#also re them not having large coins

[racetrackmybeloved]

why do the newsies always magically have such large coins, surely they'd mainly be carrying pennies since that’s what most people would be paying per pape ??

anyway we were robbed of a scene of race s l o w l y counting out 50 pennies to give to wiesel just to be a little shit

[monabee-draws]

Some TimeBomb Analysis I felt was very heartbreakingly necessary in this trying time:

Ekko comes to realise by being in this world that Jinx was always Powder, in the same way that Vi comes to reconcile the two 'versions' of her, Ekko sees all the ways Jinx's savvy-ness and cunning and brains were always Powder. He gave her up for dead - like his dream of a beautiful Zaun - a long time ago, and painted the mural to show it. But being here with Powder makes him realise he can still have this is he's willing to take her as she is now, flaws and all.

So we all know Ekko is really talking about Jinx in the line "I used to dream the undercity could be like this", but I also think the opposite is true for his last line: "Can we pretend like it's the first time?" is about the kiss, but it's also about this version of reality. It's about Benzo being alive and Powder being Powder. It's about stepping back from his real world for a second to pretend that this is his real world. He was always going to go back, but just like his use of the Z-drive means that he could theoretically re-do and undo all of his mistakes ad infinitum, this is an acknowledgement that this 'redo' is how he wished it has been, and that it isn't real for him at the same time. Because it isn't the final time he will pull the plunger and reset. But he wishes that it was.

3. Jinx has a very difficult relationship with abandonment, obviously. But these lines encapsulate her journey towards accepting that no, actually, the people who love her will always refuse to give her up no matter how much she believes doing so would save them (including Silco and Isha and even Vander since the enforcers come after the kids for the stones she steals.) Never giving up on her empowers both Ekko and Vi in the final hours of the show. Their relationships with Jinx and the strength of that connection in the fullness and acceptance of all of its flaws and history means that they can do and achieve anything. Not giving up on her means not giving up even when everything falls apart around them. It's the crux of Ekko's time travel ability - he will always remember what really happened in all of those loops, he still carries those scars and physical damage, but he keeps trying anyways and that is what saves the world.

4. Jinx is the 'someone worth building for.' Yes, this line is about TimeBomb but it's also very strictly about Jinx. It's about Jinx needing to know that her life also have worth for herself. Her inventions have by and large been built for the sake of others - her toy weapons to impress the others/keep up with them, the canon for Silco. She rebuilds Sevika's arm because she wants to feel useful for someone again. But she doesn't value her own input into the world for her own sake. Ekko isn't asking her to fix the world here, or to make good on her mistakes. There is no 'fixing' or 'undoing' or even 'rewriting' the way Vi wants her too, the way the Zaunites do with her legacy. There is only something new. And her life is worthy purely for whatever creations she adds to the world, regardless of whether they can undo the past. There's something so achy about that coming from the Boy Saviour. He isn't really here to save Jinx from herself - he just wants her to know she can do that saving on her own.

5. Jinx always knew what she needed to do to break the cycle. But she grew up with too many people who never wanted to let go of the past. In the end, we see her airship fly not towards Piltover (in some desperate rewrite of her failed story in Zaun) but away from it. She gets out, she pursues something new, the image loops but moves towards a new trajectory with a different (better) ending, just like Ekko shows her is possible with the Z-drive.

Two sides of the same coin. She leaves Zaun to see something new, and he returns to Zaun to see it in all of its fullness. I think they'll be alright.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CAT-EYES

PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader

SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You were sitting in the branches again.

Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards. 

Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen. 

The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.

So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?

But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes. 

“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around. 

Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal. 

Until it speaks.

“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.

Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see. 

“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn. 

He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion. 

“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly. 

There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds. 

“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.” 

This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual. 

He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.

Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.

This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes. 

Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains. 

“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”

Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.

You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all. 

The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart. 

You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge. 

The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead. 

“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back. 

Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.

“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”

“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”

If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven. 

The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”

“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment. 

“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight. 

You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.

“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”

There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs. 

“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”

“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”

Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”

John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”

You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other. 

John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan. 

You could outrun him.

“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?” 

The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.” 

Your lips twitch. 

“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”

John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth. 

“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”

The boar broach winks at you.

“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”

“Just Johnny—”

 “—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.” 

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering. 

“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”

“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”

John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly. 

“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”

You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.” 

—

You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.

“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”

John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.” 

“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”

“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.

“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing. 

“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.” 

“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”

“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”

The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen. 

Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.

“...What was that?”

“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”

He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.

Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.” 

“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”

“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.” 

John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly. 

“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes. 

“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat. 

Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance. 

“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”

“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”

“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”

“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.

Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.

“Find him!”

“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”

“Here!”

Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”

You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”

The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.

“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”

You blink, confused. 

“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss. 

Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water. “Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage. “Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”

“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!” 

“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”

“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”

“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”

—

He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.

“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump. 

It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.

“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”

“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”

You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred. 

“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”

“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer. 

“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”

He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.

“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.” 

“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”

“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.” 

You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”

Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”

“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”

“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.” 

You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see. 

You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port. 

“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”

“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know. 

Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.

“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?” 

Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”

You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display. 

“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”

It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?

“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”

“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”

Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”

“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.” 

You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.  

John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now. “Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”

“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”

“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing. 

You frown, gut swirling. 

“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”

Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.

“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”

Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”

“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”

John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery. 

You wanted that damn boar broach. 

“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”

Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully. 

Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.

—

“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion. 

Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees. 

He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh. 

It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night. 

But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong. 

“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth. 

Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.

He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”

You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.

“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”

“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”

Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.  

“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch. 

“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”

“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks. 

“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”

“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness. 

“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall. 

“No family?”

“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention. 

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.

“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”

Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful. 

“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”  

“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”

Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once. 

John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.

“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.” 

“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?” 

You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh. 

“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.

Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable. 

Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.

“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.” 

John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose. 

Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes. 

You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them. 

And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found. 

Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back. 

Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile. 

Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him. 

“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”

There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.

—

Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently. 

“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.” 

John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime. 

“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”

“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.” 

Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople. 

You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.

He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation. 

Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?” 

“I leave that for you to decide.”

John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Your face softens slightly. 

“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.

And you don’t understand why.

Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book. 

“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.

Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”

“You called me strange.” 

John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”

You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.” 

“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”

“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past

“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.” 

“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”

Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes. 

Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.

“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water. 

“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.” 

“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”

Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter. 

Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.

Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh. 

“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”

Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily. 

“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”

There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared. 

But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal. 

You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits. 

Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.

“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears. 

You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.

But you’re not stupid.

Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.

The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!” 

Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.

“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.

“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”

Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach. 

Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough. 

“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”

His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.

You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?” 

“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully. 

Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.

“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree. 

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing. 

“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him. 

“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind. 

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.

“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”

“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”

“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”

The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell. 

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”

You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder. 

“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold. 

All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.

Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them. 

John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.

Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present. 

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here. 

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage. 

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John. 

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free. 

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety. 

Free, free, free. 

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice. 

Wasn’t it? 

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.” 

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person. 

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge. 

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain. 

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood. 

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint. 

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head. 

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act. 

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred. 

They take a step forward. 

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly. 

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home. 

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt. 

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours. 

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold. 

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you. 

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement. 

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries. 

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green. 

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.” 

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are. 

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!” 

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you. 

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm. 

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight. 

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches. 

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.” 

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling. 

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated. 

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth. 

 “Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek. 

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully. 

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.” 

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours. 

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.” 

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone. 

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan. 

And, of course, follow directions. 

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh. 

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling. 

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar. 

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity. 

He’d called you Cat-Eyes. 

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff. 

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?” 

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom. 

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes. 

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin. 

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing. 

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar. 

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder. 

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads. 

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals. 

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?” 

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves. 

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window. 

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor. 

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny. 

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all. 

Or maybe there was a reason. 

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.” 

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog. 

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling. 

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.” 

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric. 

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly. 

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you. 

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.” 

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain. 

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate. 

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison. 

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers. 

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling. 

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s. 

You lick your lips. 

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking. 

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth. 

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.” 

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling. 

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control. 

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon. 

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!” 

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.” 

And then you’re gone. 

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet. 

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow. 

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic. 

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious. 

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach. 

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows. 

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles. 

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him. 

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always. 

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea. 

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial. 

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life. 

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief. 

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[lizbethborden]

I think the point these people make is that thinking that Harris is better than Trump is an illusion. They're two sides of the same coin, funding cop cities, funding racist anti immigration programs, funding Israel's genocide in Gaza, spreading dangerous islamophobic antisemitic misogynistic etc rhetoric. Trump is just doing it in a vulgar style. Harris has been vice president for a while now and her administration has not undone much of the work of Trump, when it hasnt prolonged or amplified it. So I think lots of people are feeling defeated, disillusioned, and like they are being manipulated when the 'at least she's not Trump' argument is brought forth. If she's not Trump, but signs off on the same policies and budgets, and represses protests the same way, there is no difference on the ground. Also I think more people are becoming radicalized and hope for a global change - third party candidates, the people's revolution, whatever. It's a rejection of the establishment altogether rather than rejecting just one - I understand the frustration but I can't fault people who refuse to participate in a system that they feel is working against them regardless of the outcome.

I take issue with a lot of the framing of this response.

First of all, it's not Harris' administration; it's Biden's. I'm not going to argue she has no agency as a political actor, but the way the system works is that he is the central driver of action and policy. Arguing that she, personally, should have accomplished more is frankly silly, both when 1) they HAVE accomplished quite a lot and 2) where they have struggled to accomplish goals, it is often because of deadlocks in the legislative branch, where Republicans hold a majority in the House and Democrats only the slightest majority in the Senate (and considering one of their number is Joe Manchin, it kind of doesn't count).

To the point that they HAVE accomplished a lot:

Established the Office for Gun Violence Prevention and signed anti-gun violence legislation into law

Passed the Inflation Reduction Act, which has significant climate change and drug price provisions

Approved literal billions in debt relief for people with student debt, with still more to come

Signed an executive order to regulate AI usage and to scrutinize use of AI for potential discriminatory effects

Passed the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law, allocating over $400 billion for infrastructure works

Pushed protections for consumers re: airline travel and its exorbitant fees and delays, via DoT and Pete Buttigieg

Achieved a 3.5% unemployment rate, which is the lowest in 50 years

Harris also has, explicitly, called for a ceasefire in Gaza and in fact had her intended statements about the humanitarian crisis there "watered down" by officials, ostensibly so that she didn't seem to be breaking away from Biden's approach to Israel and the genocide. I am not going to argue that the Biden-Harris administration is perfect, does no wrong, or does not have significant responsibility for dangerous, violent policies and political actions. That's the nature of Western government and it would be deeply offensive to suggest otherwise. But to suggest that they're just Trump but more polite is inaccurate and honestly shows a significant degree of political ignorance. Also very odd to suggest that a Black woman is like, equally as racist as Trump?

Moreover, the head-in-the-sand, I-would-prefer-not-to, "the revolution will come soon so no worries :D" approach is simply not helpful in the day-to-day. So, I, for one, absolutely can fault people who choose not to participate in the actions that will have significant effects on the day-to-day governance of the country in which they live. If the idea is to sit around and complain until all the oligarchs get beheaded, nothing will get done. This is the exact attitude taken during the 2016 election, which actually got Trump elected and resulted in the policies that killed large numbers of people during COVID, exacerbated racist and islamophobic violence, and nearly led to a white supremacist Christian nationalist coup that overthrew the government. If you're fine with that, good for you. I, personally, am not.

[haggishlyhagging]

Money, like writing, seems to have originated in the temples of the ancient world. The word money comes from the Roman Goddess Juno who in one of her forms was called Moneta meaning She Who Gives Warning. Her temple in Rome was the center for the finances of Rome and so her name Moneta became the word money. The same word became also mint because that same temple was the place where coins were minted. According to Barbara Walker silver and gold coins manufactured there were valuable not only by reason of their precious metal but also by the blessing of the Goddess herself which was believed to bring good fortune and healing magic.

Money was indeed a magical invention. Folk tales are full of magic lamps and genies and beanstalks, of magical ways to have our every wish granted. We would all like to be able to snap our fingers or twitch our noses and have our purposes accomplished. And that is almost exactly what happens with money. It can be exchanged for every conceivable kind of real wealth. Magic. Pure magic. So enamored were people of this magical invention that it became over time the primary measure of real wealth in Westem society.

Why then do three quite diverse philosophical or intellectual traditions agree on the idea that money is somehow unclean or something to be despised?

One of those traditions is Christianity. About one third of the parables of Jesus are about money. He is reported to have taught that being rich is a barrier to salvation and to have told the rich young man to sell everything and give his money to the poor. The one time he is depicted as angry is when he turns over the tables of the money changers at the temple. His advice on taxes is to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, to separate money and worldly concerns from one's religion. Classical Christianity has preached, if not practiced, that money and this world are to be renounced in favor of an other-worldly kingdom of heaven. The love of money, said St. Paul, is the root of all evil.

Classical Marxism also renounces money as responsible for the alienation of human beings from their labor. People no longer work to create or produce, but only to make money. This situation Marx considered to be disastrous. He felt it was labor which was of essential value and that all monetary valuations were to be discarded. Those who seek only money he saw as exploiting those who work.

Finally there is Freud who thought money was anal. He equated money with feces, excrement. It is therefore filthy and messy. Withholding money is a kind of constipation. Money is related to the bowels and is dirty. And indeed, we do refer to money sometimes as "filthy lucre."

Christianity, Marxism and Freudianism all agree on despising money. As a psychologist I have learned to pay careful attention to those things another person protests most vehemently against. And as a woman I have learned to pay close attention to those things which our great patriarchs preach most loudly against. Because, of course, what is loudly despised is often what is covertly desired or feared or worshipped. So if Jesus, Marx and Freud are all in agreement on something, we women had better take a careful look.

Women are socialized to live out the Christian ideals of self-sacrifice and martyrdom and men are socialized to give lip service to them. The same hypocrisy would seem to apply to what is preached about money. Filthy, despicable, and barrier to salvation it may be, but the fact is that in general, men have money and women don't. According to the United Nations Labor Organization, women put in 65% of the world's work and get back only 10% of all income paid. The female half of the world's population owns less than 1% of world property. Women in our Western society may have access to money through their husbands or fathers, but until recently women rarely accumulated or controlled their own large fortunes.

Men may philosophize about the distinction between money, which is "merely" a measure, and "real wealth," the goods and services into which money can be changed. They can say that the pursuit of money leads to an unhappy, hollow existence. They can urge upon women the virtues of simplicity. But for most men the ultimate appeal is to the "bottom line," that is, to money. How much money will something cost? How much financial profit will be gleaned? Mae West cut through this hypocrisy with great clarity when she said "I've been rich and I've been poor, and rich is better."

-Shirley Ann Ranck, Cakes for the Queen of Heaven

[in-restless-walks]

okay i don't know sorry if this is a weird ask but right now im high and watching a youtube video of simon and garfunkel singin the boxer in the concert in central park and idk i got like a vibe from them so my question is are you a simon and garfunkel historian? do you know the context of their relationship during that moment? i don't know you i just searched simon and garfunkel and ended up in your blog so forgive me if you are not that kind of fan or something idk. i know that simon and garfunkel is big on tumblr but idk sometimes is like in a yaoi kind of way sometimes is like an ironic meme i dont know what im saying tbh im sorry for this. anyway if you don't know could you give me some blogs recomendations so i can ask them? is this a weird thing to ask? do i sound crazy? again im really high and this is taking too much to write because i don't know if i make sense sometimes i forget what word i put before the word i'm writing. anyway. can you help me with my issue? thanks a lot! oh for context i don't really know simon and garfunkel lore so just in case i need context i just know their relationship was like weird like sometimes they got along and then they missed each other or something? okay thanks! <3

Wow, okay, thanks for sending this, and first of all, I hope you enjoyed getting high, LOL. I guess there's nothing like getting high and starting to wonder about the yaoi side of Simon & Garfunkel.

I am not a Simon & Garfunkel historian, so to speak, but I have been a fan for quite some time and I have read all the biographies there are to read, I have done my fair share of research into them, so I do think I know a bit about the S&G "lore". Ever since the first time I saw the Concert in Central Park and seeing the same "vibe" you did during The Boxer, I've also 'shipped' them. That is to say, while I do not think that they were ever in a romantic relationship and everything that that entails, I don't rule out at all that anything of a sexual nature happened between them. Other people seem to think that too, hence the 'yaoi' posts you see on tumblr.

Their relationship was/is a really complicated one and I'm not sure any of us know exactly what happened to make them where they are now - supposedly on no speaking terms. I mean, Paul said in his recent documentary that Art turned from someone who 'got it for him" into someone he hopes never to see again, which...ouch x 1000.

For you and for everyone else getting into Simon & Garfunkel, here's a little crash course.

TL;DR they're both idiots who got along reasonably well if it wasn't about their professional business. Their creative differences re: music (and personal grievances) were always so large (as were their egos) that they followed a pattern of getting together to try (again), fought, were on no speaking terms for a decade, thought to give it another try, and repeat, ad infinitum. In fanfic terms, they are the epitome of strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to friends to lovers to enemies to...

1950s

Paul and Art are childhood friends. They lived a few streets away from each other in Queens, NY, and they went to the same school. They're the same age, born three weeks apart. They formally met when they were eleven, at the school play for Alice in Wonderland (Paul was the White Rabbit, Art the Cheshire Cat). Soon after, they started recording songs in their basements, trying to copy their heroes, the Everly Brothers. They got signed by Big Records by someone called Sid Prosen, called themselves Tom (Art) and Jerry (Paul) and released a fairly successful single called 'Hey Schoolgirl' when they were 16, which even made them go on Dick Clark's American Bandstand show (footage sadly does not survive). Paul recorded a song by himself, without telling Art, while he called himself True Taylor, and Art found out, 'shattering' the friendship with Paul for the first time. (It seems to have never recovered to how it was before). I coin this the True Taylor Incident™️. Alledgedly they didn't speak to each other for a couple of years after graduating high school (1958-1962-ish). During that time, Art recorded a few songs as Artie Garr, and Paul did as well, as Jerry Landis.

1960s

Paul went to study in Queens College, NY, and Art went to Columbia University (there he met his blind roommate Sanford, which is a whole other interesting side story). Paul and Art got reacquainted with each other, performed as a duo again and managed to get signed to Columbia records to record an album in March 1964, which was to be released in October 1964.

Meanwhile, Paul often went to England and mainland Europe (France, Denmark, the Netherlands...) and there he met Kathy who became his girlfriend (Hence, Kathy's Song, and "Kathy I'm lost, I said" from America). He also recorded a solo album while in the UK, called The Paul Simon Songbook. Art went to visit him a few times.

Their first album, Wednesday Morning 3AM, flopped; Art stayed in school and Paul went back to the UK. The album did contain the song The Sound of Silence (acoustic version) and a really interesting thing happened in late 1965 when someone decided to put electric guitars to the track and suddenly it got airplay. Paul was in Denmark when the song was really starting to do well on the charts, and he had to rush home to NYC when the song became number one.

Then, Paul and Artie were suddenly famous! They quickly recorded another album with several songs that were on The Paul Simon Songbook, but now Art's harmonies were on there. They did a lot of tv performances in 1966 and 1967 and toured mainly in the college and university circuits. (I will link some tv peformances and so on later, in another post).

I'm skipping over some things now, but in my opinion, trouble for their relationship really began again when they started recording their album Bookends and Paul had been writing music for The Graduate (Mrs. Robinson) (1968). The director of The Graduate, Mike Nichols, had asked Art and Paul to act in his next movie, Catch-22, but Paul's scenes got cut, and Art went to Mexico on his own for the better part of the first half of 1969, just when they were supposed to record their next album, Bridge Over Troubled Water. Tensions ran super high at that time. Plus, Paul had written the song Bridge Over Troubled Water for Art to sing, but he later said that Art first refused to sing it (Art said that he wanted Paul to sing it in a lovely falsetto voice) and later, during concerts, Art took standing ovations while finishing the song, while Paul was jealous that he didn't get songwriting credits on stage. Paul also said that Art was leaving him to do movies...not long after Catch-22, Art got invited to play a role in Mike Nichols' next movie, Carnal Knowledge. (see also: Why Don't You Write Me...."if it's only to say that you're leaving me"). The whole Bridge Over Troubled Water album is one big breakup album.

Meanwhile, Paul had gotten married to Simon & Garfunkel's manager's ex-wife (I still can't fathom this) and Peggy also kind of encouraged him to go solo. Paul also claimed that his musical interests and Art's were drifting apart, so eventually, they split in 1970. Artie thought they were only taking a break, and allegedly he didn't realize they were really done.

1970s

Both starting solo careers, they reunited a few times as well, such as for the McGovern benefit concert in 1972, and most notably in the second Saturday Night Live episode in 1975 (tell me they're not flirting the whole time). Paul had even written a song, My Little Town, that the both of them performed for the reunion and was featured on both of their (solo) albums There was also a reunion for Paul's The Paul Simon Special (1977), the Brittania Awards (1977) and some other benefit concerts.

1980s

Paul was approached by a concert producer about playing in Central Park and maybe doing a few songs with Art, and Paul was like, I can't very well play support to Simon & Garfunkel, so it was decided that the whole concert was supposed to be the both of them. And time it was, what a time it was! Safe to say the concert was a success, even though they were fighting again (Art wanted to stay as close to the accoustic sets they used to do in the college performances, and Paul wanted a big band on stage). The interviews before the performance are awkward as usual, but it seems that for the performance itself they kind of set their differences aside, and they seem to be having a good time on stage, as good as it gets with these two. The back rub during The Boxer is...I can't explain it, but that was a lovely gesture by Art.

Because the concert in Central Park had been so successful, they were going to bank on that success and do a whole reunion tour AND a reunion album in 1982-1983, but that seems to have been a very miserable experience for them both. Their body language in interviews says it all. It culminated in Paul wiping Art's vocals from what was supposed to be their reunion album and releasing it as a solo album. Safe to say they were on no speaking terms again for a while, lmao, especially when their professional endeavours were concerned. They did hang out sometimes in private, because Paul had married Carrie Fisher and Art was seeing Carrie's friend Penny. Then Paul got famous with Graceland and Artie was once again, forgotten.

1990s

They got inducted in the Hall of Fame (another miserable experience), Paul did another concert in Central Park (without any sign of Art this time) and they did a few reunion concerts in NYC and so, but neither of them looked very happy about that, if you ask me. In fact, the less they had to look at each other, the better. There was apparently one instance where they were fighting and someone had to stand in between them, or they would have physically started attacking each other? Sounds like a lot of fun, huh? Start of another decade of not speaking to each other.

2000s

After getting a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, they thought it was a good idea to get together again and do a reunion your, and that seemed to work, for a while. They toured the United States (2003-2004), Europe (2004), Australia/NZ and Japan (2009) and were about to embark on yet some more shows in the fall of 2010, but then Art Lost His Voice (you can see this happening right in front of your salad at the April 2010 Jazz Fest, but they were still very chummy then).

What happened in 2010...no idea, but it wasn't good. And then Art made things much, much worse when he did an interview in 2015, called Paul a Monster, and idiot and a jerk, and how could he leave a successful formula like Simon & Garfunkel behind and no amount of groveling that Art has done since (like begging Paul to call him in an interview) has helped. They are still on no speaking terms.

Now all we can do is wait and hope they come to their senses and kind of make up before they die. Under no circumstances do I still want them to sing together, but damn, if all of us don't want them to just both sit on the edge of a park bench, like bookends, I don't know anymore.

My take on the whole thing: they were good friends as kids, Art never got over the True Tailor Incident and that stayed with him forever; he always saw Paul as someone who could betray him in the blink of an eye. Paul was envious of Art's looks (and height); meanwhile Art wasn't a songwriter, so Paul had that advantage over him. It's not a good balance to be in such a close partnership. Perhaps at one point something did happen between them, complicating things even more, because can you really hate someone that much if you don't have strong feelings for them either? In later years, it seems to be mainly the "creative differences" about the music that was causing a rift, but maybe after all is said and done, perhaps Carrie Fisher said it best "not only do I not like you, but I don't like you personally." Paul 'cheated' on Art with True Taylor and, like any other one half of a (married) couple, he tried to get over it, but never could. (and maybe Paul is a jerk lmao. But Art was no angel either).

I've skipped over a lot of things, so if you have more questions, shoot. There are quite a few of us who are posting regularly about them, and who know about everything I've written above. In fact, there's a Tumblr community on S&G now (see my pinned post) but so far there haven't been many people interested in joining, lol, so if you want in, let me know. People could do a lot more theorizing there, haha.

[rogue205]

Hunger Games rant

This is kind of surprising me because I used to ship Everlark when I read the books years ago but upon a re-read as an adult?

I’m just wandering through the Hunger Games fandom and seriously have to say… I very very much doubt that Katniss and Peeta “would’ve happened anyway” if they were not reaped nor if the Games never existed.

Sure, he had a crush on her which is likely why he gave her the burned bread that day(something that I’m pretty sure isn’t even covered in the movies) which people seem to think makes her required to like him back. Their relationship was also a forced play for the Capitol, she had no choice. If it was “gonna happen anyway”, she would’ve been dating him already by the first book. 

As an (now)Everthorne shipper, I am a little biased but she clearly has more in common with Gale, they had known each other for years, and she even bluntly states that “he is hers and she is his” at one point. Seems straight forward to me. Gale also deserved better than what SC did to him. Yes, he helped to design those bombs but I very much doubt he knew what Coin was going to use them for nor did he know that Prim was going to be there and put in the direct line of fire. Prove me wrong. I’m also slightly irritated that Katniss holds this over his head, and while I understand given that it’s Prim, she should know him better than that. Just seemed like an easy way for Collins to get rid of him so she could pander to fans by putting Katniss with Peeta. Yes, he lied by omission but he didn’t want to hurt her. And I find it odd that she just can’t seem to get over that, while she seems to just instantly forgive Peeta for every manipulation(unintended or not) that he puts her through. 

I do find it funny that some people seriously seem to think that Gale and Katniss actually are cousins. Take the Everlark blinders off, people. You really think that Collins would create a love triangle that involved incest?

She picked Peeta in the end because he could give her stability in a post war world when she had no one, not because she loved him like that. Matches up to “she’ll pick who she can’t survive without” to me. I know people immediately interpret that as “she’ll pick who she loves” but no. If Gale meant it that way, he would’ve said it that way but he also knows the only one Katniss would and could ever truly love is Prim. Peeta does not understand this about her.

The movies just showed a “happy-ever-after Everlark” ending while ignoring that fact that Peeta is still struggling with the hijack(and poses a continuing threat to Katniss because of it) and in the books, Katniss does wonder what kind of future she also could’ve had with Gale like they were talking about before the first reaping. But she dismisses it because she imagines that he’s moved on. Her ending with Peeta comes across to me as “obligation” still. Surprisingly, lots of people seem to get this too I’ve read but most are still “romantic Everlark” anyway. 🤷‍♀️

Katniss had gone through the books pretty adamant that she didn’t want to marry or have children and yes, that was largely because she didn’t want them to have to go through the Games but it’s also been said behind the scenes that she only did these exact things in the end because Peeta wanted it. Literally along the lines of “I didn’t want children but Peeta did and kept asking until I finally caved…” just rubs me the wrong way.

I think it would’ve been a refreshing change to have ended this series the way Katniss originally wanted. Where she didn’t end up with anyone. (@zalrb here on Tumblr says this all way better than I ever could. Go visit them.)

[raayllum]

Hey! I was wondering what your thoughts are on Viren's dark magic dreams (your posts on plot points are always really interesting to read, so I'd love to hear your opinion!)

Especially in perspective with Callum's dark magic dream. Callum and Viren have close arcs and I'm sure their dreams must have some linking ideas (like the door/key?)

First of all, thank you for your kind words and sorry this ask is so late!! I will do my best to answer <3

Viren's dark magic dreams are tricky since some of them reference things (specifically Kpp'Ar and Soren's illness) that we just don't have total context for, largely:

Why and how, exactly, Soren became ill. If it was a randomized illness, as sometimes unfortunately happens, vs Soren got sick because of exposure to dark magic or something adjacent to it, those will paint Viren's desperation/decisions to save him in very different lights accordingly (both sympathetic, I think, but the latter concept adds to the idea that the bloodprice will just keep growing, y'know? Unintended consequences and all that)

On that note, what, exactly, Viren did to save him, although I have my theories here regarding what ingredient might've been crucial, and why I think star magic was involved.

Potential (likely) differences between dream/nightmare Kpp'Ar vs real life Kpp'Ar, as we see the way both Viren's wish fulfilment and guilt twists the scene he shares with Harrow. And of course what Viren wanted to do that was so terrible Kpp'Ar 1) revoked dark magic, 2) couldn't justify and 3) got in Viren's way enough that Viren coined him.

The rest of the dreams are, I think, overall, fairly straight forward, mostly because we have the context to decode them:

Harrow scene because that was the main relationship at the time keeping Viren on remotely the 'right' path and the deterioration of it clearly devastated him. Also ties into Viren's S4 + S5 arc of realizing he wants to, and should have, prioritized meaningful relationships > power and status when it came to how he wanted to matter

The twin peaks reference scenes are well, references, as well as exploring Viren's wish fulfilment (Kpp'Ar as his high mage, Viren as king) but also how that pursuit for power destroyed him, hence why he's only free once he removes and throws off the crown

The Claudia scenes are about his fear and regret regarding what his death and Aaravos has forced Claudia into becoming, as well as the path Viren was leading her down for much longer, bringing the idea of "She is not an asset, she is my daughter" and his nightmare memory of it from S4 nicely and tragically to fruition

Viren speaking with his past self through the mirror re-contextualizes why he was so confident it was Important, object wise, and serves to spell certain things out for us as an audience (ideas of paths and choices and freedoms)

There aren't a ton but there are some parallels between his and Callum's dreams (because you'd have to purposefully try to find something they don't have something parallels wise on show wise, at this point) in as follows

The most obvious is the conversations with their mirror selves.

For Callum this is a reflection void of the mirror, and for Viren, this is a reflection in the mirror (whether his past or present self is the one imprisoned could go either way). For present Viren, he's the corrupted one, who has to acknowledge his younger, less corrupted self, as well as that he had more agency than he wanted to admit. For Callum, he rejected his corrupted self, but obviously S5 both complicated and pulled on that set up (2x08 dark magic Callum's rune cube displaying the Ocean and Moon runes most prominantly, and Callum did dark magic in S5 ocean for his moon gf / doing dark magic again and the emotional journey there let him understand the ocean arcanum)

This is also juxtaposed with Callum's dreams about the dark magic being in confronting what he's done VS Viren's dreams being about confronting what he's done, yes - but mostly about confronting his justifications for what he did, which is an interesting difference, I think.

The drowning / water as danger parallel, only Viren literally sinks through water and is trying to save someone else (Claudia) from drowning vs Callum himself was metaphorically to literally drowning

Being guided by the dead in a lot of ways, since for Callum he has both of his parents (outside of Villads) and Viren is forced to confront people he's driven away (Kpp'Ar / Soren), versions of people that no longer exist (young Soren and Harrow) if they ever did, and Claudia carrying on his path to become a walking corpse (because dark magic in a lot of ways equals death)

The keys vs doors, for sure, although Callum is more overtly tethered to freedom through the keys / Harrow's chains, whereas with Viren it's a bit more metaphorical (he clasps his wrist in 5x03 in a similar manner that Callum does later to mimic chains in 5x08) and through dialogue mostly than dialogue and symbolism

This is super random but the tree when Viren is having his nice scene with young Soren always stands out to me as well, mostly cause it doesn't need to be there, and makes me think of the tree Claudia nearly walks into in 1x01 / the tree on the star chart map but like. Super vague and probably nothing? Still a thought though <3

If you're interested in more Callum-Viren post-S5 thoughts, I'd recommend these posts: What did Viren and what does Callum want?, How Callum and Viren sacrifice (written post-S4 but updated with S5 screencaps), Why ramp up the foiling? and general celebration that they are, indeed, switching foils, which is exactly what I was hoping for / banking on

[hikennosabo]

trimax vol 10 random thoughts (ch 5-8)

part 1 here.

okay, time for part 2. i don't want to do this, i have a pit in my stomach.

chapter 5:

destroying razlo's punishers... a good strategy!

getting leverage to jump by stepping on his leg, i love it

you could say he. he was. *wheeze*... i guess you could say he was... ...disarmed... [a comically large hook drags me off the stage]

wolfwood and razlo just met today (not technically but y'know), but he can read razlo so well already, taunting him like this.

THIS FIGHT...!!! it's reminding me of vash vs knives in the finale of the 98 anime! one black gun and one white gun, and them being on even ground, making the same moves...

they're an even match when they're just whaling on each other, but wolfwood has tactics that razlo doesn't. also this is an insanely cool move.

chapter 6:

^ how it feels to read trigun maximum (said again)

^ how it feels to read trigun maximum (said for a third time)

he knows wolfwood is dying. we know wolfwood is dying. he can't do anything to stop it. we can't do anything to stop it. (except for refusing to keep turning the pages, i guess)

THEY HAVE NAMES?

vash can't do anything to stop wolfwood from dying, but he can help wolfwood go out on his own terms...

PLEASE, HE'S ALREADY DYING, WE DON'T NEED YET ANOTHER DEATH FAKEOUT FOR THE BOOKS.

livio interfering... i'm not an expert but this is not how DID works. but sure. the drama carries it.

WHY AND HOW IS CHAPEL STILL ALIVE FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

razlo realizes very fast that chapel never cared. despite his verbal denial, i think he was realizing way before this.

DESERVED!!! YES.... KILL!!!!!!

of course razlo can only attack. attack, like how he killed livio's parents. not that chapel doesn't deserve it, but this is the only thing razlo knows how to do.

ough. livio apologizing... "i'm okay now"...

so is razlo just gone now? like i said, i'm not a DID expert, i know re-integration(? not sure if that's the correct term sorry) is possible, but i don't know if this is how it works...

honestly, i feel bad for razlo. he only knew a life of violence, he was manipulated and indoctrinated by chapel, all he wanted was to be needed but his last experiences are finding out that chapel didn't care about him and then livio telling him he doesn't need him anymore. poor guy.

chapter 7:

oh, no, i don't want to read this chapter again. don't make me read this chapter again.

the difference between this and tristamp... stamp had the orphanage much more directly tied to EoM, and a bunch of guys in suits came to pick wolfwood up. this scene is a lot more "normal," a lot less obviously suspicious. idk if i'd go so far as to say stamp!melanie was in on the whole thing, but she doesn't look happy about wolfwood leaving... i do wonder how stampede will handle all this... ANYWAY!

"six years"... lmao. now i understand what people meant when they said the timeline is confusing. it's killing me and i hate it, actually?! nightow ALL you had to do was NOT specify a number!!!

the coins... i constantly forget about them and i find it funny whenever they're brought up... they were so clearly meant to set the ghg up as a shonen battle enemy-of-the-month type thing but then that got thrown off the rails when the magazine ceased publication and everything got turned upside down. yet the coins persist. what are they all for in the end.

also i'm sad. this is wolfwood's paltry attempt at pushing vash away. (also he's been carrying rai-dei's coin this whole time?! lol?! that's also sad... just waiting to give it to vash i guess...)

"this is the way you want it? are you sure?" i'm just fucking inconsolable at this point.

of course this attempt at sincere emotion is deflected. you boys are so, so, so, so, so stupid.

i can't do this man. i can't review the couch scene. i'm crying too much.

the prayer. this especially is getting to me. we've seen wolfwood pray a few times, but now it's vash's turn to pray. we've never seen him do that. and while vash was there to answer wolfwood's prayer... there is no one to answer vash.

what if i climbed into the microwave right fucking now.

ourgh. out of all the images in this chapter, this is the one that stuck with me the most. even more than the couch images. ugh, i can't even fucking write.

chapter 8:

i don't know where else to say this...? lol but livio's personality is different, he's cute now. is this because he broke out of the EoM brainwashing or because he integrated with(???) razlo? (once again: IS this how this works???) or is it both? either way he's a lot more expressive than he was before...

other people have already talked about how we didn't see the burial. i'm also thinking about everything else we didn't see. vash buried wolfwood, and he also cleaned up outside, brought livio in and laid him down, gathered ingredients and started cooking...

how long did he sit on that couch for before he moved. how much and how hard did he cry. we didn't see that either. we don't need to.

knives. he's smearing blood on his face again.

his laughter... i don't think he finds this funny like "haha funny" necessarily, i think he's just losing it.

vash defends the orphanage and knives doesn't even push it. he just moves on. hmm, i'm trying to articulate this... vash's display of power used up more of his life, which knives noticed obviously, and vash is willing to go that far to protect the orphanage... knives still doesn't want vash to die, and... he's laughing out of disbelief, or something like that. i don't know.

vash and livio sharing a meal together is... it's nice. but vash is still clearly very angry. with livio, with razlo, with himself too probably.

i don't know. i'm not angry with livio or razlo at all. they were both victims of chapel same as wolfwood. this is all chapel's fault in my mind, lol.

oh.

we're gonna see this in stampede too, aren't we. wolfwood will die for a third time and we're gonna see vash holding the punisher.

the fact that this volume doesn't even have the goofy author extra... we're just forced to sit with this. man. the book club wasn't kidding, it's so much worse the second time around. the first time i cried a little but i was mostly just taking it all in. the second time i was like actually heaving and sobbing. reading this volume twice within a few days was a BAD IDEA.

AND WE STILL HAVE FOUR VOLUMES LEFT. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GO ON AFTER THIS. four entire volumes without wolfwood...

[whatacaitastrophe]

Everything Has Changed - Chapter 8

Previous Chapter

Chapter Song Inspiration: "Bad Habits" - Ed Sheeran ft. Bring Me The Horizon

Chapter Warnings: alcohol consumption, blood drinking, EXTREMELY miled dub!con (both parties are drunk)

Spotify Playlist: Here

Author Notes: Thank you all so much for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting on this fic (and the first one)! If you are interested in supporting me in other ways, I have a Ko-Fi link. ya girl has been behind on bills for two months and i've got a dog to feed, and every little bit helps <3

i also have a discord server! it was created to coincide with my twitch channel but you do NOT need to follow/subscribe/watch my twitch streams to come hang out with us <3 we talk a lot about bg3 and share memes and fics.

Chapter 8: My Bad Habits Lead to You

The streets of Daggerford were bustling in the late afternoon light, and Fallon could feel the sense of calm that came from being in a crowd rush over her as she walked with Gale. It was a small town to be sure, but after seeing no one other than Astarion, Gale, and the occasional passing traveler for nearly a month even the small crowd was a welcome sight. Fallon preferred to be in crowds of people for a number of reasons, and all of her reasons pretty much directly contradicted each other. Fallon preferred populated areas because nobody was sticking their noses in other peoples’ business. She could blend in with the crowd and be completely anonymous, if she wanted to be. People were often so engrossed in themselves that they didn’t notice what wasn’t directly invading their space. 

On the other side of the coin, Fallon liked living in populated areas because it felt safer. One would think that based on the idea of blending in with the crowd and the anonymity large groups afforded a single person, it would be more dangerous because nobody was paying attention, but people paid attention when something was out of the ordinary. A woman screaming because somebody stole her coin purse, or a man collapsing in the middle of the street? Those were abnormal occurrences that forced people to get out of their own heads and pay attention. Case in point: Fallon was certain the Szarlnaxi vampires would never have ambushed them in Daggerford, even in the middle of the night.

There was a bookshop across the street from the inn, and Fallon nudged Gale and nodded her head in that direction. “Maybe they’ll have some books on sorcery, or some magic scrolls you can use to re-teach yourself some spells.” She suggested. Fallon knew Gale was eager to get to Waterdeep so he could pour through his personal tomes, and take advantage of the wealth of knowledge likely waiting for him there. Maybe there would be something here in Daggerford that could give him a head start. 

At the sight of the bookshop, Gale’s face brightened. “Have I mentioned recently how grateful I am to have you as a friend? Specifically, as the type of friend who is willing to spend time with me in a bookshop?”

Fallon chuckled as they began walking towards the shop. “You’re not the only person who likes to read, Gale.” 

“Indeed. I seem to recall books being the first thing you and I bonded over.” Gale smiled. 

Fallon was not nearly as hungry for knowledge as Gale, and she preferred works of fiction, but that was one of the great things about Gale. He loved reading for the purposes of learning something from a non-fiction book, but that didn’t mean he never picked up a novel, and Fallon learned early on in their friendship that he had read many of her favorites (including the romance novels).

Fallon smiled back at him, and nodded. “I need something new anyway. Astarion has been hogging the books I brought with us for himself.”

“I thought I saw him reading your favorite last week— the one about the boy at magic school.” Gale recalled, and Fallon stopped walking. It took Gale a moment to realize she was no longer by his side, but once he did he doubled back so he was standing in front of her. 

“Fallon? Are you alright?”

“You— you remembered I like that book?” Surprise shone in her eyes as she stared at her ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t that she thought Gale wasn’t listening back then when she shared information about herself. Fallon just assumed he’d forgotten by now after being apart for so long, or that Mystra had somehow managed to take away his memories of Fallon, too (something Fallon had previously assumed to be unlikely, but that was before the goddess revoked Gale’s access to magic out of spite). 

“I remember everything about you, Fallon.” 

Fallon instantly recognized the soft look in Gale’s warm, brown eyes for what it was: adoration. It was a look she’d seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. Even before they were romantically involved, Gale always looked at Fallon like he thought she hung the moon. Seeing that look on his face made her heart stutter in her chest, scaring her both because of how it made her feel, and how it likely meant Gale still felt. 

Despite her fear, Fallon offered Gale a half-smile and stepped towards him. She reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “You’re a good friend, Gale.”

Gale smiled back at her. “Not half as good a friend as you’ve been to me, despite everything.” 

The two of them stood in the middle of the street just staring at each other for a moment longer as Fallon’s mind reeled from the realization presented to her. This couldn’t be happening. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t. For so many reasons, she couldn’t. Gale and Fallon were snapped from their moment when a man pushing a cart knocked into Gale, pushing him towards Fallon as he passed by. “Stop standing in the middle of the bloody road!” The man shouted, and Fallon waved apologetically before looking back at Gale. 

“We should get going.” She suggested, and Gale nodded, his face returned to its usual relaxed expression.   

By the time Fallon and Gale returned to the inn, satchels full of books, scrolls, and potions, dusk had fallen, and Astarion was waiting for them in the tavern at the inn. “Gods, what took you so long? Did you buy the whole town?” 

Astarion was dressed in clothes somewhat nicer than what he’d been traveling in thus far, and Fallon smiled as she took in how beautiful he was. Astarion truly was a work of art, and it was categorically unfair. “You look handsome.” She commented, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. Perhaps appealing to his vanity would soften his annoyance that they were gone all afternoon. 

“We’re in a real town for the first time in weeks, the two of you will be able to have a meal not cooked over a fire, and we’ll all be able to indulge in alcohol we didn’t drag with us from Baldur’s Gate, or find in an abandoned building. Why not show the people of this little town what taste looks like,” Astarion mused, resting his hands on Fallon’s hips. He looked at Gale. “Though I’m sure there’s not anything wrong with your cooking, of course. No offense.” 

Gale smiled and shook his head. “None taken. I too am looking forward to eating a meal not cooked by yours truly this evening.” 

Fallon looked at Gale. “I feel like we’re a little underdressed, now, don’t you?” 

“Indeed. Though admittedly I didn’t bring anything much nicer than this, given the circumstances with which I’m here in the first place.” Gale’s cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink. 

“It’s alright, no one will be looking at you anyway, since Fallon will be with us.” Astarion complimented Fallon and her heart skipped a beat in her chest as he leaned down to kiss her softly. Fallon knew Astarion loved her, and believed her to be beautiful, but that didn’t mean she would ever tire of hearing him say it. 

“You make a fair point. It is difficult to outshine her.” Gale agreed, clearing his throat slightly. Fallon pulled back from her embrace with Astarion and saw Gale awkwardly staring at the ground, still flushed. 

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go find us a table while Gale and I go upstairs to put away our purchases and change into something a little more presentable?” Fallon suggested to Astarion, and her lover nodded. 

“I’ll be waiting.” He agreed and kissed her a second time, deeper than the first kiss they shared. By the time they broke apart, Gale had already disappeared to return to his room, and Fallon hated the guilt that settled in her stomach once again. 

Astarion was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. Several weeks ago, Astarion warned Fallon that he did not believe Gale was as sorry for his actions as he claimed to be, or that Gale did not have ulterior motives for seeking Fallon’s forgiveness. After what happened with the Szarlnaxi vampires, and offering to let Astarion drink his blood, Astarion had begun to trust Gale a bit more, to believe that Gale truly only wanted forgiveness and to start over with Fallon as friends. 

Then he saw the look on Gale’s face as the sorcerer agreed that Fallon’s beauty put himself and Astarion to shame. It was a look Astarion had seen on Gale’s face before: back when their roles were reversed and Gale was the one sharing Fallon’s bed while Astarion silently pined for the woman he thought would never be his. Whether Fallon was aware of it or not, Astarion couldn’t be sure, but now more than ever, Astarion was more than certain that Gale was very much still in love with her. 

Astarion was going to get him to admit it, if only for the pure joy he would feel upon hearing he was right. Everything else that followed was secondary, and would be dealt with later. He wasn’t stupid, but he also wasn’t the type of person to plan things out terribly far in advance. For now, he just needed to make it through steps one and two:

One, he needed to get Gale drunk, and two, he needed to get Gale alone. Step two would be easy, as the only blood Astarion drank recently was from a boar they found between Dragonspear Castle and Daggerford the day before last. 

It turned out that step one also ended up being easier than Astarion thought it would be. Between being so close to Waterdeep they could taste it, hot baths, hot meals, and the prospect of sleeping in real beds that evening, everyone was in good spirits. Fallon, especially, wanted to drink, and Astarion knew his lover well enough to know that when she was in the mood to celebrate, she wanted everyone else to be as drunk as she was. 

By the time Astarion carried Fallon up to their room to put her in bed, Gale was right behind him, stumbling slightly to his own room for the evening. Astarion was tipsy, but alcohol never got him truly drunk anymore in the way that it did for Fallon and Gale. No, Astarion knew that as soon as he fed on Gale, that was when his own drunkenness would truly kick in: Drinking the blood of someone intoxicated had that effect on him. 

Astarion pressed a kiss to Fallon’s forehead. “Wait up for me, darling, I’ll be back soon.” He requested, fully intent on spending the rest of his evening with Fallon wrapped in his arms and kissing her until they fell asleep after he was finished with Gale. 

The door to Gale’s room was slightly ajar, and Astarion smirked. “Leaving your door open? That’s brave. Anyone could come in and have their way with you.” He teased.

Gale chuckled, his words starting to softly slur together. “If I didn’t know any better, Astarion, I’d say you were flirting with me.” 

Yes, Gale was most definitely drunk enough that getting the information Astarion wanted would be easy. He stepped into Gale’s room and shut the door behind him. “What, I can’t be concerned for the well being of a friend?” Astarion pouted. Maybe he was flirting. After all, flirting used to work marvelously to get information he wanted out of people– who was to say it wouldn’t work on Gale?

Gale laughed again as he took a seat on his bed and began rolling up his sleeve so Astarion could access the same spot on his arm from the last time they did this. “Are we friends now, Astarion? I think you just admitted it.” 

“I suppose we are, sorcerer. You’re much more fun now that you can do magic again.” He observed, striding over to the bed. He sat down next to Gale, and it felt weirdly more intimate than the first time they did this (even with Gale attempting to lay down last time). Maybe it was the fact that they were sitting on a bed. 

Gale hummed happily at the mention of magic. “Yes, that was quite a marvelous discovery, wasn’t it? I suppose I never actually thanked you for that.”

“Trust me, you’ve thanked me enough by agreeing to let me drink your blood again,” Astarion pointed out. “I’m sure Fallon is certainly grateful to share the duties of keeping me fed with someone.” Astarion didn’t actually know if that was true or not, but for the purposes of getting Gale to talk, it was true enough for tonight. A slight pang of guilt settled in Astarion’s stomach for lying to Gale, but it was overruled by his need to be right. 

Gale offered Astarion a dopey smile at the mention of the woman in the next room, and he sighed. “I just want to keep her safe. She deserves to be safe.” 

Astarion nodded in agreement. “That she does,” he reached for Gale’s arm and pushed Gale’s sleeve up a little further, as it had slipped down slightly. “May I?”

He waited for Gale to nod, giving him consent before biting down on the same spot as before. Gale inhaled sharply when Astarion’s teeth broke the skin, and to Astarion’s surprise, the man kept talking. Perhaps to distract himself from the pain. “She loves you, you know. Deeply. I can see it on her face when she looks at you. You make her happy. I’m glad she found happiness, after everything I put her through.” Gale mused, and Astarion couldn’t help but smile against Gale’s skin as Gale’s blood poured into his mouth. It wasn’t a confession of love by any means, but it still pleased Astarion to hear Gale admit he knew Fallon was happy, and in a good place. Maybe he wouldn’t need to worry about Gale acting on his feelings for Fallon (if they existed), after all. 

Gods, Gale’s blood tasted good. Still not as good as Fallon’s, just as Astarion had told her earlier in the day, but damn. He could taste all of the fine wine Gale had that evening clearly now, too, and Astarion could feel himself becoming more intoxicated with every mouthful. 

Soon, Gale was tapping Astarion’s shoulder, and Astarion pulled away, raising his head and licking his lips as he went. He offered Gale the same dopey smile the other man had given him at the mention of Fallon’s name. “You really do taste exquisite, by the way,” Astarion offered. Yes,  Astarion was definitely as drunk as Gale now. “I didn’t get to tell you when you asked last time– too distracted by the magic.”  

To his surprise, Gale blushed. “Thank you, I suppose. I was curious,” Gale looked down at his arm, where blood was still slowly trickling from the wound Astarion created, and instead of wiping it away, he offered his arm back to Astarion. “Want to get the last bit? Might as well not let it go to waste.” The offer surprised Astarion, but he wasn’t really in a position to say no. Even when he was already drunk on Gale, his bloodlust would never allow him to decline one more taste (even if he could control himself from drinking Gale dry). 

“Well, if you’re offering, who am I to say no?” Astarion reached for Gale’s arm again, and slowly licked away the trail of blood that had begun to run down Gale’s forearm. Astarion hadn’t expected the act to feel sensual, but it had. He also hadn’t expected Gale to let out a soft moan, but he had. Most of all, Astarion hadn’t expected the sound of Gale moaning to go straight to his cock, but it had. 

When Astarion pulled away from Gale’s skin, he was grinning coyly at the sorcerer. “Why Gale, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked that, didn’t you?” Gale blushed deeper, and Astarion’s grin only widened. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, darling. I’m just surprised. I didn’t think I was…your type.”

 “You’re everyone’s type, Astarion.” Gale laughed nervously. Even if Astarion hadn’t been flirting with Gale before, he certainly was now as Gale’s alcohol filled blood coursed through Astarion’s veins. Moreover, Gale was flirting back.

Maybe Gale was drunker than Astarion thought he was. Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was both. All of those things could be contributing to Gale’s lowered inhibitions, but Astarion couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The surprises continued as Gale reached forward and swiped his thumb over Astarion’s chin, wiping away the blood that had trickled out of Astarion’s mouth. Gale offered it back to Astarion in the form of pressing his thumb against the vampire’s lips. It was an action that rid Astarion’s mind of all thoughts of the woman in the next room, and how Gale felt about her. It was difficult to focus on anything, really, with the way Gale looked at him. Astarion greedily accepted Gale’s invitation and he took the sorcerer’s thumb in his mouth and sucked the blood away, refusing to break Gale’s intense eye contact. 

When Astarion released Gale’s thumb, they were both breathing a little heavier as they stared at each other, the air so thick with tension it would have taken a sword to cut through it. Astarion’s eyes flickered to Gale’s mouth, and vice versa. Then, in tandem, the vampire and the sorcerer leaned forward to cup each other’s faces in their hands, and their mouths connected in a crushing kiss.

Chapter List

[mutantenfisch]

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

For Aldil, in honor of your recent lovely art!

Aldil is his special kind of fucked up. I love to torment him :> What does he love to do: Ironically, he loves the actual hunting part of his profession - gathering evidence for vampiric or necromantic activity, making sure it's not just rumours, and then tracking down the vampire or necromant's lair and preparing his attack. The thrill this gives him, together with the logistics needed - does he hire a mercenary? can he even afford it? would it be better to send word to the Vigilants or the re-formed Dawnguard instead? - fills him with a sense of purpose and, frankly, I think he's kind of addicted to the adrenaline rush of it all. Because it soothes his underlying feelings of perceiving himself as lacking a purpose, helpless, and unworthy. What does he hate to do: Aside from admitting defeat and running to save his hide? Entering cities with large populations or even crowded inns when the weather is so bad even khajiiti traders prefer solid walls over their tents. (AN: I use a mod that adds a handful of roadside inns and taverns to Skyrim and i headcanon their innkeepers to not be bound by city regulations that forbid the traders entry to within their walls) Aldil is no misanthropist, but he always feels uneasy with too many eyes around that could watch him. He also hates to acknowledge his feelings when they go against his principles. No matter if it's a sympathetic vampire who actually cares for the well-being of his thralls and provides them with a comfortable life in exchange for a little of their blood that he should kill but would end up hurting a lot of people, or a stuck-up Nord jarl who might have put a bounty on the extermination of a lair but upon beholding an Altmer of all people as the one to successfully bring in the bounty treats him as less than the spawn of Molag Bal himself. Whom he would like to at least punch in the face, but that would be considered a crime even though most of the townsfolk would probably toss in some coin to bail him out of prison. (No i don't even mean Ulfric. Aldil has special beef with Skald, jarl of Dawnstar. I have a fic wip about that in my to-write folder :> )

[bookswithsyd]

My First Cozy Fantasy | Legends and Lattes

Cozy Fantasy is not a genre that I have hear a whole lot about, and the main title that I kept seeing come up again and again was “Legends and Lattes.” I kept going back and forth on if I really wanted to check this title out, and when I found it available to check out on the Libby app, I pulled the trigger and tried it out.

Like most other books for me, this was a rough start. We get Viv finishing up her last mission as an adventurer before finding her new home. Most of the story involves Viv and friends creating the first café in the town, introduce coffee to the townspeople, and create new sweet treats.

On a surface level, this book is nice, its got its fun moments, it has highs and lows. But, I feel like it’s lacking some substance. Nothing that happened in the story came as a surprise, there was no suspense. We see Viv trying to start a new life, go down a new path, and build a life of ease in this new town after killing and questing for all her life. I wish we saw more of a struggle during the adjustment time for her, see some character development. We get to see only a glimpse at this when she questions on if she should solve her problems with violence (as suggested by her old adventuring crew), but she scrubs the idea quickly.

This is an issue I have with the other main cast as well. There is not a lot of depth to any of them. They each play a role, and that is it, none of them grow or develop. Tandri is the only main player that seems to have a real personality, she pushes for the shop to be better and she also wants what’s best for Viv. It can be explained by the stone brining people together, but Tandri dropping everything to give her life to a shop that sells a product she has never heard of seems insane. Cal shows up when he is needed and does help process the story by building up the shop, but he always has the answer one way or another. Thimble is a character that has personality by moving around and only speaking when absolutely necessary, I wish more could have been done with his character in some way, I feel like he could have been more important than just a baker that makes new treats.

I will say, there is a single person who has an incredible turn around, and that is Pendry! Pendry starts out so incredibly shy that he sprints out of the shop the first night he tries to serenade that crowd. He slowly develops into a confident performer who proudly plays and sings for the large crowd of customers. Plus, during the re-building stages, he admits that the family business is stone laying, but that his performing is simply a passion (as seen why he explains why he doesn’t feel right putting out a hat for coins). Pendry feels like a real character that finishes in a different state than he entered the book.

All of the big events that happen could be spotted from a mile away. The issues with the Madrigal was obviously going to find a compromise. I will admit that I love the compromise that they came to, I thought that was such a cute thing. But once threats started and Fennus came into the story, I just had this terrible feeling that the café was going to be set on fire… I didn’t expect it to be set on fire at night with Viv and Tandri INSIDE or it to be magical fire that can’t be put out and burned down the whole thing. I was sad to see all the hard work vanish in minutes, and seeing Viv so depressed (as she has every right to be) was really taking away from the nice happy feeling that I came to this book to feel!

I did enjoy reading the rebuilding section where everyone comes together to make the café even better than before, proving that the community is behind Viv and what she was brought to them all. The ending with the perfect grand re-opening was a beautiful scene to imagine. It did seem to tie everything up in a lovely bow with all the important characters getting a share of the café as a show of gratitude that they all built this place together.

The last three pages escalate the side-lined romance plotline more than the rest of the story combined. The inkling of progress happens with the adorable picnic that Tandri packs for them, plus Tandri insisting on staying in the café with Viv in case anything happens. It is clear that feelings are there, but it is barely touched on. Then, all of a sudden Viv invites Tandri to live with her in the café with her own room with a bunch of art supplies, like where did this level of infatuation and love come from? And then it just ENDS! Reading this on my kindle, it said I was 85% of the way done with this book so I was thinking, “where are we going to go from here?” Only for the story to just END.

Overall, this book had a great ending half, but the middle lacked a lot of substance for me, so I’ve given this book 3-stars. I would not recommend this book, but I do want to try out more books in the genre.

[waxingpoeticonline]

a wondering thinkpiece on scars

I suck at creating characters with scars because I'm not sure how to place them, ever, so here's some word vomit that I'm going to refer back to later

not all scars are serious, a lot of people have scars from doing stupid shit as a kid re I got bit by a dog on my face lmao

-> whats some stupid shit they did a kid are they an eating a stapler kind of guy or a running into a glass door kind of girl

they can also be serious, consider if the character has a history

-> SH history can say a lot, where they focused on, maybe insecurities or just where it wouldn't be noticed, or did they want someone to notice, etc

-> fighting scars, they were scrappy in their youth or maybe they were abused/bullied, either one is going to change whether theyre defensive or offensive scarring. on stomach, chest, legs, arms versus mostly on hands and arms, maybe shoulders.

scars are from open wounds that did not close entirely/heal properly, so the fact they have scars can say a few things: they didnt want them to heal, they got fucked up pretty bad and it couldnt be helped, they were kept from getting treatment, they were ashamed they got hurt, etc

-> or they were very young so their skin surface is just stretching after the scar has already healed which makes it harder for the scar to heal. I think. I'm just pulling this out of my ass it makes sense to me

or from surgery, what kinds of surgery has the character had? any? why did they need it?

scars are common on arms, thighs, hands, and stomach from common injury locations and just life wear and tear. feet, neck, face, etc... not very common, will have to have a more specific explanation.

some random scar ideas/inspiration

open heart surgery - large scar over sternum, collarbone to below breast

SH scars - self explanatory

stabbing scars - for a character in fights often, most common locations for these would probably be the back, chest, and stomach. perhaps thighs.

bullet wound scars - usually coin shaped and sized. most reasonable locations; head, neck, shoulders, back, chest. maybe hands?

cigarette burn scars - similar to bullets but much smaller and rougher in texture. face, arms, hands. chest if youre christian grey ayo.

childhood scars - dog bites, infections, skin diseases, surgeries kids often need (internal organ malfunctions, disease, growth related...), abuse, and most sad of all, circumcision

fighting scars - mostly on cheeks, forehead, hands especially knuckles, and vital areas like chest, stomach, and groin dude imagine a dick scar from a highschool fight that would be crazy

[antisocialxconstruct]

IM PUTTING IN MY TWO CENTS HERE because I think the entire conversation about why people choose certain potions and routes within non-linear choice based game,s, or any game that provides some level of illusion of choice. I remember talking about this extensively in my Psychology class for Game Design, and though of course theres a multitude of reasoning, I think what peoples idea of fantasy or even coping is largely at play. I know one of your thoughts on playing questionable or morally challenging characters is because you already conform to a societal expectation to "be nice" or an upstanding citizen, and Honestly thats super understandable! Im not here to analyze anyone, but a good chunk of other people I talk to have some sort of revenge fantasy and I dont mean that in a bad way! Rebellion to rules that plague reality and the ability to let lose, or just an interest in consequences for your playthrough that dont actually affect you is another reasoning, albeit the rarer of the two options. On the otherhand, as someone who loves to make The Most Morally Good Characters, and is also a big baby when it comes to being mean in most video games, My "revenge fantasy" IS being nice, because we are all forced to tiptoe around the same sociteal expectations but even those on the other side dont have much power in helping people on a larger scale that video games allow! To be The Hero that helps as many people as possible, that has to power to fundamentally change the world for the better, that is a unrealistic reward of its own. And I know you also mentioned briefly how you see it as limiting, and I think to some people this might ring true of them allowing themselves to cave and actually enjoy the "morally questionable" decision making, however I think for the other half its not limiting? Its Highly Rewarding. Theres also something to mention in how Linear people are themselves, its much more common to hear about people replaying one exact route despite there being 100000s choices vs those who do every route imaginable, so the more likely someone is to lean one side esp in their initial playthrough, the less likely they are to want to go the other way. I HOPE THIS DOESNT COME OFF AS LIKE...A REBUTTAL, Its not! I think this is a genuinely facinating phenomenon that ive had to think and write about in school, theres so many layers to it Id love to discuss and love to HEAR discusssed so youre so smart for actually starting that poll bc Ive been enjoying searching through the replies of it

hfdsgfsdg Javi your enthusiasm is a TREASURE it most definitely does not come off like a rebuttal. And I think your points are really cogent and in line with what I've kinda been angling at, which is that they're two sides of the same coin of "indulging in a fantasy." And it probably makes me a bit of a hypocrite that I'm like "I just don't get why other people can't see the appeal of Doing Bad Things as an escapist fantasy!" even though I would also say with my whole chest that being the big damn hero who saves everyone and changes the world for the better holds absolutely zero appeal to me LOL It is truly just a matter of taste.

It's probably beyond the scope of a tumblr poll but I feel like an interesting follow-up re: people not choosing to behave badly in games, would be to ask people why. Like there's the obvious "it's usually not written as well/doesn't let you have the full game experience" reason which is valid, but of the remainder I wonder how many people would honestly say it's just not fun to be mean, and how many would admit that it makes them uncomfortable because they still feel the need to conform to societal standards even in their fantasy world. (I feel like this reads as me passing a judgment on either stance and I'm not! Just thinking out loud. In text.)

also lmao

Oh man I forgot to touch upon this in my initial ask BUT tldr; yes I think games that present themselves as choice based and yet lean heavily towards one morality (usually the good Guys) and dont give second thoughts to the other side, defeats the purpose of allowing players to play how they want. I think this is actually why the only game I like being morally questionable in is fnv, bc both "choices" actually present interesting outcomes. Theres also something to say how in games the good side rewards more which I think is stupid.

You are SOOOO CORRECT I think whenever I'm like "I think I just need to spend like 60 hours or so being completely feral" FNV is the first place I go.

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Again, not Freytag's Pyramid. That diagram you have is basically copied from Selden Lincoln Whitcomb with a few modifications in terminology.

If you would like a longer list of Story structures WITH THE ACTUAL PAGE NUMBERS AND REFERENCES because I bothered to read the books in question and hunt down the originals which no one seems to have done since they were published for reasons I explain on my blog, there is a longer list here: https://kimyoonmiauthor.com/post/641948278831874048/worldwide-story-structures

Do I actually go into how much of an AH Freytag was? Yes. Is it relevant to his story structure? Yes.

I also cover figures like Polti, Gardner, Barthes in detail on my blog by linking their original work and then going over quotes from their work one for one, because academi honesty needs to be restored to story structure instead of hand waving and attributing things falsely to people that had nothing to do with it.

Also, I did not clean up the Hero's Journey from the roots of its really sexist beginnings, because, again, we need to be honest about what was originally there instead of trying to make the figures look better for history because from the criticisms of their work came other thinkers, other authors and other critics who improved on it and they deserve name credit too... or at least I think.

Let's keep true to our word about credit where credit is due and being anti-plagiarism by listing the people who actually contributed to story structures as we know it instead of blindly copy-pasting and attributing diagrams and so on to the wrong people. Let's look at the figures who coined the phrases, and think about WHY they coined them and the impacts.

This is what I go over in detail. Because I want to restore people to canon that should have stayed there, but were kicked out for prejudiced and discriminatory reasons. I want to also think on how cool the 19th century was in terms of all of the influx of story structures of the time period.

So let's do that over blind posting diagrams from books we never read and copy from later thinkers who wanted to "clean up" the prejudice of their peers. Let's not whitewash history.

I want Virginia Woolf, Lubbock, Gertrude Stein, EM Forster, etc back into canon. Story structures are as much victims of their times and authors as they are products to use and we should think hard on that as authors and do the academic work to make sure what we say is correct and to know thinkgs like "Writer's Block" was invented by a raging homophobe who was largely discredited on every other theory he had. We should question the origin of things and then ask if it still can work instead of shrouding it behind, "I don't know where this came from."

Press publishers to actually give us references and onces that aren't racist or sexist or even worse, fail to mention any minority groups at all. And finally we should question if the story structures will work for minority groups as much as we think and the genres we write for. Maybe there is a better one out there. BTW, I know where you got the diagrams, you should cite your sources as well instead of hitting copy-paste.

The Media in res diagram was stolen from:

Oddly, it also has the correct diagram for Freytag... which you blithely ignored because you didn't read the book. It has a wrong diagram for Hero's journey, but you stole from there too. (That's plagiarism because it wasn't originally Joseph Campbell and graphic artists should get credit for their work.). The Fitchean curve, though credited to Garner is really from a combination of a closer reading of Gustav Freytag, Selden Lincoln Whitcomb and somewhat, but not really Kenneth Rowe who attempted to draw out the work from Joseph Esenwien. Gardner said in his book, "I saw this somewhere, but I couldn't remember where" (paraphrasing here, I have the actual quote in y blog when I cover this book) but those are the authors he took from and didn't give credit to and then renamed the whole entire thing, though that's incorrect, because if you read all of those listed authors on the respective works, it's never said to be a smooth line to the top, it's only drawn like that for convenience. (Long hours of having to put up with Freytag's writing taught me this--He argues specifically that there should be contrasting EMOTIONS to get to the top point. Because the center of his diagram, Story driver if you will is not morality, but Emotions. Believe me, he goes at length about how morality is a weaker category to create drama on by railing against Aristotle and his inferiority, compared to what? Him and Germans. TT Did I say he's insufferable many times? Yes. I have and people still think this isn't relevant to his story structure, but it 100% is.).

Link and give credit where it's due. I know you copy-pasted blindly. and make sure to verify your sources with the original works (which is why I created posts with the actual quotes from the authors in question along with eyebrow raises of their terribleness.).

How many types plot structures are there and how are they used?

Hiya! Thanks for your question! Plot structures are important for creating a good story.

There’s an infinite amount of plot structures depending on the story you’re telling. Some types are better than others within certain genres. Here are the most common plot structures, and how they’re used:

The Four Main Plot Structures:

Freytag’s Pyramid:

Also known as dramatic structure, this is the most simplistic of plot structures, and probably the one you were taught in elementary school. In this type of story structure, the climax falls in the middle, and the latter half of the story consists of falling action and the resolution. This was developed to analyze Greek and Shakespearian plays that use a five-act structure.

Why it’s good: It allows authors to explore the consequences of one’s actions. It’s also good for story analysis.

Why it’s bad: Long resolutions get boring fast. Modern novels don’t use this because no one wants to read a story where the villain is defeated in the middle.

When to use it: Children’s books and short stories

It’s good to use in children’s books because the goal of most children’s books is to teach kids a lesson. Using Freytag’s Pyramid gives writers the chance to teach kids the consequences of doing something wrong (lying, bullying, etc.). It works in short stories because the limited length prevents the denouement from being too long and boring the reader.

Examples: Any of Shakespeare’s plays

The Fichtean Curve:

This is what most modern novels use, no matter the genre. The Fichtean Curve features a varying number of crises (or mini-climaxes) within the rising action to build up to climax about two-thirds of the way through the story. The falling action is short and used to wrap up loose ends or establish a new way of life for the characters.

Why it’s good: Putting crises throughout the story will keep readers hooked until the end. It also helps to keep good pacing. Despite being frequently used, this structure is loose enough that anyone can use it and make it unique for their own story.

Why it’s bad: Too much action can be overwhelming. This structure also doesn’t work well with certain story types such as Voyage and Return, Rebirth, or Comedy.

When to use it: Action-packed stories, Overcoming the Monster plots, or Quest plots

Examples: Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, World War Z by Max Brooks, or Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard

The Hero’s Journey:

Another common plot structure that is seen in modern novels (especially western literature), and can be combined with the Fichtean Curve. Often, modern novels are a combination of the two. What makes the Hero’s Journey unique is that the protagonist must go through a literal or figurative death that completely transforms them. The death is usually, but not always, the climax of the story. Another key difference in The Hero’s Journey is that the protagonist must atone for their past rather than overcome it or move on without going back.

Why it’s good: Allows for great character development in character-strong stories.

Why it’s bad: Nearly every western novel, film, or TV show (successful and unsuccessful) uses this plot structure. It’s a little overdone, but if you can put a good personal twist on it, it can work out just fine.

When to use it: First-person stories, stories with small casts, Voyage and Return plots, or Rebirth plots

Examples: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan, or Divergent by Veronica Roth

In Media Res

Latin for “in the middle of things”, In Media Res is a unique plot structure. Rather than start with an exposition that builds up to the action, In Media Res starts right in the middle of the story. If you were to start your story at the second or third crisis point of the Fichtean Curve, you would get In Media Res.

Why It’s Good: Dropping people in the middle of the action will hook the right from the beginning.

Why It’s Bad: Starting with the action can be disorienting for readers. Make sure you fill in the backstory as the plot moves on.

When to Use It: Stories with small casts, Crime plots, or Mystery plots

Examples: Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, The Lord of the Flies by William Golding, or The Iliad by Homer

There are plenty more plot structures, but these are the main four, and all others are based off these in some way. Keep in mind that most stories use a combination of these plot structures, so you don’t have to stick to just one.

Thanks again for your question! If you need help with anything else writing related, feel free to send in another ask. Happy writing!

- Mod Kellie

If you need advice on general writing or fanfiction, you should maybe ask us!

[influencermagazineuk]

Metro Bank's New Fees Abroad: What You Need to Know!

Metro Bank will start charging its clients who use their debit cards out of doors of the United Kingdom a brand-new charge from August 29, 2024. Customers who make purchases or take out cash in overseas currencies will now be charged 2.99% of the transaction price similarly to an extra £1.50 price for ATM withdrawals. Approximately three million humans are currently served by way of Metro Bank, many of whom have previously taken gain of fee-loose transactions at some stage in Europe. On June 27, 2024, the financial institution did, however, announce those adjustments in an electronic mail to clients, citing a decline in provider call for over time and converting purchaser desires. All debit card transactions accomplished out of doors of the UK might be situation to the new rate, that allows you to convert the foreign forex transaction quantity into British kilos. That implies you'll pay an extra 60p in fees for every £20 spent. You might also should pay a further £4.49 in charges in case you take out £a hundred in coins from distant places. Concern and disappointment had been voiced via customers about these developments, in particular by individuals who had depended on Metro Bank for his or her European journeys. Now, some are considering transferring to other banks that continue to offer rate-unfastened international transactions. While some banks, like Monzo and Lloyds Bank, price different costs based on the form of account, others, like First Direct and HSBC, still provide charge-unfastened transactions for particular debts. It is usually recommended that clients contact their banks to study the prices worried with using their debit cards foreign places. A Metro Bank representative responded to the assertion by using emphasizing that the selection was taken following several years of noticing a reduction inside the call for for rate-loose foreign transactions. They careworn how important it is to alter to converting market dynamics and client choices. This is a large adjustment for Metro Bank clients who travel or keep overseas regularly due to those taxes. Even although a 2.99% fee might not seem like much for a unmarried transaction, it may upload up rapidly, especially for folks that travel often or spend plenty of time distant places. Online, a few Metro Bank customers have voiced their dissatisfaction, declaring that they chose the bank because of its loose European transactions within the beyond. They consider that the bank's elegance to vacationers and foreigners is being undermined with the aid of the approaching levies. On the alternative hand, banks inclusive of First Direct offer charge-unfastened transactions for all debit card withdrawals and payments remote places, which makes them a suited substitute for travellers seeking to save money. In the long term, Metro Bank's desire is indicative of wider patterns within the banking zone, as banks are re-evaluating the advantages and downsides of providing overseas transaction offerings. Economic pressures, governmental guidelines, and modifications in purchaser tastes are regularly the using forces at the back of these modifications. In conclusion, the flow by means of Metro Bank to impose these prices is indicative of a bigger pattern in which banks are reacting to transferring patron alternatives and economic constraints. Although those charges may not look like much for every transaction, they can quickly mount up for those who journey regularly or who live overseas. Read the full article