“What are you?” You ask, taking a spoonful of soup.

“I’m a mandalorian. I’m afraid I can’t take off my helmet to eat,” he admits.

“Oh that’s alright, I don’t mind.”

“Why are you doing this? I haven’t done anything to spark your kindness, so why?” He asks.

“I don’t know why, but I seem to have taken a liking to you. One that I cannot explain. But it’s a feeling I've had since we first met,” you smile.

Love. That feeling is love. You and the mandalorian both know it.

“What will it take for me to see your face?”

“We would need to be bonded by blood.” He says.

“Hm, interesting,” you say, eating more of your soup.

“I still don’t understand. You’re a princess, I am not the kind of person you should be taking a liking to.”

“Are you saying you don’t like me?” You wonder.

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying you shouldn’t like me.” He says.

“But I do! I really do. And, once your ship is fixed, I’d like to go with you wherever you’re going. I know that’s a lot to say but I think it would be nice.”

“It’s dangerous. It’s not the kind of place for someone like you. There would be a point that I won’t be able to protect you. And that’s something I'm not willing to do,” he admits.

“I know you might not believe it but I don’t need protection. I do just fine on my own,” You say, but you know he’s still not convinced.

The back and forth goes on between the two of you before he reaches a decision.

“If I take, and I mean if, you do whatever I say, when I say it. No questions, you just do it. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” you respond.

Din still doesn’t understand why you like, maybe even love him so much, but he definitely isn’t complaining.

[javiddenkins]

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions. 

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns. 

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold"). 

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved. 

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come. 

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook. 

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear. 

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says. 

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting. 

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job." 

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name. 

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room. 

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist. 

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired. 

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through. 

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?" 

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room. 

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod. 

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks. 

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say. 

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality." 

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds. 

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back. 

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do. 

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone." 

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer. 

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it." 

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer. 

"Who are you, really?" I ask. 

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun. 

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

[feladi-fority]

Hi, I have brainrot for Shipwrecked 64 and that is now your problem

These NPCs are 100% sapient. I had a really hard time coming to this conclusion as it didn't seem to fit when compared to a narrative primarily focused on real-world drama with supernatural elements being slowly introduced, but the ARG aspects really sold me on it.

There is SO MUCH Stumbler content. Stumbler keeps commenting on things as himself and doing AMAs, and within the game he can even appear and dynamically react to you when Squeaks decides to play as him. Stumbler in his comments talks about the game like he is a sapient NPC, and certainly his behavior in-game reflects this with him writing guides for the player and having knowledge of the golden computer code he hid in a tape. You could argue that this is a member of the restoration team larping as Stumbler in-universe, but they've remained mysterious up to this point while Stumbler's life has gotten so much focus. Additionally with "A helping nub" referring directly to Stumbler's email, it would mean the restoration team would have had to be lying about not altering the game for that to make sense, which is possible, but I think this is more likely given the framing.

Then there's also the subplot I noticed about the wolves colonizing the lower layers. Like, in the waterway section of layer 2 there's a note from chief wolf referring to wolves moving down there accompanied with plenty of beds and several houses around with wolves living there. Several wolves inhabit other areas in layer 2. Layer 3 has more beds and houses showing an attempt was made to live there as well, and in layer 4 we can find the remains of dead wolves who must have tried to move there but were captured by the Starlings. Given the meta knowledge Stumbler and Chief Wolf are shown to have, it makes me wonder if this was an attempt to break out of the game's narrative and save everyone on the island, as the april fools update has Chief Wolf mention that this world is on a death loop. Furthermore investigation_09 seems to show this process from an NPC's perspective as we see more of Stumbler and Chief Wolf masterminding some operation which likely is the migration into the lower layers.

All of this and the fact the 1997 version regularly has supernatural stuff happen which Conner could not have known about and would be impossible for him to have implemented, it raises the question of who caused this. My theory is that at some point after the game's initial sale Husk got ahold of the game and used whatever supernatural abilities they may have to insert the Starlings and sapient NPCs for some unknown purpose and that version of the game is what the restoration team found, this would also explain why they could not use normal N64 emulators. This fits nicely with how Husk talks in the first person and seemingly to the player directly at several points. Conner could not have gotten these clips of the Husk and if he knew about the Husk he would have brought it up in the layer 3 series of notes. The Husk's presence throughout the game is literal, it is the ghost haunting this game causing everything to happen.

[snicketstrange]

Solving the Apparent Plot Hole in SB of Netflix's ASOUE

The mystery of Esmé's sugar bowl in Netflix's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" is an endless source of speculation among fans. Kit Snicket's claim that the sugar bowl contains "sugar" that can cure the disease caused by the MM fungus has upset many, and for good reason:

The cure for the MM fungus was originally discovered by Beatrice Baudelaire, who used a hybrid apple and horseradish in her experiments. Nothing suggests that she would give special status to the resulting "sugar."

Count Olaf also seeks the sugar bowl, but he explicitly states in the TGG adaptation that he believed the MM fungus no longer existed. So why would he seek a cure for a disease he thought had been eradicated?

Horseradish alone is already highly effective in preventing death caused by the MM fungus. Sunny was infected, used horseradish, and showed no side effects or traces of the disease. This makes the definitive cure for the disease less valuable than one might think.

In truth, the only way to view Netflix's ASOUE canon as coherent is to accept the fact that Kit Snicket wasn't entirely honest about the sugar bowl's contents.

So, can we deduce what's really in Netflix's sugar bowl based on the information we have?

In Netflix's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" series, various clues are given about the mysterious contents of the sugar bowl. First, the contents are edible, evidenced by a flashback where Esmé uses the sugar bowl's contents to make tea. This same scene also reveals that the tea tasted bitter, suggesting the bitter nature of the contents. Beatrice, also present in this flashback, hints that the contents have some sort of power, adding that this power shouldn't be in the hands of one person but could be shared with many. Additionally, the contents are tangible: Quigley looks inside the sugar bowl and sees something he can't fully understand but is definitely there. Lastly, Kit Snicket, known for telling half-truths and omitting information, claims the sugar bowl contains "sugar" that cures the fatal MM fungus disease. This information, given Kit's history, may only be partially true.

So, how can these contradictions be reconciled? The crux of my theory lies in the idea that the "sugar" inside the sugar bowl is much more than it appears to be.

All signs point to there actually being sugar in the sugar bowl, likely derived from Beatrice's research with the bitter hybrid apple. What we call sugar could really be a remedy. But it can't just be a remedy for the MM fungus disease.

Firstly, Beatrice must have conducted various different experiments while on the island. After all, everything ends up on that island sooner or later. She must have used rare ingredients from shipwrecks or something that accidentally fell into the ocean somewhere to combine with her basic experiment of blending horseradish with apples. After all, the end result contains "something" that is abortive. Neither apples nor horseradish have abortive substances. This suggests that Beatrice used additional ingredients.

(This detail was first brought to my attention by TheAsh , as far as I know) She may not even know exactly what those ingredients are, as labels made of paper could easily dissolve in water.

If, by chance, in one of these experiments, it were possible to produce a unique fruit and a special type of hybrid apple, formed from a very specific formula and rare ingredients (some of which even Beatrice might not know), then maybe we're onto something. If the fruits from a single harvest had the power not just to cure the disease caused by the MM fungus... but perhaps the ability to cure all diseases! And that would be truly hard to replicate elsewhere, even by Beatrice herself.

So we might have something there. This would indeed be a great parallel to the biblical account of the tree of life, to which TE clearly refers (in a somewhat inverted manner, but still a reference). The tree of life in the Garden of Eden could make someone live forever. Beatrice's apple could cure all diseases. But this phenomenon wasn't replicated, and Beatrice knew she couldn't replicate the experiment.

In that case, to prevent the specific apples from losing their properties when they spoil, Beatrice must have made "sugar" from these apples. A type of sugar that preserved the healing properties of the fruit of life. But where would she store it? Indeed, this powder became the most valuable substance in the world.

And so, a safe, discreet (and preferably beautiful) container was needed to hold something so valuable and powerful. Esmé's sugar bowl proved suitable, as it could preserve the sugar even in case of fire and flood.

Esmé, thirsty for power, would love to be the guardian of such a substance. And of course, the sugar bowl is hers. Has she remained so beautiful and youthful over the course of 14 years by consuming a bit of this sugar over the years? Either way, after discussing with Esmé the importance of sharing the sugar bowl's contents with others, she felt obligated to steal it from Esmé.

catastrophist , this theory was for you! I hope you enjoyed reading it.

[isobelline]

What your favourite Dickens novel says about you:

(bear in mind, most of these are severely vibes-based)

The Pickwick Papers: You're most likely gay and have a close group of friends. Your favourite hobby is prank calling your local pizza place. You miss Vine.

Oliver Twist: This is the only Dickens novel you've read or you just really like the musical. You feel extremely sorry for Nancy. You're really attached to your pet(s).

Nicholas Nickleby: You have a strong sense of justice. You either have a travel blog or want to have one. Despite everything you believe that people are fundamentally good.

The Old Curiosity Shop: You're the oldest sibling. You're interested in lost media because you're hoping to find that one cartoon that scarred you as a child. You believe that things aren't what they used to be.

Barnaby Rudge: You've watched at least one major 90s sitcom in its entirety. You love gossip. You call yourself "a little gremlin" unironically.

Martin Chuzzlewit: Oh wow, you exist? Good for you, good for you... You like nature and I mean REALLY like it. You're a completionist. You love Tom Pinch with all your heart.

Dombey and Son: You have daddy issues (duh). You're very lonely but too proud to admit it. You love gothic literature and movies about creepy children.

David Copperfield: You relate to Aunt Betsey an ungodly amount. You like listening to podcasts and imagining that the hosts are talking directly to you. You just love life, man, and all that it has to offer.

Bleak House: You're academically gifted. You know how to knit/crochet/cross stitch/all of the above. In every social situation you're the "mom friend".

Hard Times: You're not like the other girls. You had a steampunk phase. You like to read about famous shipwrecks in your spare time.

Little Dorrit: You love Downton Abbey and/or The Gilded Age. You prefer Jane Bennett to Lizzie. You are on good terms with your parents.

A Tale of Two Cities: You're a centrist. Biopic is your favourite genre of film. You don't like going to concerts because they are too loud.

Great Expectations: There's a good chance you've read this because of South Park. You think Estella deserved better (and you're right). You read a lot of fanfiction.

Our Mutual Friend: You like your characters to be actual characters and not caricatures. You call tell a Cabernet from a Merlot. You have many dating horror stories.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood: You've been on at least one ghost tour. You dislike BBC's Sherlock because it is unfaithful to the books. You strongly considered going to mortuary school at some point.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Do you think there are any mysteries that Aro doesn't know but obsesses over? Or specific ones he's responsible for, other than the burning of Alexandria. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?

I doubt he has time to obsess over these things, perhaps he muses about them as a hobby, but ultimately it doesn't matter to Aro who Jack the Ripper is as he's either being a tyrant and executioner or else patroning the arts. I don't think Aro hunts down conspiracies in his free time but seems to keep up with the arts instead.

As for being responsible, probably not most of the time.

@therealvinelle and I have dropped joking theories in fics that Aro's responsible for the burning of the Great Library of Alexandria, but I'm not married to the idea, it's mostly that it's a good funny one-liner in a fic (in which there must always be a reason the library burned).

Otherwise, the world's also a big place and Aro can't be responsible for every strange thing that happened. In fact, he's probably not responsible for 99.99% of them and the only one I can point to canonically is the time he stole crown jewels from a shipwreck.

I'm sure Aro's stolen a lot of things that went 'missing' but much of this will have been forgotten or else isn't a mystery as we the humans never realize items from the shipwreck were stolen.

[nianeyna]

I kept a bullet-pointed liveblog in a notes document as I played the new ffxiv expansion. now I have finally finished the story so I can share with the class without fear of someone responding to me with spoilers. speaking of which everything below is dawntrail spoilers, for the entire expansion, in case that wasn't clear.

⬇️ SPOILERS. FINAL FANTASY XIV DAWNTRAIL SPOILERS BELOW. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED ⬇️

Dawntrail Liveblog

- ok so the mean claimants are obviously not going to win, but catboy promise is a dark horse. also not ruling out "nobody wins"

- Urqopacha is super cute

- CAMPFIRE SCENE!

- Erenville's deal continues to be very mysterious no matter how much he contrives to appear to be telling us about it

- lol Erenville dialog: "I spoke too much" YOU BARELY SAID ANYTHING BABE

- Kozama-uka is sooooo pretty

- I like how the entire first dungeon was totally unnecessary since we would have got there FASTER if we'd just stuck around and helped Alisaie and Erenville repair the boat lmao. but that's not how the WoL does things!!

- CAMPFIRE SCENE!

- erenville lurking in the background... siddown boy lmao

- unknown dude: hey you uh... forgot something. yeah back there. come with me and get it this is definitely not a trap

- oh no it was a trap! who could possibly have predicted this??

- awwww, Koana. wasn't sure about him at first but he's just a cute little muffin isn't he

- wuk lamat getting all excited about eating the xibruq pibil was so cute omg. she just likes food!!! I appreciate that in a woman

- oh shiiiiit wuk lamat origin story?! dun dun dun...

- aaaaaand solo duty... ulp

- haha get wrekt

- CAMPFIRE SCENE!

- the mamool ja should look into tourism... this place is pretty as hell

- ok koana shooting the tablet was a pretty cool move

- have my doubts about the golden city being in yak tel... like if it was there why'd they go to xak tural then

- ok, I guess it... was there? or... the *entrance* was there... according to gulool ja ja, anyway...

- road trip alone with erenville be still my heart!

- out of context erenville quotes: "this is your first time, so let's take it slow"

- no need to apologize erenville... you can drag me into anything you want

- oh wow this is really fucking sad. wow. I wasn't expecting that!

- the ridiculous train plan is cheering me up a bit thank god (editor's note: it didn't last)

- sigh... there always has to be at least one zone per expansion that's all dark and gross-looking. did they sign a contract to that effect or something??

- I can't believe how mean this plotline is to erenville

- this is fucked up... this is so fucked up

- npc: "sorry to darken the mood" NO THAT'S FINE I DON'T THINK THE MOOD CAN GET ANY WORSE!!

- I want to rip Spene's crown off and push her off a cliff. her little I'm so cute and innocent and helpless act makes me want to puke.

- CAMPFIRE SCENE!

- if any more parents die in this story I am really truly gonna lose it

- YES finally we get to fight these horrible people. machine army. whatever.

- I hope the next trial is sphene... I want to kick sphene's ass SO bad

- well there goes otis which brings the fucking dead parent toll to at least 4

- finallyyyyyy made it out of heritage found... *collapses onto the floor of tuliyollal like a shipwrecked sailor reaching land*

- (ok obviously I've technically been back to tuliyollal while I've been doing these godforsaken quests but THIS IS DIFFERENT!)

- we didn't fight sphene but the prospects are looking really good for me getting to punch her in the face soon. probably not literally like we got to do with zenos, but I guess you can't have everything :(

- wow sphene really BELIEVES she's just a helpless little girl. fucking incredible.

- next expansion let's have a final zone NOT populated entirely by ghosts. change it up a little

- so should I count namikka and cahciua's deaths twice on the parent death toll scoreboard or what

- you know what I still don't get. is why the yok huy went to xak tural to look for the golden city. *why did they think it was there*? I mean heritage found is there *now* but it definitely wasn't hundreds of years ago!

- that face on the tower looks more like meteion than sphene tbh

- two more dead parents!

- I can't. believe. sphene erased herself before I could beat her ass. this is the most unfair thing that has happened in this expansion, and it is up against some STRONG contenders

- it's just not satisfying to pummel a weird robot that has none of her memories!

- oh sphene's SORRY? *loudest fart noise ever*

- it's a good thing wuk lamat is here to be nice cause if I had to do it I'd throw up

- "their lives remain unchanged"? uh.... we shut off the afterlife. which was a real physical place you could go to. I feel like that changes things a bit!

- I DID IT I'M OUT CREDITS ROLLED UP I'M DONE THANK GOD

First half I rate: 9/10

Second half I rate: 3/10

Overall I rate this expansion: 5/10 I guess

Up until the lightning dome appeared I was having a blast. after that the gameplay experience became one of gritting my teeth so I could get out and be done with it. all the alexandrian zones are dark and unpleasant to be in, which would have been bearable except the plot was literally nightmarish and any new characters I didn't hate either died or were already dead (except gulool ja, who's cute of course, but his story was still pretty upsetting in a different way). This is not to say the writing was bad, because I don't think it was. In the alternate universe where I was LOOKING for a tragic existential horror game I might have even really liked it. However I really really wasn't looking for that at all, so in the real world I feel pretty betrayed and upset. There's a line between "plot twist" and "false advertising" and I think they left it behind in the dust.

But hell, at least we got 4 campfire scenes.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey Steph

Happy Holidays!!!

I love swimming and as a child i would always go to indoor pools with friends in the Christmas holliday. So I was wondering, do you have any swimming fics? With a holiday/vacantion or maybe even a christmas theme?

Love and Cuddles

Nonnie

Hi Nonny!!

AHHH I'm SO SORRY for putting this off so long, Lovely, but I had a NEW LIST I COULD USE THIS ASK AS AN EXCUSE TO POST LOL.

I don't know specifically with a Christmas theme, but I do have amazing fics featuring swimming! I hope you enjoy what I have for you, and if anyone has fics that they want to add that has Swimming in it, please add them below!

JOHNLOCK AND SWIMMING Pt. 2

See also: Johnlock and Swimming 2019

BOOKMARKS

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

Chaperones by MissDavis (T, 34,114 w., 7 Ch. || 11 Years Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Parentlock, Disney World, Bed / Room Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Insecure John) – Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?" "Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater /  Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation) – John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

MARKED FOR LATER

Gone and Changed by cwb (E, 4,617 w., 1 Ch. || Farm/Ranch American AU || Teenlock, Friends to Lovers, Angst, High School, Summer Vacation, Swimming, Hot Weather, Oral Sex, Car Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss/Time, Falling in Love, Mutual Pining) – John and Sherlock are best friends, until John goes and changes. Part 1 of the Just Like That series

Forces of Nature by Ewebie (E, 18,369 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock || Rugby Captain John, Hammock Sex, Bad Jokes) – Sherlock watched as the man pushed himself out of the water and onto the floating dock constantly anchored in the middle of the lake. Oh. He was… He was quite tanned. Broad shoulders sloped into a narrow, muscular waist and tapered hips that disappeared into the navy swim trunks. Somehow the breadth of the shoulders made the thighs and legs that appeared out of the bottom of the trunks look delicate. Tanned in their own right and powerful, but oddly proportionate to the shorter stature the man seemed to possess. Sherlock watched the water run off of him, down his back, tracing a path along his spine and through the pleasing fossae lumbales laterales and lumbar lordosis into the waistband of the trunks. Sherlock swallowed. Shit.

Wrestled By The Sea by eragon19 (E, 35,323 w., 9 Ch. || Merfolk AU || Merman Sherlock, Different First Meeting, Magical Realism, Seaside Cottage, Falling in Love, Mystery) – When John Watson takes up Mike's offer to recover at his seaside home he expects quiet relaxation, healing and being dead bored. What other options did a man on a tiny army pension have? What he doesn't expect is to meet an odd man who only swims at night, and has the most unusual swimming stroke John has ever seen....

Hearts Don't Break Around Here by thatawkwardfriend (M, 54,796 w, 12 Ch. || Teenager AU || Homophobia, Past Abuse, Artistic John, John saves Sherlock, BAMF John, Horse Riding, Swimming, Minor Violence, First Kiss / Time, Making Out, Fireworks, Carnival, Fluff and Humour, Angst with Happy Ending, Death / Funeral, Hurt / Comfort, Morning After, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining) – When John gets in a fight at school, his parents send him to Sussex for the summer in hopes that living with the Holmes’ will shape him up. It is there that he meets Sherlock Holmes: a class A asshole too smart for his own good. John expects a long, dull, lonely summer. What he does not expect is to form an unlikely friendship with the strange boy across the hall. What he expects even less is to fall in love with him.

Worst Kept Secrets by Sherlock1110 and sherlockian4evr (M, 66,611 w., 9 Ch. || WiP || Engagement, Coming Out, Angst and Feels, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Big Brother Mycroft, Fluff, Scars, Weddings, Honeymoon, Playing Pirates, Parasailing, Archaeology, Paintball, Swimming, Golf) – For the prompt: What if the thing Mycroft did to upset Mummy... was to come out? What if, as a teenager, Mycroft decided to tell his family that he is gay, and his parents disowned him for it? It's okay now, he runs the British Government, he IS the British Government, but there's still that tiny part of him that wants his parent's acceptance, especially now he's found the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Part 4 of the Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff series

Slipstream by khorazir (M, 290,208 w., 25 Ch. || Tour de France / Sports Cycling AU || Room Sharing, Cycling Injuries, Discussions of Drugs/Doping, Awkward Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Bickering, Case Fic, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing, Jealousy, Bi John / Demi Sherlock) –It’s going to be the last Tour de France for professional cyclist John Watson. Despite the hardships of cycling more than 3000 kilometres in three weeks, in blistering heat and torrential rain, over dangerous cobblestones in northern France and the mountains of the Alps and the Pyrenees, battling thirst, hunger, injury and exhaustion, not to mention bitchy rivals, doping allegations, and the ever scoop-hungry press, he is going to enjoy the ride, damn it. That’s what John keeps telling himself – until he meets his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes, who adds a whole new list of problems as well as an extra dose of excitement to John’s life.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

Dissonance by CarmillaCarmine (E, 76,624+ w., 14/? Ch. || WIP || Punk Band AU || Pining, Bi/Gay Panic, Best Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Swimming, Music, Doctor Watson, Drug References, First Time, Blow/Hand Jobs) – Straight from military service, living a life devoid of purpose, John meets a man who reawakens his passion for music.

Just Like That Series by cwb (E, 201,462+ w. across 4 works || Series WiP || American Teenager / Farmer AU || Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Angst, High School, Summer Vacation, Swimming, Friends to Lovers, Car Sex, Mutual Pining, Falling in Love, Kissing) – John and Sherlock are best friends, until John goes and changes.

Noctiluca scintillans by alexaprilgarden (E, 240,796+ w., 28/30 Ch. || WiP || 1990’a Teenlock AU || Summer Holidays, France, Drug Use, Swimming, Skinny Dipping, Angst, Masturbation, Slow Burn, Coming of Age, Alcohol Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Switchlock, Heartbreak, Happy Ending) – August 1994: These are John Watson's last summer holidays. It's his first trip abroad in ages, and the first one without his parents -- three weeks on a camping site at the French Atlantic Coast, together with Harry and her girlfriend. It's swimming and hanging around at the beach, red wine in the evening and sleeping in. Until a dark-haired boy at John's age puts up his tent a few feet away from him and changes everything.

[martianbugsbunny]

I'm noticing more and more things about Wish that irk me so here's another one: in "This Wish," Asha says "when I speak, they tell me sit down," and "I never knew I needed room to grow, I did what I was told when someone told me no." She's basically been told no once, maybe twice, in the movie. She's leading tours through the kingdom at seventeen, for Pete's sake, this kid clearly has a pretty high level of trust and freedom invested in her, and depicting two instances of being rebuffed (first by Magnifico, second by her family) as never having had the ability to speak her mind is a little overdramatic.

Idk, let's bring in a couple of other heroines for contrast. Maybe this will make my point more clear, maybe it'll make it more confusing, you can be the judge of that.

Mulan is portrayed as someone who has been basically screwing up her whole life. We don't see her childhood, either, but we get a sense through the first fifteen or so minutes of the movie, particularly "Bring Honor To Us All," that her relatives don't have super high hopes for her prospects, that her struggles with remembering all the right ways to act aren't new. It's not like everyone around acts for the most part like she's normal and then one or two relatives make a snide comment and she suddenly acts like she's been disappointing them her whole life--it's communicated to us that this is pretty much standard for her.

Or Ariel. It's made pretty clear to us that she's been sneaking off to explore human objects, skipping out on her official princess duties like appearing in concerts with her sisters, for a while. It's a continuing problem for Sebastian and for her father, but she can't help herself, so even though she knows there will be consequences if she's caught, she goes looking at human stuff anyway. It's not as if she goes looking at one shipwreck, everyone gets mad, and she acts like humanity has always been where her heart lies.

If you're going to have a character say something that implies they've been struggling to make their voice heard all their life, to be who they really are, you have to back it up. Mulan is shown as someone who has had consistent problems when she's herself, who tries her hardest to be who other people want her to be, and still fails, through her own words and actions and those of her family. "Help me not to make a fool of me, and to not uproot my family tree" and the notes she puts on her arm show she really is trying, but that she expects to fail because there's precedent for it. Ariel is shown as someone who's being stifled in the fact that she has to sneak away to indulge her greatest interest and in that she literally has a secret trove to put her human objects in. She has a lot of stuff there, and when she's caught, it's treated like a repeat offense, so it's pretty obvious that she's been doing this and being reprimanded for it for a while. Asha, on the other hand, has a job where she's trusted to fill visitors in on Rosas and even try to convince them to stay, and there's no manager or something looking over her work and making sure she's saying or doing all the right things. Her family is one of the least stern Disney families I've ever seen; they seem more or less okay with her just going off and doing mysterious who-knows-what.

Anyway! that's my take. I don't like those couple of lines in "This Wish" because they don't fit with the way other people interact with Asha in general. She's not being repressed super hard in most of the movie so I think treating it as "the time I have something incredibly important to say is the one time nobody listens" would have worked better

kay bye