#and for others is the fact that the narrative keeps pitching them against each other and It Hurts and It's Unfair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sapphire-knight · 4 years ago

Text

You guys are giving me way too much power by letting me talk about acting

@minecant you wanted me to rant about Techno and Wilbur's acting? Well, you asked for it

Let's start with Techno bc I realized something this morning and I cannot get it out of my head, let's go.

Techno has a really peculiar way of acting compared to anyone else, his character is a lot more aware of the fourth wall than any other character is, and actually having to keep in check a character that, to certain acting degrees, could be almost considered self-aware is actually harder than you can imagine, and of course everything that's kinda hard in scripted acting goes to a whole new level of difficoult in improv; but on the other hand, his type of acting (more specifically: the voice acting) is on the same page of 3 other characters: Tubbo, Fundy and Niki. Follow me on this, alright? The basically only thing that these 4 characters, that narratively are so different from each other,is the way they are voiced. All four of then have a really specific way of talking and talking pattern, to the point where even if you were to put the voices in a voice-changer you could still know what character is talking just because of the way they talk. Let me elaborate: Fundy usually his voice doesn't let a lot of emotions through and his speech is usually straight to the point, keeping his tone medium and trying to keep his voice relaxed; Niki's usual tone is soft and lighter, is easy to not hear it with her low tone of voice and higher pitch that give her a kinder undertone; Tubbo's tone is also one in a softer scale and lower of volume, but where Niki is easy to miss Tubbo lets a bit more emotion in all phrases to make himself pop out, he doesn't tend to go straight to the point in conversations and his tone is pretty much constant; Techno doesn't let emotions shine through his voice, more like Fundy, but to the extreme, keeping a completly monotone type of speech in basically all the situations and isn't very talkative, a character that talks one when he feels like it's needed and goes straight to the point of the conversation, not caring how that makes him come across to the other characters.

These 4 have incredibly set in stone characters, keeping always to their own set of acting rules for them. It's not easy to set yourself acting rules for your characters in an improv, but if you manage to do it's an in incredible help. Even Wilbur's character was more unhinged under that point of view, his "standard" continuing to change slightly as his mental stage declined.

But you know where does the actual strenght of having these things set in stone for your characters? That the emotions are a lot more powerfull. Let's think about it, why most of the emotive scene shock us? You can usually feel the emotions because the tone of voice lets these emotions through, it hits you because it wasn't there before, it's a switch between the usual voice and the emotive one, it gives you whiplash, but why am I talking about this?

Because these characters are able to express their emotions with a lot more power, because they always talk in a really specific way, you get used ti their tone and speech pattern without noticing it, so you maybe not actually understand it, but your brain notices when the pattern breaks, and since it is a really set in stone one, when it gets broken the whiplash is extreme. Just like when Niki rebelled against Schlatt, the whiplash was her raising her voice and abandoning the soft tone she always used, but kept the classic amount of emotions in her voice, the same thing happens with Techno and his speech: some emotions start to get throught, he doesn't get to the point quickly as always, instead he keeps on talking with extreme confidence in every word, the same confidence he always has. Whiplash guys, whiplash.

I didn't mention Quackity as one of the set-in-stone-speaking characters, because he switches too much to set the rules enough to shock when broken. I'm not saying at all that he isn't a good actor, on the contrary, his acting just works on different bases, example, Try looking at the Quackity vs Schlatt argument compared to the Tubbo vs Tommy: when Quackity got angry it wasn't expected, it was a bit alienating, it didn't feel like the Quackity we know because it was incredibly different than how his character speaks, too different (Which still isn't bad, at all, that scene was phenomenal); when Tubbo got angry it still felt like Tubbo, you could still pinpoint it was Tubbo even without hearing his voice, because even if the voice is raised, the amount of emotions is the same and the speech pattern is the same, just to the next level. So yeah.

I don't even feel like talking about Techno's lines tho, these are amazing under every technical point of view and you guys know that, so let's go to Wilbur.

Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, where can I begin with Wilbur? Not only he had an extraordinary arc for his own character, he also wrote an incredible story- this guy's voice acting is off the charts in every way possible, are you telling me he didn't take acting classes as a kid? i do not believe you. Like, at all. He has a perfect hang on his voice, but this could be because he's also a singer: expressing emotions during songs is harder than you think, because you cannot let emotions ruin your exibition by making your voice crack at the wrong part or making you mess up the timing, but you also need to let them shine through or the voice will seem flat and Wil knows that perfectly, just listen to Your City gave me asthma and you'll understand what I'm going on about here.

Wilbur Soot is a showman. He manovrated the stage to shine a spotlight on himself, making us see what he wants us to see: that's why it took us so much to realize that the character didn't just "go insane" out of nowhere, the seeds were always there, we had all the hints we needed, but he was able to move his character around it, around the arc, in such a way that made us overlook all of those details until they slapped us in the face. He showed us the consequences of his character through other characters, he acted and spoke in a certain way to get a reaction from the others, and the others reacted in the exact way Wilbur planned. And those things aren't scrpited, only major plotpoints are. Wheter this was intentional on his part or it was a coincidence it's not clear, but in either cases it's still pure skill and genius.

Wilbur knew how to act and interact with every character, it's impressive

He even knew how to get Dream on his act on the festival narrative, Dream isn't always top notch at improv and we know that, but if he can get in the loop he is absolutely a distructive force, it's terrifying, and Wilbur knew exactly what to do to get Dream inside the loop of events and it's incredible.

You could guess he knew how to act with Tommy, Tubbo, Ph1lza, Techno and Schlatt, of course he did, he already knew them, but right now he has an incredibly difficoult bit with someone I would have never guessed if I didn't watch the SMP, with Fundy. I have not been in the fandom for a lot of time, but it seems like the two actually met each other on the SMP. They are carrying and incredibly emotional taxing bit with each other, and the SMP lore started just this year- more or less 7/8 months I think? Correct me if I'm wrong. The story bit these two are on is a delicate one, one wrong step and the situation explodes. The fact that they are capable to carrying it even without having known each other for a long time is honestly impressive. Things like this are incredibly hard even when scripted, in improv usually only people who blindly trusted each other for a long time are able to carry it, meanwhile Wilbur and Fundy are flawlessly running with this story arc, the character interactions are perfect, ever act, every word is so incredibly in character for both of them, in scenes like this having to keep perfect track of your character is hard, you have to concentrate on the scene, you cannot stop to think about it, you have only one take and you cannot afford to slow down the act or you risk losing the atmosphere and the momentum of it, and if you do that you'e screwed, you lost an entire scene. In improv you cannot afford slipping up, but if you actually do you have to be incredibly quick to catch yourself, lose two seconds too many and the moment is broken.

Wilbur Soot is incredibly quick to adapt his acting to ever change in his character, having to jump from the power hungry, driven crazy, obsessive, unhinged, paranoid character that is Wilbur to the sad, guilty, scared, repressed, just-wanting-to-be-happy, forgetfull, ignoring character that is Ghostbur is not something easy. Like, at all. It's a cspital switch, and he did it from a day to the other like it's nothing.

Mr Soot please leave some talent to the rest of us come on-

#sapphire rants #sapphire talks. don't listen to her #long post #dream smp #dream smp season 2 #technoblade #niki nihachu #Tubbo #Tommyinnit #it's fundy #Fundy #dreamwastaken #Wilbur soot #you guys should stop giving me this much power before I end up ranting abou Eret; Quackity; Schlatt; Tommy and Ranboo's acting oh my gosh #THE ACTING RANTS

639 notes · View notes

yoonpobs · 4 years ago

Text

difficult | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: fluff, mini angst, super cute, mutual pining

words: 3, 812

summary: you're difficult and yoongi just wants you

“I can’t believe it,” Jimin whistles. Taehyung mirrors his sentiment but with a look of disbelief.

“Me neither. But here we are.” Taehyung states matter-of-factly.

You were silent, not because you had nothing to say—but because you couldn’t believe it either. How did you allow yourself to fall into this trap? A trap you’ve spent your entire life training to avoid. And you would consider yourself someone that was dedicated to their craft and you truly were. But you were still susceptible to guilty pleasures and you just found your match.

“Why is no one stopping me? Why isn’t anyone telling me to get a grip of myself?” You cry.

Jimin looks at you sympathetically even if he knows that you hated being pitied. Taehyung at least avoids your gaze but the tell-tale signs of a frown appear on his face when you see the furrow of his brows.

“You know … you’re allowed to feel this way, right?” Jimin says carefully and you were more annoyed with the fact that he was walking on eggshells with you when you’ve long passed that stage of prudent navigation around each other. And you knew exactly why he sounded the way he did.

“I’m not. I’m supposed to be an impenetrable fortress that cannot be shaken by anything let alone anyone. I am an unyielding, resolute woman that refuses to be tied down by society’s narratives.” You say all at once.

Jimin and Taehyung blink at you. They expected this—but it still surprised them that you vocalised their thoughts.

Jimin clears his throat.

“Let me rephrase that,” He says sternly, “You’re allowed to feel, period.”

You shake your head because you’ve fallen too far—too hard. And you needed to get a grip of yourself because you didn’t work hard perfecting the flawless expression of bitchiness and temptation to be taken seriously amongst a Board of Directors filled with men. People like you couldn’t afford to feel.

Especially when the world never feels for you. For women.

“Do you hear yourself Jimin?” You exasperate as you throw your hands in the air in frustration.

“____—” Taehyung attempts to reason with you, but as always, you never let him get a word in. He knows you don’t mean any malice because you’ve built your walls so high that you think everyone is out to get you—but he just cares about you. He wishes you’d let him.

“No. You don’t understand guys. People like me? We—I—can’t afford to slack off. Not now and not anytime soon. I hear you guys and I wish I could understand where you’re coming from but frankly, I won’t ever be able to. You have the liberty of picking your battles because this world is yours. I had to fight my battles on my own to claim this world as my own and I’m nowhere near deserving of that role yet. I can’t feel.”

Their eyes soften at you and you avoid their gazes. You didn’t want their pity, and you didn’t want to sit in a tight office with their stares so heavy on your own.

“You deserve to be happy,” Taehyung says sadly.

You don’t respond, but you hear the chairs in front of your desk move against the hardwood floor. Then, you hear the opening and closing of your doors and you’re finally alone. Like how you do best.

You don’t allow another thought as insignificant as the one that threatens to overtake you to pass through your mind as you quickly tend to your pending projects.

The name of a certain man lingers very vaguely, though.

It annoys yet terrifies you how much you needed to consciously play your cards just right when you step into another board meeting. You thrived when you spoke at the podium, and no man—even the most bigoted—could deny that you were a born leader. But that didn’t mean that they liked that fact. In fact, most of them despised the idea that a woman as young as you was even allowed in the same room as they were. You wished you could yell at them, cry and shout until they understood that you were deserving.

You couldn’t, for very obvious reasons. But until you could—you needed to be smart.

“Mr Lee, with all due respect—liquifying the compartment company will not bring us the projected profit that you’ve pitched in the previous meeting.”

You’re level-headed and cool when you attempt to reason with the older and very stubborn man. He was old, and stubborn, which was never good news for you.

Mr Lee, the Chairman’s younger brother, simply scoffs at you, and you try your best not to let your eye twitch.

“What? Do you have a bachelor’s degree in business?” He sneers.

You blink.

“I have a double Masters in Business Administration and Finance.”

Mr Lee stiffens, and you briefly see Seokjin, the fellow nephew of Mr Kim, holding back his snorts at your declaration.

“I am qualified to be making this statement, and if you don’t believe in just words—which you really shouldn’t—here are the documents and projections from my end.” You distribute the analysis you took upon yourself to complete over the weekend and worked overtime to finish it as you handed it around the table.

Mr Kim, the Chairman, who was a far better man than everyone else in the Board of Directors, offers you an impressed smile as he flips through your booklet while you stand straight with your shoulders rolled back. A stance you often took to show that you knew your shit.

“This is very … meticulous. Great work as always, ___.” Mr Kim compliments you.

You don’t let it show on your face but you’re pleased with the way Mr Lee grumbles under his breath like a petulant child.

“Very well. We’ll keep the compartment company as it is,” Mr Kim declares and everyone else in the room shuffles to collect their belongings as the meeting comes to an end, “Meeting adjourned.”

“You’re absolutely badass,” Jin whistles at you as you walk side-by-side, your folders snug against your chest.

You hide your smile but acknowledge it regardless.

“And you were … there. As usual.”

He snorts and you know he gets where you’re coming from. Jin was simply present at the meeting but he wasn’t actually present. His heart had no place in the business world but instead in a world filled with fine dining and diverse cuisines as he worked up a storm in the kitchen. But as every father—who is the Chairman of a country’s largest exporter—he had pushed that dream onto Jin from a young age.

But Jin was Jin, and you knew Mr Kim simply kept him here for the sake of it; fully aware of his son’s aspirations and determination of becoming a chef.

“You should just take my position. You’re so good at business talk—I didn’t understand half the shit you were saying the entire time.” He says.

You shrug.

“I mean, that’s the goal. But let’s just see for now,” You hum as you reach your office, and you still when you see the person waiting for you inside.

Jin takes a peek over your shoulder and spots the same person who has you looking so tense. He whistles at you as he stuffs his right hand in his pocket while offering you a consoling pat on your shoulder with his left before he stalks off.

“Good luck!” He calls out, and you internally groan at the oncoming interaction.

You brace yourself and put on a brave face as you step into your office, doors clicking, signalling your guest to turn around at the insinuation of your presence.

“Mr Min, what can I help you with?” You don’t look at him when you place your belongings on your table and you nearly miss his scoff with the way you attempt to busy yourself with any mindless activity that you can find on your desk.

“Mr Min? Not Yoongi anymore?”

You ignore his bitter tone and look at him with a reserved stare, raising an eyebrow as if to question his statement.

“Are we not co-workers?” You reply coolly and he scoffs much louder for you to hear.

“Co-workers … yeah,” He shrugs, leaning forward, “Do you usually kiss your co-workers?”

You are still at the sudden declaration and nearly drop the pen that was in your grip. He’s suddenly inches closer to you despite the relative distance of your desk between the both of you. You try to ignore the heat of his body, but it’s entirely too suffocating for you to pretend like he isn’t there.

“Don’t give me that nonsense,” You wave him off and you steady your voice because you weren’t ready for him to see you break. You allowed yourself too much space to be vulnerable and you needed to stop.

He sits back into the chair and folds his arms across his chest with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, this is not what we’re going to do.” He says, suddenly much firmer than he was a moment ago.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, clearly confused.

“None of this detached, emotionless attitude with me. I see through this facade and it’s not cute. You’re going to speak to me like an adult and address the very obvious feelings you have for me, and likewise. You’re not allowed to deflect like you always do because I expect you to be honest with me because you’re clearly not being honest to yourself.”

You blink up at him and your heart starts beating more rapidly within your chest as it betrays your stoic appearance.

Maybe that was why you fell for Yoongi in the first place. He didn’t tolerate you. Specifically, the shit that you pull on him. You were well aware you were a stubborn, hard-headed bitch that could be emotionally reserved 99% of the time when you interacted with others. And sometimes your bitchiness was uncalled for, but most people were too terrified to say anything about it to your face.

Yoongi?

He had no problems letting you know what he expected from you and how he thought of you from the beginning. It should’ve irked you. Based on your strict line of principles that you upheld—a man projecting his own thoughts of you that he had in his head, directly to you, should’ve been dehumanising, disrespectful even. But you never got that from Yoongi. He was brutally honest. And you appreciate honesty.

But sometimes it made you squirm.

“I … sorry, what? Are you insane? I don’t have feelings for you.” You narrow your eyes at him and hope you sound convincing enough.

But you knew Yoongi well enough to know that he saw through your blatant lie.

“I said: don’t deflect. You’re deflecting.” He scolds.

“You’re being unnecessarily distasteful right now,” You roll your eyes.

“Am I? Or am I just telling you the truth that you’ve been trying to deny for the past week that you’ve been cowardly avoiding me?” He’s calm when he makes the accusation. And it wasn’t even an accusation because it was the plain truth.

You burn, both in anger and in humiliation.

“What do you know about me Yoongi? Aren’t I just the company’s hot-headed bitch?” You snap, remembering the first words you heard from Yoongi.

“You are a hot-headed bitch, and I know you’re scared of admitting that you have feelings for me because you think feeling makes you weak.”

You ignore the fact that he admitted that you were a bitch, but Yoongi wasn’t the type to lie, nor was he the type to kiss ass. And you hated that he was still brutally honest, even when speaking about a topic so … intimate.

“Look, I don’t know where you’re getting this information from but you need to leave.” You stand up to walk towards the door so you could open it for him but he grabs your wrist before you make it there.

He turns you around to look at him. Properly look at him, that is. You’ve been avoiding direct eye contact with him because as good of a front you’ve worked on to put in front of him, you were human. And as a human, you were bound to have a weakness.

“You don’t get to walk away from me—this conversation—because you hate confrontation,” He frowns at you and you turn away to avoid his heavy gaze.

“Yoongi, can we not do this?” You sigh.

He chuckles dryly, using his right hand to nudge your face to look at him. It should’ve been demeaning, but you felt nothing like you were disrespected. You hated to admit it but you liked it. You liked it a lot more than you’d admit to anyone.

“No. We’re doing this. You’re going to address your feelings for me and actually work for what you want—and that’s clearly this,” He gestures between the two of you and you glare up at him.

“I told you! I don’t have any feelings for you.” You snarl at him, teeth bared like an animal but he just laughs at you like you were pathetic. You hated how small you felt in his presence but yet you were still whole.

“You don’t kiss a person you don’t have feelings for—you don’t hold someone you don’t have feelings for like they’re your safe space. You don’t have feelings for me? That’s funny because you did all of those things and you’ve never once complained when I reciprocated.”

You fumble with your words as the tip of your ears burn a bright red, which Yoongi easily catches.

“You don’t turn into a tomato if I was lying to you. You’re not like that, right? You’re self-assured. Ms-I’m-An-Impenetrable-Fortress,” He mocks.

“S-Stop acting as if you know me, Yoongi. You don’t and you never will.” You struggle against his grip on your wrist but he simply tugs you closer until your faces are inches apart.

“I don’t?” He scoffs, “Then tell me, why do I know that you confide Jimin and Taehyung for advice but never take it anyway because you’re too damn stubborn?”

You were about to retort but he’s quicker with his response.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you walk with your head held high into meetings but exit with your tail tucked between your legs because you’re afraid of sounding too dumb, too incompetent?”

You freeze.

“Then tell me, why do I know that you pull away from people not because you’re repulsed by them but because you’re afraid of forming actual bonds in the fear of being abandoned?”

You internally curse when you fear your eyes burning, and the lump in your throat becoming too much to bear.

“Then tell me, ___, why do I know you feel the same way about me but you’re too scared of looking dependent to do anything about it?” He whispers the last part when he pulls you tight against his chest.

You don’t fight him anymore, and you relax into the firm expanse of his chest and it terrifies you that it feels so much like home. A warm space you find comfort in.

You don’t even realise the first tear escapes your eyes until you feel Yoongi’s dress shirt turn slightly damp under the skin of your cheek. You’re mortified when you realise you’re crying and you attempt to pull away but his hands find their way around your waist to hold you tight.

“Don’t,” He whispers, “Don’t pull away from me.”

“Yoongi … I-I can’t,” You stutter, voice shaky.

He wipes a thumb on your cheek to wipe away the continuous stream of tears that you don’t bother hiding from him anymore.

“I worked my ass off to be taken seriously here and—and … if I get a boyfriend they’re going to think that I’m reliant, I’m weak, dependent on a man.” You ramble, but he just listens to your nonsensical statement as he rubs soothing circles on your head.

“I want you to rely on me, to depend on me. Stop thinking that you need to fight your battles alone. I’m here—I’ll be here. I’ve always been here but you need to let me be there for you.” He says softly.

You peer up at him with swollen eyes and he thinks you look beautiful. You always were beautiful. When you were commanding a meeting; when you were focused when you were angry; when you were laughing, and when you were sad. He was in for all of it.

“But ... the Board of Directors—”

He shushes you with a light kiss to the corner of your lip and you feel your stale heart flutter.

“I’m not here to be your saviour. I’m here to be your equal. I want to help you as much as you’ll help me. And believe me when I say you’ve helped me. The Board of Directors? Relationship or no relationship, they’ll be the same bigots that unfortunately dictate the policies in this company. The only person that has the ability to change anything in this situation is you ___.”

You feel your resolve breaking but you should’ve known that you’ve never had any resolve when it came to Yoongi. You were always weak around him. And maybe you needed to start accepting the fact that you were allowed to feel weak, to feel dependent on someone.

“What if you leave me.” You whine.

He snorts before rubbing a thumb between your furrowed brows.

“Then I leave. But we don’t know what’s going to happen if we don’t try,” He says and you realise how close he’s gotten to you to the point you feel his breath on your lips.

“That’s not comforting to hear the slightest,” You complain.

“And nothing about a relationship is easy. But I’m willing to be with you. I’ve always been ready—it’s you that needs to make the decision, ___.”

You finally lock eyes with him and you see nothing but sincerity. Yoongi could be crass, and often mistaken as a dick. But he was just honourable. He wouldn’t lie to anyone or sugarcoat the difficult truth. In fact, he never made you feel inferior to him even when he was straightforward. He never treated you differently because you were terrifying—but he treated you how he would with anyone else. And that was comforting. While everyone else walked on eggshells with you, he was fearless with his declarations.

Even now.

“I like you. I have no qualms in admitting it. And I’ll say it over and over again until you believe me,”

You don’t reply but kiss him. And there are no explosive fireworks, and time still flows—but it feels familiar. It feels like a territory that you’ve known all along, a little rough around the edges with the time spent away, but a place you can allude to comfort.

He responds by licking into the seam of your mouth as you allow his tongue to lick behind your teeth, a small whine caught in the back of your throat as you card your fingers through his hair. The hands-on your waist presses you tighter, flush against his body.

He pulls away first, resting his forehead on your own.

“I need to hear you say it. None of this tip-toeing anymore.”

You offer him a small smile.

“I-I …”

He watches you stutter with a hooded gaze but nothing about his stare makes you feel pressured. It was more comforting than anything, and the way he still held onto you like you mattered—but weren’t fragile—allowed you some semblance of peace in retaining your identity. This arbitrary idea of what you thought you were and how people perceived you. It was difficult to unlearn an idea that felt very personal to you after years of mastering its art.

You’re still unsure of how to react but you’re so sure of how you feel.

“I like you. I-I want to try.” You wail.

He’s alarmed by the sudden change in tone from your end and at the way you tug at the collars of his shirt. Not aggressively, but a little desperate. Not in the way that’d make him scrunch his nose in distaste but in a way that told him that this was you being vulnerable. Being open.

He wipes at your cheeks with dried tears and looks at you so honestly that it scares you. But in a way, you were fearless because you were terrified of everything. Mostly of disappointing others who held you to such a high standard, but it was a valid fear regardless.

“I’m not some fragile woman that you need to fix and I want you to understand that,” You pull yourself together and tell him sternly. He listens because Yoongi has never been presumptuous.

“I’m my own person and I won’t change the way I act to be with you—and if you’re looking for a cute … dainty, soft girlfriend then…” You whisper, “That’s not me. I’m tough. I’m a bitch and I’m stubborn. Our arguments are going to suck because I have a response for literally everything so—!”

He shushes your rambling with a finger to your lips and a raised eyebrow. You pout at him under his finger and he finds you adorable. He decides to not say anything to preserve his head—but soon. He’ll tell you soon.

“Are you done?”

You huff under his finger but he looks at you fondly.

“I’m not one for normality. I don’t care about what you think I’m into because I know that I’m into you. I’m in this, ___. Stop thinking that I deserve some idealistic image of a woman that you have in your head. I want you, and I thought me coming here to speak to you about your feelings was a clear testament to that.”

You try to hide your blush but you fail.

“And stop being so conscious of how you act around me. Be tough. Be independent. But don’t be afraid to be cute and vulnerable too, okay? I like you in all ways that you decide to present yourself in. Just … trust me. Trust this.”

“Okay.” You nod.

He grins at you.

“Does that mean I can hold your hand on the way to work?” He teases.

You avoid his eyes and look to the side, but the slight curve of your lip gives your answer to that question away.

“I guess …” You mutter.

He hugs you closer and squeezes you until your feet leave the ground. He tackles you with kisses all over your face and you can’t help but giggle. You feel happy. You feel secure.

“Cutie.”

You deliver a smack to his chest but he just laughs.

#bts fic #bts imagine #bts fics #bts imagines #bts #bts yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi x reader

345 notes · View notes

gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

209 notes · View notes

ot3 · 4 years ago

Text

i watched red vs blue: zero with my dear friends today and i was asked to “post” my “thoughts” on the subject. Please do not click this readmore unless, for some reason, you want to read three thousand words on the subject of red vs blue: zero critical analysis. i highly doubt that’s the reason anyone is following me, but hey.

anyway. here you have it.

Here are my opinions on RVB0 as someone who has quite literally no nostalgia for any older RVB content. I’ve seen seasons 1-13 once and bits and pieces of it more than once here and there, but I only saw it for the first time within the past couple of months. I’ve literally never seen any other RT/AH content. I can name a few people who worked on OG Red vs. Blue but other than Mounty Oum I have NO idea who is responsible for what, really, or what anything else they’ve ever worked on is, or whether or not they’re awful people. I know even less about the people making RVB0 - All I know is that the main writer is named Torrian but I honestly don’t even know if that’s a first name, a last name, or a moniker. All this to say; nothing about my criticism is rooted in any perceived slight against the franchise or branding by the new staff members, because I don’t know or care about any of it. In fact, I’m going to try and avoid any direct comparison between RVB0 and earlier seasons of RVB as a means of critique until the very end, where I’ll look at that relationship specifically.

So here is my opinion of RVB0 as it stands right now:

1. The Writing

Everything about RVB0 feels as if it was written by a first-time writer who hasn’t learned to kill his darlings. The narrative is both simultaneously far too full, leaving very little breathing room for character interaction, and oddly sparse, with a story that lacks any meaningful takeaway, interesting ideas, or genuine emotional connection. It also feels like it’s for a very much younger audience - I don’t mean this as a negative at all. I love tv for kids. I watch more TV for kids than I do for adults, mostly, but I think it’s important to address this because a lot of the time ‘this is for kids’ is used to act like you’re not allowed to critique a narrative thoroughly. It definitely changes the way you critique it, but the critique can still be in good faith. I watched the entirety of RVB0 only after it was finished, in one sitting, and I was giving it my full attention, essentially like it was a movie. I’m going to assume it was much better to watch in chunks, because as it stood, there was literally no time built into the narrative to process the events that had just transpired, or try and predict what events might be coming in the future. When there’s no time to think about the narrative as you’re watching it, the narrative ends up as being something that happens to the audience, not something they engage with. It’s like the difference between taking notes during a lecture or just sitting and listening. If you’re making no attempt to actively process what’s happening, it doesn’t stick in your mind well. I found myself struggling to recall the events and explanations that had immediately transpired because as soon as one thing had happened, another thing was already happening, and it was like a mental juggling act to try and figure out which information was important enough to dwell on in the time we were given to dwell on it.

Which brings me to another point - pacing. Every event in the show, whether a character moment, a plot moment, or a fight scene, felt like it was supposed to land with almost the exact same amount of emotional weight. It all felt like The Most Important Thing that had Yet Happened. And I understand that this is done as an attempt to squeeze as much as possible out of a rather short runtime, but it fundamentally fails. When everything is the most important thing happening, it all fades into static. That’s what most of 0’s narrative was to me: static. It’s only been a few hours since I watched it but I had to go step by step and type out all of the story beats I could remember and run it by my friends who are much more enthusiastic RVB fans than I am to make sure I hadn’t missed or forgotten anything. I hadn’t, apparently, but the fact that my takeaway from the show was pretty accurate and also disappointingly lackluster says a lot. Strangely enough, the most interesting thing the show alluded to - a holo echo, or whatever the term they used was - was one of the things least extrapolated upon in the show’s incredibly bulky exposition. Benefit of the doubt says that’s something they’ll explore in future seasons (are they getting more? Is that planned? I just realized I don’t actually know.)

And bulky it was! I have quite honestly never seen such flagrant disregard for the rule of “show, don’t tell.” There was not a single ounce of subtlety or implication involved in the storytelling of RVB0. Something was either told to you explicitly, or almost entirely absent from the narrative. Essentially zilch in between. We are told the dynamic the characters have with each other, and their personality pros and cons are listed for us conveniently by Carolina. The plot develops in exposition dumps. This is partially due to the series’ short runtime, but is also very much a result of how that runtime was then used by the writers. They sacrificed a massive chunk of their show for the sake of cramming in a ton of fight scenes, and if they wanted to keep all of those fight scenes, it would have been necessary to pare down their story and characters proportionally in comparison, but they didn’t do that either. They wanted to have it both ways and there simply wasn’t enough time for it.

The story itself is… uninteresting. It plays out more like the flimsy premise of a video game quest rather than a piece of media to be meaningfully engaged with. RVB0 is I think something I would be pitched by a guy who thinks the MCU and BNHA are the best storytelling to come out of the past decade. It is nothing but tropes. And I hate having to use this as an insult! I love tropes. The worst thing about RVB0 is that nothing it does is wholly unforgivable in its own right. Hunter x Hunter, a phenomenal shonen, is notoriously filled with pages upon pages of detailed exposition and explanations of things, and I absolutely love it. Leverage, my favorite TV show of all time, is literally nothing but a five man band who has to learn to work as a team while seemingly systematically hitting a checklist of every relevant trope in the book. Pacific Rim is an incredibly straightforward good guys vs giant monsters blockbuster to show off some cool fight scenes such as a big robot cutting an alien in half with a giant sword, and it’s some of the most fun I ever have watching a movie. Something being derivative, clunky, poorly executed in some specific areas, narratively weak, or any single one of these flaws, is perfectly fine assuming it’s done with the intention and care that’s necessary to make the good parts shine more. I’ll forgive literally any crime a piece of media commits as long as it’s interesting and/or enjoyable to consume. RVB0 is not that. I’m not sure what the main point of RVB0 was supposed to be, because it seemingly succeeds at nothing. It has absolutely nothing new or innovative to justify its lack of concern for traditional storytelling conventions. Based solely on the amount of screentime things were given, I’d be inclined to say the narrative existed mostly to give flimsy pretense for the fight scenes, but that’s an entire other can of worms.

2. The Visuals + Fights

I have no qualms with things that are all style and no substance. Sometimes you just want to see pretty colors moving on the screen for a while or watch some cool bad guys and monsters or whatever get punched. RVB0 was not this either. The show fundamentally lacked a coherent aesthetic vision. Much of the show had a rather generic sci-fi feel to it with the biggest standouts to this being the very noir looking cityscape, which my friends and I all immediately joked looked like something from a batman game, or the temple, which my friends and I all immediately joked looked like a world of warcraft raid. They were obviously attempting to get variety in their environment design, which I appreciate, but they did this without having a coherent enough visual language to feel like it was all part of the same world. In general, there was also just a lack of visual clarity or strong shots. The value range in any given scene was poor, the compositions and framing were functional at best, and the character animation was unpleasantly exaggerated. It just doesn’t really look that good beyond fancy rendering techniques.

The fight scenes are their entire own beast. Since ‘FIGHT SCENE’ is the largest single category of scenes in the show, they definitely feel worth looking at with a genuine critical eye. Or, at least, I’d like to, but honestly half the time I found myself almost unable to look at them. The camera is rarely still long enough to really enjoy what you’re watching - tracking the motion of the character AND the camera at such constant breakneck high speeds left little time to appreciate any nuances that might have been present in the choreography or character animation. I tried, believe me, I really did, but the fight scenes leave one with the same sort of dizzy convoluted spectacle as a Michael Bay transformers movie. They also really lacked the impact fight scenes are supposed to have.

It’s hard to have a good, memorable fight scene without it doing one of three things: 1. Showing off innovative or creative fighting styles and choreography 2. Making use of the fight’s setting or environment in an engaging and visually interesting way or 3. Further exploring a character’s personality or actions by the way they fight. It’s also hard to do one of these things on its own without at least touching a bit on the other two. For the most part, I find RVB0’s fight scenes fail to do this. Other than rather surface level insubstantial factors, there was little to visually distinguish any of RVB0’s fight scenes from each other. Not only did I find a lot of them difficult to watch and unappealing, I found them all difficult to watch and unappealing in an almost identical way. They felt incredibly interchangeable and very generic. If you could take a fight scene and change the location it was set and also change which characters were participating and have very little change, it’s probably not a good fight scene.

I think “generic” is really just the defining word of RVB0 and I think that’s also why it falls short in the humor department as well.

3. The Comedy

Funny shit is hard to write and humor is also incredibly subjective but I definitely got almost no laughs out of RVB0. I think a total of three. By far the best joke was Carolina having a cast on top of her armor, which, I must stress, is an incredibly funny gag and I love it. But overall I think the humor fell short because it felt like it was tacked on more than a natural and intentional part of this world and these characters. A lot of the jokes felt like they were just thrown in wherever they’d fit, without any build up to punchlines and with little regard for what sort of joke each character would make. Like, there was some, obviously Raymond’s sense of humor had the most character to it, but the character-oriented humor still felt very weak. When focusing on character-driven humor, there’s a LOT you can establish about characters based on what sort of jokes they choose to make, who they’re picking as the punchlines of these jokes, and who their in-universe audience for the jokes is. In RVB0, the jokes all felt very immersion-breaking and self aware, directed wholly towards the audience rather than occurring as a natural result of interplay between the characters. This is partially due to how lackluster the character writing was overall, and the previously stated tight timing, but also definitely due to a lack of a real understanding about what makes a joke land.

A rule of thumb I personally hold for comedy is that, when push comes to shove, more specific is always going to be more funny. The example I gave when trying to explain this was this:

saying two characters had awkward sex in a movie theater: funny

saying two characters had an awkward handjob in a cinemark: even funnier

saying two characters spent 54 minutes of 11:14's 1:26 runtime trying out some uncomfortably-angled hand stuff in the back of a dilapidated cinemark that lost funding halfway through retrofitting into a dinner theater: the funniest

The more specific a joke is, the more it relies on an in-depth understanding of the characters and world you’re dealing with and the more ‘realistic’ it feels within the context of your media. Especially with this kind of humor. When you’re joking with your friends, you don’t go for stock-humor that could be pulled out of a joke book, you go for the specific. You aim for the weak spots. If a set of jokes could be blindly transplanted into another world, onto another cast of characters, then it’s far too generic to be truly funny or memorable. I don’t think there’s a single joke in RVB0 where the humor of it hinged upon the characters or the setting.

Then there’s the issue of situational comedy and physical comedy. This is really where the humor being ‘tacked on’ shows the most. Once again, part of what makes actually solid comedy land properly is it feeling like a natural result of the world you have established. Real life is absurd and comical situations can be found even in the midst of some pretty grim context, and that’s why black comedy is successful, and why comedy shows are allowed to dip into heavier subject matter from time to time, or why dramas often search for levity in humor. It’s a natural part of being human to find humor in almost any situation. The key thing, though, once again, is finding it in the situation. Many of RVB0’s attempts at humor, once again, feel like they would be the exact same jokes when stripped from their context, and that’s almost never good. A pretty fundamental concept in both storytelling in general but particularly comedy writing is ‘setup and payoff’. No joke in RVB0 is a reward for a seemingly innocuous event in an earlier scene or for an overlooked piece of environmental design. The jokes pop in when there’s time for them in between all the exposition and fighting, and are gone as soon as they’re done. There’s no long term, underlying comedic throughline to give any sense of coherence or intent to the sense of humor the show is trying to establish. Every joke is an isolated one-off quip or one-liner, and it fails to engage the audience in a meaningful way.

All together, each individual component of RVB0 feels like it was conjured up independently, without any concern to how it interacted with the larger product they were creating. And I think this is really where it all falls apart. RVB0 feels criminally generic in a way reminiscent of mass-market media which at least has the luxury of attributing these flaws, this complete and total watering down of anything unique, to heavy oversight and large teams with competing visions. But I don’t think that’s the case for RVB0. I don’t know much about what the pipeline is like for this show, but I feel like the fundamental problem it suffers from is a lack of heart.

In comparison to Red vs. Blue

Let's face it. This is a terrible successor to Red vs. Blue. I wouldn’t care if NONE of the old characters were in it - that’s not my problem. I haven’t seen past season 13 because from what I heard the show already jumped the shark a bit and then some. That’s not what makes it a poor follow up. What makes it a bad successor is that it fundamentally lacks any of the aspects of the OG RVB that made it unique or appealing at all. I find myself wondering what Torrian is trying to say with RVB0 and quite literally the only answer I find myself falling back onto is that he isn’t trying to say anything at all. Regardless of what you feel about the original RVB, it undeniably had things to say. The opening “why are we here” speech does an excellent job at establishing that this is a show intended to poke fun at the misery of bureaucracy and subservience to nonsensical systems, not just in the context of military life, but in a very broad-strokes way almost any middle-class worker can relate to. At the end of the day, fiction is at its best when it resonates with some aspect of its audience’s life. I know instantly which parts of the original Red vs Blue I’m supposed to relate to. I can’t say anything even close to that about 0.

RVB is an absurdist parody that heavily satirizes aspects of the military and life as a low-on-the-food-chain worker in general that almost it’s entire target audience will be familiar with. The most significant draw of the show to me was how the dialogue felt like listening to my friends bicker with each other in our group chats. It required no effort for me to connect with and although the narrative never outright looked to the camera and explained ‘we are critiquing the military’s stupid red tape and self-fullfilling eternal conflict’ they didn’t need to, because the writing trusted itself and its audience enough to believe this could be conveyed. It is, in a way, the complete antithesis to the badass superhero macho military man protagonist that we all know so well. RVB was saying something, and it was saying it in a rather novel format.

Nothing about RVB0 is novel. Nothing about RVB0 says anything. Nothing about it compels me to relate to any of these characters or their situations. RVB0 doesn’t feel like absurdism, or satire. RVB0 feels like it is, completely uncritically, the exact media that RVB itself was riffing off of. Both RVB0 and RVB when you watch them give you the feeling that what you’re seeing here is kids on a playground larping with toy soldiers. It’s all ridiculous and over the top cliche stupid garbage where each side is trying to one-up the other. The critical difference is, in RVB, we’re supposed to look at this and laugh at how ridiculous this is. In RVB0 we’re supposed to unironically think this is all pretty badass.

The PFL arc of the original RVB existed to show us that setting up an elite team of supersoldiers with special powers was something done in bad faith, with poor outcomes, that left everyone involved either cruel, damaged, or dead. It was a bad thing. And what we’re seeing in RVB0 is the same premise, except, this time it’s good. We’re supposed to root for this format. RVB0 feels much more like a demo reel, cutscenes from a video game that doesn’t exist, or a shonen anime fanboy’s journal scribbling than it feels like a piece of media with any objective value in any area. In every area that RVB was anti-establishment, RVB0 is pure undiluted establishment through and through.

#long post #really long post guys. look out !#rvb

206 notes · View notes

mindibindi · 3 years ago

Note

Beyond disappointed in Ted Lasso. What were they thinking?!

The writing is a complete betrayal and insult to Rebecca’s character and Hannah’s skills as they’re being seriously underused. It’s also insulting Sam’s character.

Hoping someone pulls Rebecca’s head out of her ass tbh. Sam shouldn’t be getting caught in the crossfire of her looking for romance. I know he showed up at her doorstep but she still should’ve turned him away, and not even messaged him in the first place.

Hey, I'm with you, Anon, though we do seem to be in the minority. Sam is definitely not blameless here, he is also in the wrong. But if one of them is more in the wrong, it is Rebecca. I can't speak to whether her head has left her arse as yet because I have quit watching (at least for now). I hear she called it off with Sam in the most recent ep, though not because of any major crisis of conscience or because anyone in her inner circle expressed any reasonable reservations in response to her bad behaviour. And to be honest, I'm not sure we should need to hope and pray that Rebecca's precocious god-daughter, her slimy ex-husband, or the brutal British press will act as a moral compass on this ill-advised relationship. Both Rupert and the press have been set up to some extent as the villains of the piece. And a 14 year old should never have to school her elders on what is and isn't acceptable. Nora's needs have already been neglected by Rebecca for far too long.

If a moral position is to be taken on this, it needs to be taken by the show (because stance matters) and/or by its characters. But the show has for the most part depicted this relationship as ill-advised but ultimately hot, sweet, funny and romantic. As for the characters themselves, Sam has shown at least once that he has some moral backbone but seems to be adorably clueless when it comes to fucking his boss who keeps trying to set boundaries with him. Meanwhile, Rebecca's whole arc in s1 was about learning not to misuse her power for her own selfish ends. In season one, she misused her power within the club in order to exact revenge. In season 2, we have seen her misuse her sexual power, though I still cannot see to what end. I'm a bit at a loss as to what exactly she gets out of this 'relationship' but then I'm a grown woman so I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with a Harry Potter enthusiast barely out of his teens. I couldn't think of anything less sexy and more ick. I was certainly hoping for better character development for her this season.

As to what the writers were thinking, obviously I was not in the writer's room, but I would guess that they were thinking that any drama is good drama, people are stupid and fan devotion will trump any meaningful critique. In other words, they were thinking exactly how every other television writer thinks, despite the fact that this show posited itself as 'not like other TV shows'. This, to me, is where the blame really lies. Not with the characters or with the actors who are doing their best to sell this ludicrous turn of events. It must be noted, however, that both actors were completely blindsided by this relationship that had supposedly been so cleverly foreshadowed. Newsflash: if the people actually living these stories did not see this coming then you haven't foreshadowed shit. Sure, there were a handful of people that paired Rebecca with Sam but this does not constitute proof either. Fans have free-range to imagine and re-imagine characters. In some cases this may extend to imagining relationships between characters who have barely, if ever, interacted. There may be little to no evidence that these characters have even clocked each other's existence and some fans will still ship it. The existence of a handful of shippers does not legitimise such a problematic and divisive plotline making it onscreen.

But wait!, you might argue, this may not be a case of a popular show seeing just how far they can stretch fan devotion. This may not be a case of fan service to a handful of shippers. After all, the creators mapped out the entire three-season arc of Ted Lasso before they even pitched it to Apple. This was their brilliant plan all along! To which I would say: then maybe they should've rethought their second act based on people's strong reactions to their first. Ted Lasso was touted as the show we all needed in 2020. The writers and creators have all marveled at the chord it struck considering it was conceived prior to the pandemic and all the chaos it wrought. And while there is something to be said for having/sticking to a creative vision, there is also something to be said for being flexible and responsive to your audience and the cultural zeitgeist with which you're engaged. Season 1 of Ted Lasso told its story so gently, without creating distrust, division or unnecessary anxiety. It did not treat its audience like a gaggle of stupid lemmings to be led over a succession of narrative cliffs. THIS is what I mean when I say the show has broken with its brand. And look, this whole dark forest thing would be okay if the narrative arc was as well-crafted as s1. Season 1 gave us meaning, cohesion, comfort, sense in a senseless time. It was an almost perfectly crafted season of television. And I kept the faith for 6 episodes, despite the first half of s2 being pretty damn wobbly. But the follow-up to this stellar debut has been less than extraordinary so yeah, perhaps they should've thought a little harder about what made s1 so special before throwing it all out the window.

But wait!, I hear the faithful say, you don't know how things will pan out yet! Wait until the season is over and everything will make sense! But -- wearily and once again, I say -- we should not need to wait until the end of the season to understand what the hell is happening. By this point (over halfway through the season and show) we should have a v clear idea of the show's themes and the characters' arcs. And tbf, from what I can tell there are some fab things happening in other aspects of the show that I wish I could watch and enjoy. But my biggest fear at this point is that they are going to use Sam to solve Rebecca's childlessness. That, like Rupert (because the parallel cannot be avoided), she will become pregnant with a young fling and the show's attitude to this relationship will ultimately be: oh well, it was a bad idea and didn't work out for them but it was all for the best in the end cos who can be mad about a cute lil baaaayyybbbeeee??!! If they do go down this path then I will definitely be abstaining from the rest of the show. I will simply recall my repeated viewings of s1 with fondness tinged with regret at just how badly they fucked up a good thing.

Ultimately, Anon, I think this may be a case of there simply not being a diverse enough perspective in the writer's room. I am not saying that every single woman or every single person of colour will necessarily object to this relationship. I am simply saying that women and people of colour will be more sensitive to the issues of gender and race that are relevant here but that have not been fully or sensitively acknowledged in the writing of this plotline. Neither am I saying that Rebecca is the first woman to sleep with a man much (much, much, MUCH) younger than herself or indulge in an ill-advised relationship. But the comparison with Rupert both works here and doesn't because Rebecca is not being written like a white woman, she is being written like a white man. Realistically, only a white man can engage in this kind of hugely imbalanced relationship seemingly without any major moral qualms or societal ramifications. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this kind of relationship is reserved for all the Bills and Joes and Brendans and Jasons out there -- not for the Rebeccas and definitely not for the Sams. We are way beyond the point in feminism where we believe that liberation is simply the right for a white woman to behave as badly as a white man. The truth is that whatever wealth, power and privilege Rebecca has, the rules are different for men and women. She will not be treated the same as Rupert if and when this affair is uncovered. She will be treated far more savagely than Rupert ever was and Sam will be treated far more savagely than Bex was. This is not an argument for the equal treatment of these two relationships. It is an argument against how the relationship between Rebecca and Sam has been envisaged, i.e. through the wrong perspective. In writing from a 'neutral' white male pov, the show has invisiblised all the many issues activated by this storyline and revealed a blindspot that was always there.

As much as I loved and still love season 1 of this show, it has definite blindspots when it comes to representations of race and gender. There are at least two moments in s1 that stand out for me as being so obviously written by a man. Not necessarily because of what they do but because of what they don't do: what is missed, absent, unacknowledged. I was willing to overlook such minor failings in a debut season for many reasons. But s2 seems to have exacerbated these minor flaws rather than correcting them. And here I can't help thinking of Tina Fey speaking of the diversification of the writer's room at SNL during her tenure as co-headwriter. This notoriously male-dominated environment only began to shift and produce better work when a greater diversity of minds, voices and persepectives was allowed in the room. In this richer environment, she notes, different jokes played differently. Different sketches made it to air. Different perspectives were represented and different performers were celebrated. I can't help wondering if this plotline would have made it to air if there had been a female writer, a writer of colour or both further up the chain of command to challenge the ideas of the straight white dudes in charge.

One of the reasons I didn't think Ted Lasso was for me was that it centred a straight, white, cis-het, able-bodied man who rose to a position he didn't earn. That is just not a pov I would normally choose for myself, especially now that there is such a rich array of alternative perspectives through which to view the world. But I think the show won a lot of females fans with its first season largely due to its portrayal of Rebecca. She is the first person we meet. She is arguably the protagonist of s1. And while she would have been figured as a villain in previous pieces, the show never took that stance with her (because again, stance matters). Other elements like the depiction of female friendships, all centred around Rebecca, made this show female-friendly viewing. But imo, the major reason this show won over female fans (this one, at least) is because, in this post-MeToo, post-TimesUp era, it stood up and said: domestic violence is not okay, we stand with women and all victims of abuse, we will defend you, we know words can hurt, we know it can happen to anyone, we know all about toxic masculinity, we do not take this lightly and we will support you in your healing. Needless to say, this is how women hope men will act when they speak of their most difficult experiences but it is not how they always do.

The shift away from Rebecca this season has however meant that the white male experience is more centred than it was in s1. Rebecca's journey to recovery, health and happiness has been trivialised and sidelined, reduced to a highly questionable sexcapade. Meanwhile, we get overwrought manpain at every turn. We get Beard wandering around London (no, I haven't seen it and no, I don't need to. We've all been raised on white dudes thinking they're genuises when they have a figurative wank all over our screens). We get NO queer represention at all. And the only other female characters on screen are in care/service roles to men. The father/son, mentoring and toxic masculinity themes are all still there but they're no longer balanced out by ANY other competing perspective. One of the reasons I was okay with Ted failing upwards in s1 was that he used his power and privilege to lift up others. He was the one in service. He used his enormous privilege for good, as anyone with such privilege must. (Admittedly, it could be argued that this is just another version of a white savior narrative).

My point here is that I'm not sure that peeking behind the mask at the sad clown is as revolutionary as some might believe. We love it because it's familiar. But this is a narrative with a long and problematic history. Do I believe in tearing down toxic masculinity in all its forms? You bet. Do I believe that patriarchy traumatises men as well as women and every other minority in existence? I mean...nowhere near as much, but absolutely. Do I believe in men expressing their feelings and going to therapy? Wholeheartedly. But I am also aware that 100 or so years ago, we were in a very similar place with our narratives. Everyone is looking for a recapitulation of modernism and frankly, this might be an indicator of just that. Whenever women and people of colour have demanded rights and recognition, there has always been a resurgence of tales about just how frickin' hard it is to be a white man. Minority genders and non-white people have never in western history been as visible or vocal as they are now. So forgive me (or don't, I don't care) if I critique a show not only for centering fathers, sons, boys and men but for blindly and boldly writing one of its only female characters and one of its only black characters as if their gender and race just do not exist. There are many other power differentials at play in this relationship, including age, experience, wealth and position, but race and gender are the two that patriarchy is most invested in invisiblising. So I don't care how brilliant they think they are, I will not trust the writing of a bunch of white dudes trying to tell me that race and gender are irrelevant.

#ted lasso #rebecca welton #sam obisanya #ask #yeah this one got out of hand

19 notes · View notes

pippastrelle · 3 years ago

Text

How to Make Bright Stream's Death Good

Many rewrites undo a lot of the bad things in the source material. This isn't actually a critique or anything, just a thought, but it's an interesting writing challenge though to instead think of how you'd keep them while making them narratively satisfying.

Hopefully, everyone who read them knows how horrific the fridging in Dawn of the Clans was. (The storyline, setting, and characters were really interesting but this got egregious). I have some thoughts on the other female characters but here I was wondering how you'd make Bright Stream’s death good.

In canon, she's unsure whether to leave on the sun trail but ultimately loves Clear Sky enough to follow him. Then, suddenly, she's expecting kits with him. (Because Grey Wing was still pining over her at the time, I'd assumed she wasn't yet mates with Clear Sky so that certainly came as a surprise). Bright Stream hides the fact she's pregnant from everyone because she doesn't want to seem like a burden. Then, she’s chosen to lure away the eagles, gets caught by one, and presumably dies.

Grey Wing and Clear Sky spent the rest of the book angsting over how they each must feel about this. She's basically then only mentioned to remind the protagonists of a past love to move on from and/or death.

Textbook fridging, basically.

So, how would you make a character who dies so early have impact for her character?

A few ways, probably, but here's my pitch:

Bright Stream becomes one of the main ones insisting they should go on the sun trail. As torn as she is about leaving her home, she's had enough of the suffering life they live. So, she throws herself into convincing the others. She's there, even louder than Lion’s Roar, painting everyone an idealised picture of what their life could be and an exaggeratedly horrible picture of the life they currently live. Cats in the mountain reference her when debating. Bright Stream feeds Clear Sky’s ego and feeds Grey Wing’s anxieties to convince them. Although, ultimately, Grey Wing’s need to protect the rest of his family wins out against Bright Stream’s convincing and his brotherly love for Clear Sky.

Bright Stream is desperate to cement that Clear Sky – their strongest cat – would come with them. It would convince so many more cats to come. So, she seduces him. In doing so, she ends up pregnant, which she did not anticipate. Still, Bright Stream refuses to consider the potential negative consequences, almost believing her own lies at this point. She insists to everyone that their old life was unliveable and their new life will be perfect. She, nor the others at this point, will let themselves be deterred.

So, when the eagles come, she insists it's fine. She insists they can get past them and will continue their perfect journey.

She is wrong.

The eagles carry her away and kill her with her unborn kits. Then, the perfect life she promised the travelling cats is thrust into reality as the lie it is. The group wonders whether to even go on. They and their kits will die here as they died back from the mountains. The fears Bright Stream fanned infects them all, especially Grey Wing. Then, Clear Sky parrots Bright Stream’s lies. He believed her when she promised a perfect life ahead of them. He believed her when she espoused the horrors of the mountain. He believed she loved him and their future kits. So, he spurs the group on in her place and refuses to hear anything but.

Bright Stream is the inciting incident: the first story of how fear and doubling down on it wheels out of control. Her lies push Grey Wing and Clear Sky throughout the arc. The cats cite her and her lies throughout the conflicts in their new home. Either they insist her perfect life is yet to come or decry both as wrong. The new forest cats must learn stop idolising her and deal with the consequences of her actions without repeating them.

#warrior cats #dawn of the clans #dotc #warriors #bright stream wc #clear sky wc #gray wing wc #gray wing #rewrite

17 notes · View notes

rjhpandapaws · 3 years ago

Text

Flip the Script

Ch 1: Back by Popular Demand

When the first articles talking about a show first started circling around about a year ago, Connor had been skeptical. They were boasting big promises like bringing back the original cast from the game. As one of the game’s three main characters, he hadn’t heard anything yet. So at the time he had shrugged it off. Making a show out of a game of choice was hard enough as it was, but throwing in how popular Detroit: Become Human had grown to be made this a particularly tall order. Of course with how well known their faces were, not having the original cast would start things off on the wrong foot. Connor sent the article to his twin. Silas had played an alternate version of Connor’s character. His brother sent back a keysmash and said that he would keep an ear to the ground. Six moths later he got the call about playing Connor for the adaptation. He said yes of course, the game had been one of his favorite projects and he wanted to see the show do well. Silas texted him a short time later confirming that he was going to play Sixty again. It seemed like everyone would be coming back.

Today they were headed to the studio to meet up with everyone else and go over the rough script for the show. Connor was curious about how they were going to be doing things. Would they be retelling the events of the game? Continuing the narrative? He wondered which of the story lines they would be following if that was the case. Silas had made a group chat for their friends from the cast and Gavin had been making wild speculations all week. Connor had been avoiding the chat as best he could. He didn’t want to get blamed in the event something got leaked. He had let something slip about the game before it had been release and wound up in a whole world of trouble. It wasn’t something he wanted to go through again. “I’m excited to see everyone again.” Silas said once he had put his phone down, “Think you can handle seeing Markus again?” Connor flinched at the mention of his ex. Their break up had been messy and drawn out by all of the tabloids, “I don’t exactly have a choice. It was a few months ago, I’ll be fine.” Silas gave him a side eye that made his doubts clear, “If you say so.”

He was in fact not as ready to see Markus as he had thought. He was in the middle of panicking about what he would say when an arm settled over his shoulders and pulled him against the larger body it belonged to. Connor looked up to see who it was that decoded to touch him without warning. Richard looked down at him and winked. “You looked like you could use a little help.” He remarked. “Thanks.” Connor muttered. Good to know how obvious he had been. “Don’t mention it.” Richard said as they made their way over to where the rest of the cast had gotten together. Markus didn’t spare him a glance after his rather cold greeting. Even though Richard let him go he stuck close. It was nice. They were pitched the general premise of the show. It had been cleared for two seasons. The first would be a retelling of the game’s larger plot, and the second season would be looking at how life might be afterward. When they were dismissed they broke off into groups to go over the scripts they had been given. Gavin grinned when he saw him and pulled him into a tight hug. He had been doing works for other games and they hadn’t been able to hang out much. Hank gave him a wave and they settled in to get to work. Their roles were largely the same as what they had been in the game, but there was more concentration on the details of each character this time.

They went over their lines and did any necessary rewrites and coordinated where they needed to. In between they made conversation to catch up after seeing each other mostly during projects over the past few years. “So you’re just pulling stunts for now Richard?” Gavin asked once they had finished going over the pilot. “Yeah.” He replied, “They still don’t know if they will use the RK900 scene so they have me down for stunt work for the twins.” Gavin gave a slow nod, “Cool. So how long have you and Connor been a thing.” Connor looked up at the mention of his name. It took him a moment to process what had been said, “We’re not... He - I... no?” Richard laughed, “We aren’t. I was just being moral support.” There were more questions in Gavin’s eyes but an elbow to the ribs from Hank kept him from asking any of them. After they submitted their scripts the group began to part ways. Connor was getting his things together and Richard came over to him after he had said goodbye to Gavin. “Sorry about earlier.” He said after a moment, “You seemed uncomfortable and I just wanted to help. I didn’t think anyone would ask about it.”

Connor smiled and shook his head, “Don’t worry. I really appreciated it actually.” He sighed and ran his hands through is hair, “I thought I was ready to see him again so long as we didn’t have to talk you know? But I just froze. I guess, I mean what I was trying to say was thanks. Yeah, thanks.” Richard nodded, “You’re welcome then.” Connor was trying to recover from having made things so awkward, “I, uh, is there anything I can do to make it up to you? How about we meet up for coffee sometime. My treat.” “Sounds like a plan.” Richard agreed and Connor didn’t know how much of it was genuine and how much was pity, “Silas looks like he is about to leave without you so I’ll text you when I’m free.” “Alright. See you then.” Connor said with a wave before he turned to catch up with Silas. “You are a fucking disaster.” Silas quipped when they got to the car, “A guy is nice to you one time and you’re sold.” “Please don’t start.” Connor pleaded. He was certain he didn’t start anything. They were just coworkers meeting for coffee. It didn’t mean anything. A work date, that was all. They were only friends.

#Flip the Script #FtS #Lights Camera Outtake #Actor AU #Rk1700 #dbh Connor #Dbh NInes #dbh fic #dbh

10 notes · View notes

karasimpno · 4 years ago

Text

{Day 24} The Party Goes With You | Kuroo x Reader

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x Gn!Reader

Genre: businessman!poker-playing!Kuroo AU, angsty-knight-in-shining-armor moment, angst/pining

WC: ~1.3k

Warnings: suggestion of unhappy/borderline abusive marriage, alcohol, gambling, cigar use

⍋⋆*❅｡. 25 days of fic-mas mlist .｡❅*⋆⍋

And we’re dancing nose to nose Darling do you suppose, oh darling do you suppose this party could be just us two? — The Party Goes With You; 35mm (music and lyrics by Ryan Scott Oliver)

You don’t speak of names or faces, but there is one face that always stands out to you.

Well, part of a face, rather, as the businessman with the immaculately-pressed suits always seems to let his hair hang down over his right eye. He’s all flashes of white teeth and heated golden gazes as cigar smoke swirls around the dimly-lit back room of the seemingly hole-in-the-wall bar. His lips move flawlessly as he tells joke after joke, keeping conversation moving as he robs the other players blind.

Though you usually work the front bar, serving cheap, disgusting drinks to equally foul men, on Saturday nights, you’re required to play dealer in the high-stakes poker game that is run out of the discreet back room of the bar. Your husband owns the place but owes money to every player, so he’s never there. But he thought his high-profile patrons could use a pretty face and a nice body to look at while they weekly gamble away some of their highest earnings—the bids rising to numbers beyond what you could ever make in a year.

Dealing is simple. The actual game itself is surprisingly not very heated, considering the fortunes at stake. But the gentleman with the hair as black as pitch and the shining golden ring on one of his nimble fingers is what keeps it so. The cant of his voice and his relaxed posture, suit jacket slung over the back of his chair, keep everyone in amiable spirits, energy flowing between them like the liquor through their veins. His lips move flawlessly as he charms his competitors, periodically lifting a crystal glass with his favorite Armagnac to them as locks eyes with you over the rim of his drink. He is dashing to say the least, and his gaze makes your body temperature rise, but you manage to keep your posture indifferent as you shuffle and flip the cards. With light conversation in sultry tones, the evenings are always interesting, as renowned businessmen do their best to outdo each other, racking up substantial bar tabs all the while.

Oh, and your favorite part.

In addition to taking the pot, at the end of every round, the player with the most winnings earns an added prize: a dance with the alluring dealer. You’d be exaggerating if you said that your mystery man wins every round, but certainly not by much. He ends up on top in a good 90% of the games.

“Sorry, fellas,” he always smirks devilishly, rising from his seat as the losing players grumble, throwing their cards down on the custom-made black felt. In spite of yourself, your heart skips a beat every time he extends his long fingers across the table to you. With a smile that you attempt to tame into mere professionalism, you accept his hand. Ever so gracefully, he lifts your joined hands over the heads of the other players, carefully guiding you from your nook in the table to the open space adjacent to it. Some of the players get up and wander into the front bar to buy more liquor. Others stick around and busy themselves chatting about their businesses and dealings. But you hardly ever pay attention to any of that, as the moment his firm hand snakes around your waist, pressing heavily but comfortably against your lower back and pulling you fast against his chest, everything else fades into the background.

He’s clearly an excellent dancer—feels like he could have studied ballroom dancing—but all you ever do with him is sway and spin as he speaks lowly into your ear, incapable of being heard by the others. He pulls you so close that you feel like every part of you is touching him as your chins hover over each other’s shoulders. He doesn’t speak of husbands or wives or work or his life at home. He always just speaks of the oddest things, some fun new fact, or something interesting he saw the other day. Neglected by your husband, this man makes you feel sexy, and wanted, and alive with your hand wrapped in his strong but surprisingly gentle one. Respecting your privacy and knowing your husband, he doesn’t ask you about yourself but you love just to hear him talk. He always comes up with the most interesting things to tell you and you love that about him.

You didn’t love your husband. Maybe you never did, but he’d grown so aggressive with you since making you manage his debts, the bar, his patrons...you had nothing left for him but resentment. But something about the dashing businessman whose name you don’t even know has you finding a spark in your life again.

“Alright boys,” he always says with a characteristic grin when he’s had enough gambling and drinking for the night. Some weekends it’s ten or eleven. Other weekends it stretches into one, two, once even three in the morning before he called it quits, his competition unraveling into drunken stupors as he stayed just as cool and collected, even as the empty brandy glasses began to accumulate around him late into the night. Your husband had instructed you to continue to deal for as long as the players were making bets.

When the man with eyes as brilliant as the sun stands to make his final call, he slings his discarded jacket over his shoulder, his other hand resting confidently on his hip. The other players chatter amongst themselves, murmurings of “maybe one more game,” or “should we stick around for another drink?” but they almost never do. When he makes his move to leave, the party goes with him. You often find yourself getting distracted watching him walk out the front of the bar with no hurry in the world, each slow step after step making your field of vision narrow down even smaller, until it only encompasses him.

You catch yourself sighing and are snapped back to the reality of what’s left behind: a bunch of men no different than any of the schmucks you serve at the front of the bar, the only difference between them being the withdrawal limit on their checking accounts. Whereas the mystery man always makes a point to thank you before he goes, his golden eyes halting on yours, the rest of the men attempt to sober themselves up and stumble out of the bar with grunts and dirty looks, leaving the mess of their indulgences behind.

And you’re left to daydream, thinking only of the man who comes in once a week, like a shadowy whirlwind of passion and excitement, dashing in and out of your life every Saturday night. The weeks are long, your husband is cruel, and the patrons at the front bar are unforgiving. Cleaning up after messy customers, you long for the weekend to come around, for the sight of that one man who makes your heart race and sweeps you off your feet before even touching you. You wish you could go back and rewrite the story of your life so that you met this man before your husband, and you could live a happy life together, just the two of you. Sometimes you catch yourself daydreaming of what a domestic life with him would look like, and remind yourself that he doesn’t even know your name, nor you his.

But when you’re dancing nose-to-nose, heat emanating from his chest and warming you from head to toe, you can’t help but buy into the fantasy that maybe he feels the same way. You want to ask him what he thinks, always desperate to know more—more about him, more about what he thinks of you, more of the way he sees the world, more, more, more from him. But the dance ends too soon, and you’re back to your role as dealer, him as player. The cards flip through your fingertips but all you crave is your fingers on his skin. The dream is as fleeting as a lead in the game.

And when he goes, the party—your life, your love, your spirit—goes with him.

A/n: okay this song is EVERYTHING to me but to me it’s always captured more of a feeling than like an easily interpretable scene for me. Phrases like “speakeasy, hole in the wall” and “cleaning up for vows in gold” and “the gayest party sad but true” just stick out to me and like I’ve always struggled to like ground it in some kind of narrative. BUT I took little nuggets in the song and became really attracted to the like singer falling in love with someone they barely know but see/serve all the time in sort of a bar setting. I was also really inspired by this scene in Molly’s Game (which is a good movie if you haven’t seen it)....I just love the idea of businessman Kuroo in like a cigar smoke-filled haze, drinking nice brandy, pulling you close and whispering sweet nothings in your ear......phew. This one is for my girl @bluntkingkuroo And THANK YOU GUYS so much for following along for such a fun event! I hope you all liked it!!! Xoxoxoxo -Elle

taglist: @slutawara @musicgetsmeoutofbed @azo-musxas @tsumurai @ghostlydiamond135 @animeboysimppp @honeybunny-sawamura @harokat

#kuroo #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo angst #elle writes #25 days of ficmas

55 notes · View notes

spiders-hth-is-an-outlier · 4 years ago

Text

Today in Strongly Worded Opinions (That You Didn't Ask For), I'm going to assert that there are too objective ways to measure whether or not a relationship is strong in story terms – by which I mean, unrelated to whether or not readers/viewers personally like the dynamic or the chemistry of the actors (in such cases as there are actors involved).

So for the sake of clarity, be ye advised: this isn't about shipping, fuck it, ship whatever you want idc. Shipping a strong relationship isn't inherently better than shipping a weak one – heck, you could just as easily argue that it's the lazier, less creative route. Also, I don't care? I don't care, it's just fandom. Follow your arrow. This is about ways to discuss whether or not a relationship introduced into a text succeeds or fails as an element of the story – or really as I'm going to prefer calling it, if a given relationship forms a strong or weak story element.

For this I'm presuming that you're creating a relationship between a protagonist and a secondary character introduced as a piece of the protagonist's overall story – protagonist/protagonist relationships aren't really a different situation, but they do have more moving parts, so for simplicity's sake, let's stick with a Main Character (we'll call that M) and a Significant Other (S for short). Also, these relationships by no means have to be romantic; any relationship can be measured as weak or strong in story terms.

Also, I'm going to say everything here as though it were factually true, even though it's just my opinion, which is correct, but if you disagree then it's only my opinion, but I am correct. Ready? Okay!

Strong relationships have story functions; in reality nothing means anything and people just like each other because they do, but fuck reality, it's a huge narrative mess. And my basic premise here is that the story function of a strong relationship falls under one (or more, if you wanna get real fancy) of these three categories:

The relationship can unlock under-explored elements of M's story or character through mirroring or intimacy (often shows up as “friends to lovers”). There is backstory that hasn't been unearthed yet, or some reaction or experience in M's life that could advance the story, and S can serve as a means to get at it. Maybe M and S share a similar trauma or life story; maybe S is the first person M feels able to open up to about something profound and relevant. Maybe part of M's story is a conflict between how they seem to others and how they see themselves or their own potential; maybe S is the person who sees them the way they see themselves...or sees M as the person they're afraid they'll never be. The story goal being met here is giving M a boost toward successful completion of their story arc, so even though there could be conflict, S is fundamentally pulling on the same side as M in the major story conflicts, in such a way that by the end, the reader should feel like M's success is at least in part because of what they gain from their relationship with S.

The relationship can function as a piece of the story's overall conflict, or as a secondary subplot conflict (often shows up as “enemies to lovers”). Traditional romance novel plotting effectively slots the love interest into the role of “antagonist,” because the romance's conflict is generally driven by people not getting what they want from each other until certain win conditions are met. In this kind of relationship, M and S might be actual-facts competitors, or be divided by ideological concerns, or they might be forced into proximity by the plot but clash on some personality level. The arc of this relationship is typically going to be about the M softening up as the relationship develops – if M starts out ruthlessly single-minded, maybe realizing that they're running roughshod over S in the process is part of their character breakthrough; if the story is about M realizing that they've underestimated the complexity of the world around them, maybe coming to recognize S as an equal is how that gets concretized for the reader. Basically this is a story where S presents a problem that M has to solve, and the more central to the narrative solving that problem is, the stronger the relationship is.

The relationship can serve to divide M's goals (often shows up as “love versus duty”). This is a story where M has to accomplish two separate things in order to fulfill their arc, but those two things aren't easily integrated. One of M's goals might be fulfilling a vow, or filial duty, or seeking revenge, and the other goal is some form of protecting or obtaining S. If the story puts M in a position of having to choose, then the relationship is inherently strong; it's providing narrative drive, whether or not S is especially well-developed as an individual character. This one can be tricky, because a very weak relationship can serve a superficially similar purpose, by demonstrating M's devotion to duty or obsessive pursuit of whatever when M rebuffs S to keep them out of harm's way or to avoid distraction or whatever. The difference is that in those superficial cases, the audience is meant to recognize that aw, that's sad, M has really had to Make Sacrifices – but there's really no dramatic tension involved; we know all along that M is going to Make Sacrifices in purusit of the real goal. When this is done seriously with a strong relationship, the audience is meant to feel divided as well; Romeo and Juliet just doesn't work as a story unless the audience likes Juliet and Mercutio, unless they fully identify with the dilemma that Romeo is in when he has to either avenge Mercutio's death or spare Tybalt for Juliet's sake and the sake of their future together. That's a big fucking story moment, and it only works because the audience buys both relationships – Romeo's with Mercutio and with Juliet – as narratively strong, to the point where Romeo's choice is not a forgone conclusion. This one is much easier to get wrong, I think, than the other two are!

What I'm saying here is that a strong relationship isn't really determined by how personally compatible two characters seem to be; a lot of movies that fridge a character's wife, for example, rely on actors convincingly portraying, in a brief window of time, two compatible people who care for each other – I'm thinking of, like, Richard Kimble and his wife in The Fugitive, who I think do sell the idea of a loving and happy marriage, but the relationship itself is a weak one. The story only really needs the bare fact of it – “Kimble had a wife that he loved and then this happened” – to kick off the actual story; the relationship between Kimble and Gerard is a stronger one narratively, because much of the emotional tension of the movie, what makes it more effective than just a series of chase scenes, is the way their mutual respect evolves as they compete against each other, and the story question of “Kimble really needs an ally, is this the right person for him to trust?” It's such a strong relationship that it comes as a huge relief of tension when he does make that gesture of trust and it turns out to be the right choice. The audience is happy that Kimble will be exonerated, but the audience is equally happy that the conflict between these two charcters is over – we didn't like them being at odds because we didn't want either of them to lose! Now, would these two people ever be close friends, let alone come to love each other? No? Yes? Who cares? Kimble loves his wife more, but has a stronger relationship in this story with Gerard. From a writing perspective, it's trivially easy to introduce an S and say “M loves this person,” but it means relatively little. It's harder to introduce an S and say “some part of this story now hinges on how M navigates knowing this person,” but that's kind of what has to happen in order to create a payoff that's worth the effort. A strong relationship provides skeletal structure for the story; it can't be stitched on at the margins.

This is an even tougher sell in something like a television series, where the introduction of S may come in well after the story is underway and the bulk of M's characterization is already in place. That's why introducing a late-season love interest is a notoriously dodgy proposition! To demonstrate weak vs strong relationship in action, I'm going to take an example of what I think was a failed attempt and pitch some ways to doctor it up into a strong relationship: Sam Winchester and Eileen Leahy.

This is objectively a weak relationship. She doesn't materially affect the metaplot of the series, or drive any major choices, or reveal anything about Sam's character. She's just, you know, generally nice and attractive and Sam likes her, which is a fine start, but then the writers just leave her idling in the garage forever. But it didn't have to be that way! Say we wanted to make it a Type 1 relationship: super easy, barely an inconvenience! Eileen is very like Sam, actually, in that she lost her parents as an infant and then had the entire rest of her life shaped by the trauma and the pursuit of revenge. That's amazing. How many other people, even hunters, share that specific experience with Sam Winchester? Sam was physically changed by drinking demon blood in infancy; Eileen was physically changed by being deafened by the banshee or whatever it was in infancy. Even just allowing them to talk about that would have made the relationship stronger. Sam is affected by the fact that there is no Before Time for him; even now that they've long since had their revenge on ol' Yellow Eyes himself, he grapples with the fact that he's forever robbed of any memories of innocence or safety or a life that wasn't lived in the shadow of this killing. Eileen also has had her life's quest for revenge fulfilled, and also has to reckon with the fact that it doesn't actually give her access to the innocence that was stolen from her. Maybe she struggles with that. Maybe Sam can open up to her because she knows what it's like to look back on your child self and feel that however strong you've made yourself, you're never strong enough to protect that child.

What if you want to write something spicier than Sam and Eileen talking about their sad feelings? Okay, let's take a Type 2 story. Eileen has been a lone hunter with a disability all her life; it's fair to guess that even if she can't match Sam's physical strength, the fact that she's survived at all means that she's pretty indomitable. Maybe she's had to be ruthless, even brutal in her hunting style; maybe she has a shoot-first-ask-questions-never approach to hunting that she credits with her very survival, but that Sam finds excessively rash and bloody. Maybe they fight about it. Have her kill some ambiguous, maybe-not-dangerous monstery types, a werewolf or something, and Sam's like, hey, we really can't just-- and Eileen is like, look, I hunt how I hunt, come with me or don't. I mean, this is a retread in some ways of early season conflicts about who to kill and when, but everything in the latter seasons is a retread anyway, so whatever, and it provides something interesting to have Sam deal with this whiplash of how there seem to be two Eileens, the smiley, jocular sweetheart who eats pancakes with him and the one who kills like she's swatting flies. What if he wants one but not the other? It doesn't really work that way, does it? Is this something he can dismiss as a foible, or is this a dealbreaker? The dude is almost forty, if he distances himself from Eileen, how many more hunters does he think he has a chance to meet and marry? If she won't even listen to his concerns seriously, is it really a good relationship anyway, or will Sam's needs always end up taking a backseat to Eileen's?

A Type 3 fix could just come down quite plainly to, what if Eileen is ready to retire? She's had her revenge. She's lived her life on the hunt. Maybe she's done, and maybe she wants Sam to be done with her. Doing this in season 15 would circle Sam back to his season 1 story conflicts in a nice way, I think – why does Sam do this at all, if it's not for revenge any longer? Does he feel personally responsible for every dead person he could've saved but didn't – is that a reasonable boundary, or lack thereof, to set? Is a compromise possible – could he continue to coordinate hunts while also getting out of the field and starting a family, or is that still putting his family in the shadow of too much violence and danger to tolerate? What's Dean going to say? He's pitched a fit in the past when Sam said he wanted out, but he's mellowed with age, hasn't he? Maybe he'll get it now? But maybe Sam also feels guilty and fearful, because he knows Dean will hunt without him, so now he's in more danger because of Sam's choices, if Sam makes this choice. It's a little heteronormative, as story conflicts go, but it's thematically appropriate to Supernatural, and the fact that Eileen isn't speaking out of timidity but out of the same weariness that Sam has so often felt about the whole endless cycle makes it feel a little less “the little lady won't let me go on adventures anymore.” This might not be my pick of the three, but the point is that it makes for a strong conflict, a legitimate divided loyalty for Sam to wrestle with, and one that doesn't have a clear right answer.

Anyway, hopefully that helps illustrate what I mean when I say that the narrative strength of a relationship doesn't have anything to do with how likeable an S character is – Eileen is very likeable! But that doesn't substitute for building her into the fabric of the story in some way. My expectation is that a serious protagonist relationship should bend the story arc in a way that requires response, and if it doesn't, I don't take that relationship particularly seriously. Canon can declare a relationship real by fiat, but it can't automatically declare a relationship meaningful without, you know, making meaning of it.

Oh, and there's not anything really wrong with weak relationships – most M's are going to have several in the story. My point is just that the difference between a weak relationship and a strong one isn't really a matter of taste or preference, but has a functional meaning that can be tested and measured, and if there's argument to be had about it, the argument can take place on evidentiary grounds. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

#apparently i give writing advice now?

26 notes · View notes

vo-kopen · 4 years ago

Text

So today I watched Gundala, an Indonesian Superheto movie from 2019.

Daylight is very bright in it, even the nighttime scenes are not pitch black. Easy to follow action. The movie’s narrative is intense and dark, but the colors are not so muted nothing can be made out. It’s a little odd in terms of cinematography, but I do appreciate the lack of a yellow filter. And when his father and mother are gone, the movie switches to dark colors for a bit.

Starr of the movie seems pretty pro workers rights, though it acknowledges that the working class are not all saints. There is moral ambiguity there but it might not be senseless? I think that theme is about the working class being pitted against each other by their oppressors?

Poor Sancaka as a child keeps getting almost hit by lightning. I did laugh at the first night scene when like five lightning bolts try to hit him. No wonder he seems scared of lightning. Which of course sort of leads to his father’s death. The shield shattering scene was a little over the top, but it served its purpose.

The special effects vary in terms of effectiveness, sometimes the lightning looks a bit cheesy, but other times it fits the tone.

Young Sancaka’s actor seems to be able to act, the hate in his eyes in one scene was palpable.

Awang had a nice hair flip in a street fight, and is pretty darn good at fighting. I did like how hypocritical he was about helping people. First guy with vibrant colors in his clothes. I am a little annoyed that he’s a well established hero, and he likely will be getting a spin-off. He’s not bad, just focus on doing one good film first before you worry about a cinematic universe.

The train plot point feels very comic book.

Then we get to the modern day. Gosh adult Sancaka is frustrating in how much he keeps his head down. Eventually he does get back in the fight, takes long enough, but when he fights its pretty brutal. He fights hard, and he will hurl people into bottomless pits.

I do appreciate the DIY costume, and I did have a few chuckles at the “how do I shoot web” moments. I must admit, I like the DIY costume more than the upgraded look.

So, the worst part. The villain’s plan is … not great. One of the low points. It’s just … I don’t know exactly what the movie wants us to think about it, but I worry it’s not great. The film does not want you to agree with him, it’s just … I worry it comes off a bit … okay so the heroes think for a time that his plan is that he had poisoned the country’s rice supply. And the poison will make pregnant woman give birth to children without morals. Which is … it feels loaded in a manipulative way, using pregnant women and fetuses. Feels icky. Furthermore, everyone just accepts that there is a way to be born immoral. And yes, in reference to being born without morals someone does mention something that the subtitles translated to LGBT. So that is a firm yikes.

The reason I don’t know 100% if the film wants the audience to buy the morality is something you are born with, despite the heroes accepting it, is that the review is that poison was a hoax. It does squat. The villain’s real plan was that the antidote to the poison would secretly cause birth defects, which would cause people to blame one over and hate each other. Not making them born immoral, but giving them an excuse to be evil and his backstory I’d that he got scarred in a fire. Yep, it’s another disabled villain character.

So either way, the plan is a bit awful. I mean, I am glad it’s ultimately not a born morally evil thing, but the fact that the main characters bought it, and the disabled villain wanting to cause more disabilities, it’s giving me bad vibes. The first twenty or so minutes had me, but the whole plan and the LGBT crack makes me conflicted if I would watch it again. I honestly stopped watching closely for a small chunk because of that.

The plot is … busy if that makes sense. For a while there are two main threads, what Sancaka is doing, and politics plot. And they rarely intersect until the end. And each thread has diverging subplots. Likewise there is a bit of focus on setting up potential spin offs, I mentioned Awang, but in the last ten minutes of the movie a woman who had not appeared previously shows up and saves the day. Just wrecks a truck so Sancaka can get a sample of glass. She’s named in the mid credit scene, but it’s still a bit annoying. Focus on making a single good story first, then expand. Don’t pull a bvs and hint at a bunch of spin-offs. Similarly the opening credits features a crowd of Indonesian superheroes from the comics, and it’s just, too ambitious.

Overall, good fights, interesting to see a superhero not from the States or Japan, questionable but varying morals. I don’t really regret watching it once at least, though it’s negatives are a huge damper on rewatching.

@hellyeahteensuperheroes since you wanted me to tell you my thoughts on Gundala. Also tagging @majingojira @pious-smasher @akirakan @paulsebert @thefingerfuckingfemalefury and anyone else interested in superheroes.

#superheroes #Gundala #Indonesia #homophobia #eugenics #kinda

8 notes · View notes

bigskydreaming · 4 years ago

Text

Okay, my thoughts on that last reblog, and the TYPE of protectiveness showcased on Bruce’s part.....and to be 100% clear, this is not meant as a call-out to the OP of that post whom I don’t know and have nothing against, its simply about the fact that this kind of view of Bruce and certain forms of his parenting are not at ALL uncommon in fandom, and I’m just kinda like hi, yeah, I have some issues I would like to raise here plz and thank you:

So the issue I have with so many headcanons that pair massive invasions of privacy and disregard for personal boundaries with the idea that this is Good Dad Bruce Wayne....is that no matter what one feels this says about Bruce’s concern for his children, it simultaneously also says or implies that for such extreme measures to be deemed good and not invasive, and as such NECESSARY.....then his children are not just headstrong....but UNREASONABLE.

Because families fight. The Batfam moreso than a lot, sure, but even still, I think anyone trying to pitch the existence of Good Dad Bruce Wayne is still ultimately trying to build a case for a Batfam who even when they fight, still love each other.

But with a family like that, no matter HOW much they fight....they’re still ultimately all going to understand and be ABLE to keep an awareness that even while FURIOUS with each other....this doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other’s well-being and want to know and be reassured that they’re alright.

And this is what’s not on display on the side of Bruce’s kids, anytime a fic or headcanon or meta defaults to justifying Bruce going to extreme lengths to look out for or even just check up on his kids....because intentionally or not, it paints his kids as total assholes if they’re not even willing to accommodate basic requests about checking in or being checked up on, so at least their dad who loves them knows that they’re alive and well.

Only if and when his kids just flat out stonewall and block any and all LEGITIMATE attempts by Bruce to check up on them, do his more invasive attempts at doing so become necessary and thus ‘justified’ to any degree whatsoever....

With the biggest issue here being that so many fics and headcanons just hop, skip and jump straight over and past any attempt at Bruce giving his kids the OPPORTUNITY to meet him halfway and at least check in or reassure him they’re safe despite being pissed for other reasons....

And go straight to Bruce keeping them under surveillance in manners that wouldn’t be out of place with the CIA’s protocols for watching enemies of the state or what-the-fuck-ever.

And all the while, treating it as though its just a GIVEN that Bruce HAS to resort to such measures....because just....calling them on the fucking phone isn’t going to get him anywhere.

Like yeah, if you want to write a story where he tries that and they block him at every turn, and so Bruce ‘has’ to resort to less than stellar measures to gain any peace of mind, go ahead. Just don’t be surprised if when you write it all out in such a manner, showing each step of the way rather than just skipping straight to the endpoint there as though its a foregone conclusion, you run into people commenting with judgmental opinions of the kids and what assholes they’re being, that Bruce feels he has to go to such lengths at all.

Because I think the reason we so rarely see people ‘showing their work’ here and just jumping straight to Bruce asking forgiveness rather than permission (while umm, usually still not ever asking forgiveness which is sorta kinda still a necessary ingredient of that axiom but I fuckin’ digress).....is because I think deep down most people know that it isn’t really in character for all of the Batkids to just refuse any and all legitimate attempts at checking up on them purely out of spite, just being all “well I’m mad at you so I want you to SUFFER, OLD MAN, yeah, go ahead and wonder if I’m dead or not! Suck it!”

Like, even Jason or Dick at their ‘pettiest’ - I think most people would agree that its more that they’re characterized as WANTING to hear Bruce express actual concern for them....and only getting as pissed as they do because Bruce just flat out refuses to do so and defaults to taking measures that don’t treat them as having any kind of competence, maturity or autonomy of their own....and thus are virtually indistinguishable from actions taken purely out of a desire to control everything around him, rather than a father just being concerned for his kids.

Even when they’re at their most spiteful in regards to not wanting Bruce to know what’s going on with them, its born of an undercurrent of hurt, I maintain, as they’re really mostly just pissed off that there’s even a question of whether Bruce actually cares or Bruce is just being controlling. Because kids shouldn’t HAVE to read between the lines and interpret surveillance tactics as parental concern just to even FEEL like their dad gives a damn, because their dad just flat out refuses to come out and SAY it.

Like, that’s not a big ask, at all, and thus its not something any of the kids are at all unreasonable in wanting and yes, even expecting from their father. Which makes it really obnoxious and one-sided when they’re implicitly painted as being unreasonable for wanting this, because a narrative or headcanon has just zoomed past “calling them on the phone and asking them how their day was like a normal person” as if it was never even an option for Bruce in the first place. Like it was just a given that he had to go full Operation: Periscope In the Plumbing to scout out their current state of health. And there was no sense in wasting time with like, an in person drop-in visit to say hey, haven’t seen you in awhile and I miss you and just want to make sure you’re doing alright and don’t need anything.

(Ever notice how many fics treat it as a given that Bruce always makes the kids come to him and this is normal and reasonable and fine, for him to never venture forth from his manor in search of them.....except in rare cases where its often almost framed as though a visit from Bruce is codenamed “I Can’t Believe I’m Having To Resort To Coming To Your Place Because You Won’t Just Come To Mine Like A Good Son Would?” Just saying).

But yeah.....the problem is never, and has never been, Bruce caring about his kids and being concerned and willing to go to any length to make sure they’re okay or be reassured of this.

The problem is when its implicitly treated as though Bruce launching operation SPY ON MY KIDS LIKE A GOOD DAD DOES as his step one is like, more reasonable and understandable and just BETTER...as opposed to......just being like “Alexa, call my kids” first instead.

Like....no. That is backwards. That is not Good-Dadding. That is Creeper-Dadding. Bruce’s kids are one hundred thousand million bajillion times valid for being like WOW COULD YOU JUST NOT in response to this, because aside from the whole issue of how “is this totalitarianism or just good parenting” should not be something that’s actually in question and needs distinguishing, like.....there is a very real, very understandable (and for some of us) very relatable element of “I am also feeling all the hurt and resentment that you’d rather bug my apartment or hack my phone than just fucking TALK TO ME LIKE A HUMAN BEING and treat me like you place a modicum of trust and respect on any answers I give from my place of Being an Adult Who Is Actually More Than A Little Bit Competent and Responsible, Not That You’ve Noticed Apparently.

Also, a good exercise here would be like, before deciding on a course of action for Bruce in regards to one of his kids, first imagining another character you aren’t as predisposed towards, like, deciding on that exact same course of action in regards to that exact same kid.

For an example, look at the time Tim left Gotham in Red Robin and wasn’t speaking to Dick, and how Dick still very much was concerned about him and wanted to check up on him.

Look at how even just Dick asking Tim’s friends like Steph and Cassie to check in on him for Dick was characterized by a lot of people.

Now imagine if Dick had been like “well, Tim’s not speaking to me no matter how much I try to apologize to him, but I’m still really worried and concerned about his safety and well-being, and also I am his big brother and I know what’s best for him....so I am going to bug his phone and ask Raven to spy on him magically and also maybe ask Superman to occasionally lurk in the bushes outside his hotel room and peep in on him and report back on his breathing patterns like a creeper BUT ONLY BECAUSE I TOTALLY CARE AND THUS NONE OF THIS IS UNREASONABLE.”

Like......hmm. Does that fly with most people? Would that go over at all well, or do you think that maybe Tim might have pitched the mother of all unholy temper tantrums upon hearing that Dick had done any of this let alone all of this....AND BEEN COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED IN PITCHING SAID FIT ABOUT DICK’S CHOICES HERE?

Would this be at all defensible on Dick’s side of things, even with it being 100% true and even taken for granted that he only did this because he genuinely loves his brother and was genuinely worried about how he was doing and hell, even IF it was genuinely a given that Tim was not going to give him the time of day no matter how he went about asking Tim to just check back in occasionally to let Dick know he was still alive and alright?

Or would it - even in light of all that - still be seen and construed as invasive, infantilizing and disrespectful of Tim’s rights to privacy and self-determination, not to mention his capabilities in looking out for himself?

Now......swap a few characters in and out of the key slots here.

Imagine Bruce in Dick’s place here, enacting any or all of the above or even actions slightly less hyperbolic but no less intrusive or boundary-crossing.

Would any of those actions be any LESS invasive, infantilizing or disrespectful of Tim’s rights to privacy and self-determination, as well as his capabilities....just because Bruce is his father and not his brother?

See what I mean?

Its never at all an issue that Bruce loves his kids and is concerned about their safety, nor is it actually untrue that his kids aren’t stubborn and headstrong.

The only actual issue is when its framed as though all of this means that Bruce skipping to “launch drones from Batcave” before he even TRIES “hit speed-dial on phone”....

Is both valid and necessary, and thus a sign of a Good Dad....rather than just Bruce’s own fears of being rejected or turned away by his kids. Or an example of his own flaws with interpersonal communication rather than evidence of his kids being completely unreasonable little assholes with a lifelong commitment to Suck It Dad, Yes Even IF You’re Legitimately Worried I Might Be Dead Right Now.

Et cetera, et cetera.

38 notes · View notes

comic-brew · 4 years ago

Text

On smoldering ashes

Chapter One: Early hours of a nightmare

@whumptober2020 days 1. Waking Up Restrained | Hanging and 12. Broken Trust

Summary: Bruce Wayne has gotten vulnerable. Bruce Wayne has found love. His love and his kids are all he needs to find happiness.

Some sick concept of fate doesn’t like him being happy.

Reading Time: 25 mins (3k)

Warnings: whump, being restrained, implied nonconsensual sedation, idk what else to put but it only gets worse from here

AO3 | Next Chapter

ps: reblogs and feedback greatly appreciated uwu

***

By January, he’d told her about the night at the theater. About the alley. How he had felt like his entire world was obliterated, sinking in his parents’ blood, their eyes staring right through him with the eerie glint ot lifeless terror.

By February, he’d told her about Alfred. About how he had raised him in more ways than one. Not enough could be said about Alfred that would satisfy Bruce’s love for him.

By March, he’d told her about his children and how he was so proud of each and every one of them, how he loved them more than anything in the world. They were all the meaning he truly needed in his life. He emphasized that he didn’t know what he’d do without them. Where he’d be without them.

By April, he’d told her what he did when he lost one of them. When he lost a piece of his soul.

By May, she met the eldest son. She wore her brightest smile and noone could tell her apart from the person she painted on herself.

By June, she met the youngest son. She kept any and all comments to herself, and instead chose to admire how much the boy resembled the father.

By late July, she had gotten to see him smile. Not one of the plastic, industrialized Brucie Wayne smiles, nor a half lit smirk. The true smile of the man behind the facade carefully tailored to appease the masses. A genuine reflection of the light in his heart.

And if that wasn’t somehow insinuating that she’d been slowly let inside, by August she’d gotten to taste Alfred’s infamous cucumber sandwiches, more than once.

“I’m Batman” he whispered sincerely in her ear one night of early September, which of course she already knew. She silenced him with a kiss and told him she didn’t care. Told him that she loved him. Before he could revel in his happiness, or perhaps precisely then, the world was drowned passion.

By October she’d heard every story he had to share. Every weight he needed to let off his chest she carried, every muffled scream he expertly hid in late night conversations she was awake to listen and relieve. She even graced him with her own narratives lived through the eyes of a woman she never knew and never would. But to him, they were treasured like droplets of potable water in a desert. She had stitched together flesh and stitched together heart, carefully planting a thread that if she pulled would make him all unravel.

Oh, how she yearned to make it all unravel.

Patience she no longer needed.

The time had come for the thread to be plucked.

***

Bruce walks all around the ball room, untouched glass of champagne in hand. Fake smiles change before him and his hand has been shaken more times than he can possibly keep track of. He congratulates somebody’s kid that got into college, discusses financial partnerships with members of the elite, stroking their ego with a flattering speech about how much good their presence and financial assist has helped their oh so beautiful city of Gotham.

It all fades away so quickly, but the night’s end is nowhere in sight. The great grandfather clock is ticking away the seconds almost pensively, dully enough that Bruce thinks he could fall asleep to its rythm.

He wishes he could anyway.

Somewhen amidst the bleakness of it all Bruce finds a spare moment to glance at the moonshine washed city before him on the other side of a window. It’s a rare sight to be able to admire the lunar pathway illuminating the city skyline without thick smog clouding Gotham’s view of the night sky.

The heavy oak doors creak in indication of motion and Bruce’s head snaps towards the sound. And there, beside the mahogany entrance stands her, as beautiful as ever in her white gown hugging tightly around her waist and falling down to the ground with superfluous grace.

Bruce can’t take his eyes off her as she looks around the ballroom, politely nodding at the people of varying prominence eyeing her intently, with esteem and curiosity all the same.

This is the first time he sees her.

This is the night they meet, Bruce observes.

Cecile is edging her way towards him and his hand twitches where it’s hovering above his mildly inflated pocket. The ring sits comfortably enough encased in the same cashmere as him. Nonetheless his fingers are drawn to it like a magnet, itching to reveal it to her, dying to admire it delicately complimenting her eyes.

He’s imagined the diamond shining on her pristine fingers many times before, but of course it never shines more brightly than her smile.

Cecile greets him ever so charmingly, extending her hand. Bruce offers his to be shaken in her grasp, and even though he can trace all the lines in her palm by memory, her skin feels foreign against his.

This is the first time they meet.

The ring has yet to be purchased, it can’t be hidden in his pocket.

The night they met was months ago.

Cecile’s image falters right in front of him, but his body doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s left smiling and making small talk with the empty ballroom.

It’s all fake, Bruce reminds his extracted self.

His self, who’s still chasing after ghosts of memories from future and past alike.

***

When he realizes that he’s been asleep, Bruce forces his eyelids open. They almost begrudgingly obey him, fluttering open drowsily as he struggles to will himself awake.

You’re in civilian clothing, he muses. His head is unpleasantly exposed to chilly air, the safety and burden of the cowl all the same isn’t enveloping his skin. Neither is his belt as he can guess. Being completely stripped off his tools and armory is never a good sign when he doesn’t know where he is.

So he tries to focus on exactly that. Finding out where he is.

First thing he sees is the soft blue glow of pixel letters on a screen. The low contrast of blue on ebony feels prickly enough to his eyes when he attempts to figure out the words. The light of each letter blends in with one another until it has formed a melange of shapeless nothings.

Bruce squints with the lingering grogginess, determined to read the inscription. After staring contemplatively at the screen for a couple of seconds he concludes that written on it’s sleek surface is the phrase ‘Please Remain Calm’.

It’s when the words are processed in his brain that he registers he has no feeling in his arms. Glancing up, he more feels than sees the chains, as if he needed to judge the situation with his eyes in the almost pitch black room to acknowledge that he’d been hanging from a rusty pipe on the rather low roof.

The batman inside him scolds him, and mocks him for his peak detective skills. Who knows what else he missed. Worlds Greatest Detective his a-

“B?” calls a voice from the shadows.

Bruce whirls around abruptly at the unforeseen sound rebounding on the walls. His rolling stomach protests by urging bile to rise all the way up to his mouth, but Bruce can’t bring himself to care. He swallows back the bitter taste without blinking.

He knows who that voice belongs to, even if it’s slightly distorted by the texture of the room.

No amount of vertigo could ever stop him from recognizing it.

From recognizing any of them.

“Jason?” his eyes search helplessly the shadows for the boy, to no avail. Of course you can’t see him. You’re not Batman now. You don’t have night vision. “You’re here too?”

“Yeah… Yeah. Wherever the fuck here is anyway. Just woke up?”

Bruce nods simply. He realizes a little late that the gesture was most likely lost amidst the darkness.

“-Yes. Just now” he adds quickly. In fact, his senses are still swimming and his stomach churning, but Jason doesn’t need to be aware of that. “What about you?”

“Been up for a bit. Enough to know that these,” Jason growls, pointedly moving around in his restraints to let Bruce hear the metal jingle, “Were probably made to hold King fucking Kong”

Bruce accepts the information with a soundless sigh. He doesn’t acknowledge defeat though, he doesn’t. He hasn’t tried anything yet. And he knows Jason is perfectly capable of evaluating the situation himself. He knows if something could be done he could have done it.

But.. he doesn’t want to know it. Kidnappings never end well for any of the people involved. Which should be promising enough for their captors’ inevitable fate, but he’s not alone in here. He wouldn’t mind enduring anything they might throw his way to acquire whatever knowledge they might be after. But he can’t let his Jason go through the same pain as him.

So he’s going to try everything again, himself.

Just perhaps.. perhaps after the gastric acids settle back down in his stomach. Yeah, he could assess the situation first. Figure out where they are. Doing so doesn’t require much movement.

At the corners of his vision sleep demands to drag him back underneath, but on the other hand his head is reeling and the urge to vomit has a strong hold over him still. He suppresses both the vertigo dancing inside his head and the blooming ache in his hanging limbs, shakes his head in a feeble attempt to pull his thoughts out of the murky haziness that lingered after his wake.

An image briefly crosses his mind, bright and vibrant, yet it fades quicker than Bruce can form an impression of its context. It whispers a few words conspiratorially to him, a few words he’s embarrassed to admit he hadn’t thought of.

“The others,” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“Hm?”

“The others,” Bruce repeats sternly. “Where are the others?”

Jason stays quiet for a bit and Bruce’s shoulders stiffen. With every passing beat he feels the pain shearing through his flesh all the more clearly.

“I don’t know” Jason admits finally. “I don’t know, I thought I was on my own before you woke up. This place doesn’t exactly have the best lighting”

Bruce has already stopped paying attention to Jason’s voice and anything else he might be saying. He’s almost frantically searching and scouring every far corner of his mind to salvage any fragments of memories sunk deep inside sleep induced mist. The dark blue words that fail to illuminate anything other than the edges of the screen and the beginning of the pipeline climbing the ceiling only further contribute to his frustration.

He needs to remember what happened. Concentrating brings blurry images to the front of his mind but a strong headache stops him from attempting to decode the puzzle his fragments of memories compose.

So he travels further back in his mind, where events are more discernible.

The last thing he remembers is being in the Manor. He assumes that’s where and when the ordeal took place. Everyone was there (aside from Kate, still abroad, and perhaps Alfred, if he could remember the time placement) because they had met Cecile for the first time-

Cecile.

Cecile, who was a civilian. And if he and Jason were snatched that easily and with no recollection of how it happened, then… if Cecile and the kids aren’t here with them..

Bruce’s ear picks up rustling of metal and his thoughts are interrupted.

“Was that you?” he whispers to Jason.

For a brief moment the young vigilante remains silent. His probable reaction can be brought to Bruce’s memory clearly as day. He doesn’t need sight to decide it’s not a good sign.

The presence of his pause is never consoling, least of all now.

“No,” he replies.

Silence.

And again sound, echoing for just half a second.

“Who the fuck is there?”

“Jay? Jay it’s me” a startled voice calls.

Duke

“It’s me, Duke.”

Bruce heaves a breath of relief, but his heart only clenches up tighter.

***

Cassandra wakes up soon after. They’re al here, together. The concentrated effort that must have been required from their captors to achieve that is daunting, making their intentions appear darker and dangerous as they sit shrouded in mist.

As soon as every last of them have opened their eyes a couple of groaning light bulbs nestled in between pipes flicker to life.

The light reveals his… affiliates’ position and dishevelled state. The sedative induced retching is only now beginning to abate, leaving the prickly sensation on his throat behind.

The last bulb to switch on illuminates the space just behind the screen which is now displaying nothing but tv static. The presence o light at last makes known the existence of a man of heavy build dressed in all black and opaque sunglasses standing proudly behind a layer of protective glass.

The bulletproof glass, if Bruce were to make an estimated guess, is attached as a window to the wall facing the bats, and them also faces the man with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Small drawn patches of exposed skin tease Bruce’s memory, but he can’t quite figure out the exact shape of the tattoo on the man’s forearm. A quick glance at the henchman -he supposes- gets Bruce knowledge of a lump that could easily be hiding a gun, and a wire that most likely serves as part of a communications device.

He spots the slit of a sliding door to his right and past the space Jason is positioned, hanging from the second pipe. No indication of a handle.

The room large in depth, and while Tim, Damian, Cass and Stephanie are bound to the same pipeline as him, Dick, Barbara, and Duke follow right behind Jason in that order.

They can’t escape, is the bitter realization.

In no way can they reach one another as their feet hover helplessly above the ground. Heavy cuffs are holding their fists securely in place, clenched uncomfortably in the heart of the metal.

Bruce can only hope whoever the man in black works for will slip up and give them an opportunity to strike

They’re all perfectly capable of handling the situation, no matter how hard his heart is beating in his ears, all showered in concern for the young people here with him.

And the people that are not with.

Cecile was with them.

Now she isn’t.

She must be somewhere else. She’s still alive, Bruce know this. She has to be.

And he’s about to find out where.

“There was another woman with us. Where are you keeping her?” Bruce inquires, and his speech gradually deepens as he leans into Batman’s cruel, hoarse timbre.

The man doesn’t spare him a second glance. Simply standing with the poise of a statue, ever unflinching.

The provocative absence of any type of response fills Bruce with equal pique as it does dejection. Before he knows it he’s fuming and seething in powerful conniption, metal clashing against metal with the same ferocity.

Where is Cecile?!“ he yells, thrashing about in his chains. "Tell me what you bastards did to Cecile!”

The man only stares blankly back at him. Bruce shouts even louder. The blood is boiling in his veins, the cacophony of the force with which the chains clash against one another and the pipeline can almost be described as ear numbing.

“Hey B! Bruce! Calm down, okay?”

If they hurt her, he swears he will-

Bruce’s vehemence withers away when a familiar presence carefully closes the small door beside her and begins strutting her way towards the glass.

The other side of the glass.

She stops right where he can soak up the sight of her and smiles, cocking an eyebrow. A smile so far from being as beautiful as he remembers it. This smile fills Bruce with dread. Just a little too wide to be kind. More teeth are showing than they normally should.

It’s not as wide as the Joker’s- they’re never as wide as the Joker’s. But always just a little too wide.

“Well oh my! I’m flattered my absence has had such a huge impact on you, love. Truly”

All the air has been ripped out of Bruce’s lungs in an instant, and all the air his delayed breaths provide is immediately rejected.

It can’t- It can’t be.

It can’t be Cecile.

“No”

Not her. Not the woman he loves. Not the woman he’d trust with his life.

No, no, no-

Cecile regards him curiously, finding it’s the perfect time to play with her Auburn locks of hair before deciding to speak.

“Well for one, I have to give you this. It was fun, while it lasted dear” she says with amusement. Clearly enjoying ripping Bruce’s heart into a billion pieces.

Bruce feels nauseous, and this time the lingering aftereffects of whatever sort of sedative he’s been injected with have absolutely nothing to do with it. The only creature residing in his eyes is heartache as Cecile forcefully shoves her betrayal down his throat with every laugh and word.

Bruce can only find it in himself to gawk at her, thunderstruck.

She gestures towards him, barely able to hold back snickers.

“It’s just- I mean, this will surely be plenty more enjoyable than our time together, not gonna lie”

Her silver eyes’ malicious shine is unmasked, openly expressing itself. Her awful fits of laughter are as good as daggers embedded hilt deep into his chest but everything is fading with every new gash. Everything but his thoughts.

He has fallen for an illusion.

For nearly ten months, his entire life has been a lie. The foundation he built his newfound happiness on was never steady, and the first seism has arrived to shake his world apart.

Cecile is standing aside, looking particularly pleased with herself, and Bruce only wants to stop.

He only wants to cease existing.

45 notes · View notes

babbushka · 5 years ago

Text

Mind & Soul (6/10)

The story of how one man fell out of love and into it again

Charlie (Marriage Story) x Reader

6.8k ; Warnings for angst, mentions of stitches (but there’s some sweet family fluff in here too don’t worry lol)

Tumblr masterlist for previous chapters // Available on AO3

-----------------

Time after time I tell myself that I'm

So lucky to be loving you

So lucky to be

The one you run to see

In the evening when the day is through

Charlie thinks that if he never steps inside a courtroom ever again, it’ll be too soon.

He’s sitting on his side, and Nicole is sitting on hers, between them are asshole lawyers that Charlie knows he can’t trust. He can’t, and yet he has to, has to trust that this jerk will say the right things, do the right things, to help him win. He doesn’t think he’s winning, but he just has to trust.

He doesn’t trust anyone but you.

Charlie is sitting on his side, and Nicole is sitting on hers, and you’re up at the witness stand. It’s surreal to have you there, he thinks. Surreal to see you dressed so nicely for court.

If he thinks about it, he knows that you go to really important meetings, he knows you need to dress up for pitch presentations, he knows. But he’s only ever seen you casual, only ever seen you undone. There’s something delicious, about seeing someone so casual, be so dressed up. You’re in a very smart suit, you look more put together than Nicole does. Charlie wonders what that says about her, if it says anything at all.

He doesn’t bother to look at her and gauge her reaction to the way you swear to tell nothing but the truth, although he can imagine the sharp betrayal she must be feeling. Good, he thinks, let her be betrayed, let her have a taste of her own medicine.

He doesn’t bother to look at her, not when his eyes are glued to you.

“Please state your name.” Charlie’s new lawyer, Jay approaches the stand, begins his examination of your testimony.

“(Y/F/N), (Y/L/N).” You say easily, meeting his gaze evenly.

“Ms. (L/N), why are you here?” He asks, formalities, protocol.

“I’m here to act as a character witness, on behalf of Mr. Barber.” You reply, and if Charlie listens he can probably hear Nicole’s jaw clenching.

Once upon a time, you and Nicole had been friends. Not nearly as friendly as you had been with him, but still. Friends. And now here you are, siding with him.

“And why should we take your recommendation of Mr. Barber’s character into consideration at all?” Jay shrugs, crosses his arms as if he’s showing the judge that he won’t go easy on you just because you’re on his side.

“The Barbers moved into the house next door to mine, and over the course of the two years they lived there I acted as a baby-sitter for their son, Henry.” You explain.

Somewhere in the background, the stenographer types away, her nails clicking on a keyboard that doesn’t make any sense to Charlie. He’s laser focused on you, tries not to think about those two years, tries even harder not to think about how he spent half that time fucking you.

He knows the judge can’t read minds, but sometimes the way the judge looks at Charlie says otherwise.

“So it could be said that you were privy to observing the Barber’s family life.” Jay asks, and you have a little knowing smile that quirks up the corners of your mouth.

Charlie sweats, watching you up on the stand, tries not to think about just how privy you were, tries not to sweat.

“I wouldn’t say observing in any conscious sense, but yes. When you live next door to someone you become friendly with them. Certainly when you become their babysitter, you become friendly with the child.” You smile coolly, innocently, genuinely.

And that was the big thing, wasn’t it? That you were genuine, always, in all things. That’s what had drawn him to you initially, that sincerity. As a friend, as a babysitter, and as a lover.

“Who asked you to babysit?” Jay asked, because this was really the most credible part about your testimony, the babysitting.

“Mr. Barber, I only ever really spoke to Mrs. Barber in social settings.” You replied honestly.

“Did Mrs. Barber speak of Henry often, in those social settings?” Jay asks, the leading questions already beginning.

“Objection your honor, leading the witness.” Nora, Nicole’s bitch of a lawyer stands up then.

“Sustained, the witness is to provide testimony on Mr. Barber, not Mrs.” The judge nods, making Nora sit down with a smile.

“Alright, then did Mr. Barber speak of Henry, outside of the conversations where he asked you to babysit?” Jay asks, and you nod quickly.

“Yes, very much so. We spoke about a lot of things, you know. But he was always very very proud of Henry. He would pull out his phone and show me pictures, of Henry or drawings that he made, that sort of thing. He was always a very proud father.” You reply.

“How frequently did you babysit for the Barbers?” Jay asks, just trying to form a narrative. Charlie knows this, but if he thinks about it, if he thinks of all the times he’s asked you to watch Henry simply so that he can come over to your house and steal a kiss or two (or twenty) upon picking him up, if he thinks too loudly then the judge will hear.

“About once a week, on nights where rehearsals were running late at the theater company, or they knew they’d be in meetings, that sort of thing. The odd party now and again.” You brush it off as if it were nothing.

But it isn’t nothing, it isn’t.

“Once a week is fairly often, I imagine you grew quite close to Henry.” Jay prompts.

“Oh yes, I like to think he trusts me. He’s so bright, that boy, and he picks up on a lot, you know? Sometimes if Mr. and Mrs. Barber had a fight, he’d find some subtle way to ask why grownups have to be mean to each other. Or when Mr. Barber was told to sleep on the couch a couple months before Nicole left, he would ask why parents don’t always sleep in the same bed.” You say pointedly, trying to make the point that she left. She left.

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Barber have fights often?” Jay asks, as if this is new knowledge to him.

“Through the entire time I knew them, yes. They fought often.” You nod, chewing your lip.

“Did any of these fights turn physical?” Jay asks, but your eyes widen at the thought, at the implication that Charlie would do anything like that.

“No, not to my knowledge. Just, raised voices. I mostly heard Mrs. Barber yelling, when the fights would happen. There was a lot of yelling at Mr. Barber.” You say and you fidget with your hands for a moment, before continuing, “I try not to listen but, the houses are so close and sometimes the fights would be very late, so the sound wasn’t drowned out by the traffic.”

“Ms. (L/N), what can you tell us about Mr. Barber, his character.” Jay says, wanting to get to the point. “It’s clear that you’re someone around him, around his child. It’s clear that you’ve seen the way he interacts with his family. If you were to make a judgement call, how would you describe him?”

“Mr. Barber is a very hardworking man. He’s the type of person who remembers to take care of everyone that depends on him, he remembers things about the people who depend on him, and even about the people who don’t. He is the kind of father you wish every child has – compassionate and playful, but strict in the right ways.” You say, try to keep it as much to the point as possible.

“He is well respected in the community, is active in both the theater sphere as well as locally. I’ve never seen him lash out or become violent, in all honesty I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell in an angry way. His son loves him very much.”

You look right at Charlie when you say that last part, and Charlie has to look away, because he can’t help but feel the tight ache in his chest at the mention of Henry’s love, not now. Not when there’s such a possibility of losing him that he can nearly hear the goodbyes.

“No further questions, your honor.” Jay says, before returning to his seat next to Charlie.

Nora stands up then, and Charlie nearly wants to hold his breath, but you don’t. You look at her evenly, and Charlie thinks you’re so brave for that, that’s not something he’s still managed to do.

“Ms. (L/N) this is all well and good, but I’d like to bring up the fact that a primary reason that you are here, is because on the night of a home-visit by the state-sanctioned case worker to observe Mr. Barber and his son, you were present.” She says, as if this is a bad thing, as if you’re breaking some sort of rule.

“Yes, I was.” You reply, your shoulders square and your chin raised.

Because, yes, you were.

-----------------

The next day felt like a blur, to Charlie. He woke up with you by his side, kissed you for what felt like an eternity before the alarm even had a chance to ring. He held you in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, woke up with a smile on his face.

He asked you to stay in bed while he went down and made breakfast for Henry, got him dressed and ready for school, and when he came back home from dropping him off, you were still there.

He had hoped that you’d let him crawl back into bed, settle himself against your naked body, let him have a drink of the sweet wine that spilled forth from your lips. But you only eyed his arm, the cut which stung, which needed proper stitches.

So to the hospital you had went, and stitches he had gotten, and after a normal amount of painkillers he had fallen back asleep with his head next to yours on the pillow, dreams a swirling mess of colors and sounds.

He doesn’t remember what they are, when he wakes up. It’s late, in the afternoon, he can tell. Can tell by how rich the sunlight is coming through the window. Maybe it’s three o’clock, he doesn’t know, he can’t see the numbers right now, eyes half-closed still.

You come into the room gently, upon hearing him rustling. You’re so beautiful, he thinks, as he carefully opens his arms for you, groggy and yet still so pleased to see you.

“You’re still here.” He says. He’s not so sure that he hadn’t dreamt your being there, the pain medication addling his system just a little.

“Mhm,” You smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and teasing, “Good morning.”

You reach a hand out and softly brush your knuckles against his cheek. Charlie grasps your hand and gives it a little tug, pulls you down down down until your noses are touching, until he’s nearly smiling against your mouth.

“Can I kiss you a little?” He asks, and your smile lights up his entire world, when you flash your pretty teeth at him.

“Yeah, but then you’ve got to go pick up Henry from school. They’ll freak out if you’re late, it won’t look good for you.” You whisper, rubbing your lips over his, the ghost of a kiss, the ghost of a touch.

“I know, will you come with?” He chases you, careful of the stitches in his arm as he maneuvers you onto your side, on top of the covers.

“Nah, I’m going to stay here, I’ve got to get the most kick-ass dinner made for tonight.” You smile again, and Charlie lets his eyes close in gratitude as your mouth opens for him.

Kissing you is almost as intoxicating, as dangerous as the painkillers. They’re out of his system now, he can feel it from the twinge in his arm, the sting of it. But he doesn’t need them, not when your tongue is so hot against his, not when your hands roam over the width of his body. He wants to have sex with you, but there’s no time today, not right now.

That’s alright, he thinks. Soon this will be over, and you two can have all the sex you’d like. He huffs out a little laugh, post-dream-glow starting to fade only to be replaced with the euphoria of kissing you.

“You’re literally a life-saver, you know that?” He grumbles against your lips as he stretches the sleep from his calves. His nap is over, he knows, he’s got to go get Henry, he knows. But he doesn’t want to leave your side, not right now.

He never knows when the next time he might get you will be.

“I do, but tell me anyway.” You smirk just a little, before sitting up once again, detangling yourself from him. You give his cheek a playful little pat and attempt to lure him out of bed with your body and, “Come on, you’ve had your kisses.”

Charlie sits up too, and for the first time really takes in the sight of the bedroom around him. The last time he was here, it hadn’t even had a bed. Now it was fully furnished to his tastes, and he remembers, he knows you’re the one who did that.

“Do you like it?” Charlie thinks aloud, abruptly.

“What honey?” You ask, rifling through the closet, tossing some clothes onto the end of the bed for him.

“The house.” He says nervously, palms gone clammy for a minute. “You know, do you think it’s nice?”

He hopes you do, hopes Henry does.

Hopes the social workers does.

Hopes the judge does.

But most importantly, he hopes you do.

“It’s a gorgeous home, Charlie. I was impressed even when it was empty, but you know that.” You reply.

And of course he knows that, because you were there with him when he bought it, the house. You were the one who helped him look for a month, when Nicole had made her grand return and served him the papers. They had to sell the house, he needed a new one, and you had helped him find this place.

“I bought it for you, for us.” Charlie says, and he doesn’t know if it’s the way he can just be so himself around you, or maybe it’s the fear of rejection that makes him so overly casual about it, he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t look at you when he buttons on a crisp white shirt, “I was hoping, after all of this, you and me and Henry…we could all live here. If it works out that way.”

“Do you really mean that?” You ask quietly, stunned.

“I really do.” Charlie swallows around his nerves, immediately rushing to say, “But I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you to do it or anything – ”

“You’re not being pushy.” You shake your head, sitting down on the edge of the bed, lightly picking at nothing on the comforter before admitting, “I’d really love that. I’ve sort of, well. I’ve selfishly started thinking of this as my house too.”

“What will you do about your house in the old neighborhood?” Charlie tries tries tries not to jump and scream and shout with joy, tries to keep it cool, tries to keep himself rational. “I don’t want you to uproot yourself.”

“I’ve been thinking about selling it for a long time, to be honest.” You smile sadly.

“Really?” He frowns, the very thought of you being too far away making him nervous, worried.

“Yeah, I’ve sort of outgrown it.” You shrug, blinking away tears of relief at Charlie’s want of you, “I wasn’t thinking of moving far away or anything! But just into a bigger space, a blank canvas. Somewhere with an office. I’m so tired of working at the dining room.”

“There’s space here, you could have an office here.” Charlie says, tucking his shirt into freshly ironed pants.

“I could.” You say with a smile, you ironed those pants.

“I love you.” Charlie says, simply because he has to.

“I love you too.” You reply, because you can. And then, when Charlie’s all dressed, you lean in for one more kiss, one that Charlie lets himself get lost in, before you pull away with a devious smile and a, “Go get Henry.”

-----------------

I only know what I know

The passing years will show

You've kept my love so young, so new

And time after time

You'll hear me say that I'm

So lucky to be loving you

You’re in a damn good mood, in the kitchen. There’s music playing off the bluetooth speaker, volume turned up high enough that it fills the whole house as you cook up a storm. While Charlie had napped off the pain from his stitches, you’d browsed the internet for the most impressive recipes you could think of.

Nothing too flashy, nothing that says you were trying too hard, but definitely something nicer than a simple box meal, or something. You wanted this social worker to see how well cared for Henry was, home cooked meals and maybe if he’s good, there’s a chocolate cake you need to frost cooling by the oven.

You whistle along to bright jazz, trumpets and saxophones harmonizing with the sizzle snap crackle pop of spices and vegetables in the skillet, fat rendering away into thick sauces for this grand dinner.

You’re wearing a nice outfit, made sure Charlie had been dressed nice too. You knew how important this was for him, you knew how important it was to come across as put together as possible. Henry had a good thing going here, you needed to prove to her. He had a huge house, all his toys. Friends from school could come over and play in the backyard, you and Charlie would be there to make them all food the way that you did when Nicole was gone and away for those six months.

This wasn’t about you, you shake the thought from your head. No matter how idyllic of a picture it painted, you knew you were here to help make the case for Charlie, for Henry. You loved them both so deeply, cared about them so much, you had to help. You can think about being a family together again after Charlie wins the case, after Charlie is told he can officially keep his son.

Because isn’t that what you had become, a family?

The kitchen smells incredible, and you’re thanking the insanely long recipe for that, thanking the random food blogger you had stumbled upon.

You add a pinch more salt, before wiping your hands down on the kitchen towel that’s slung over your shoulder the way Charlie tends to do. The music is loud and happy, and you’re in a good mood – until you hear the doorbell ring.

Shit! You think to yourself, casting a glance to the clock above the oven. It’s only four o’clock, you hadn’t been expecting anyone until five at the earliest. You scramble to get yourself presentable, calling out, “Just a second!”

You make sure that the stove is set low enough that nothing burns in the few minutes that you need to step away from it, slipping your feet into short heeled house shoes, smoothing down your hair. You make your way through the big gorgeous house and open the door, smiling at a woman in a nice grey pant-suit.

“Hello, my name is Katherine Gonzales, is this the residence of Mr. Charlie Barber?” The social worker checks her clipboard, clearly surprised that you’re there.

“It is! Please forgive me, we weren’t anticipating you until a little later, Charlie’s just picking Henry up from school now.” You offer her a hand to shake and a warm smile, “My name is (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), please come in, make yourself comfortable.”

You stand to the side and she steps into the house, you close the door behind her. You wince, the music is still so loud, and you quickly pull out your phone to try and lower the volume. You hope you don’t look as frazzled as you feel, as you walk her back to the kitchen.

“Ms. (L/N) – ” Katherine starts, but you laugh good-naturedly.

“Please, call me (Y/N).” You ask, halfway wanting to make that old Ms. L/N was my mother, joke, but thinking better of it.

“Of course, (Y/N).” Katherine corrects herself, standing kind of awkwardly in the kitchen. “Pardon my bluntness, but I wasn’t aware you’d be part of the evening.”

“I’m very sorry, it was a last minute decision. Henry asked that I be here, and well.” You assumed your spot by the stove, giving the stir-fry a nice zhuzh so the vegetables don’t get too charred. “I didn’t think it’d be fair to say no to him, during all this.”

“I understand. And are you and Mr. Barber…?” Katherine prompts, making your heart flutter.

“Oh just friends.” You lie easily. It was an easy lie to make of course, you’d made it a thousand times over the course of a year and a half, “I used to live next door before he moved into this house. Ever since the separation, I’ve been helping out. It takes a village, and all that.”

“That it does.” Katherine concedes, looking around the house.

She’s got a great poker face, if she’s impressed you can’t tell. But how could someone not be? With the open floor plan and high vaulted ceilings, the chandeliers, the tall wide windows that let the light spill in beautifully?

“Can I offer you anything to drink? Really I’m so sorry, they should be here any minute.” You say, checking the clock again.

“If you had any bottled water?” Katherine smiles apologetically but you nod happily, go over to the fridge.

“I’m afraid I’ve only got sparkling, is that alright?” You pull out a bottle of Perrier, and thankfully, she’s the kind of person who drinks that sort of thing.

“Yes of course.” She accepts it with a, “Thank you. Do you cook dinner for Charlie and Henry often?”

You smile about the thought, about cooking for them. The truth of the matter was yes, you did. For six months you all cooked together, ate dinners together nearly every day. In many ways, this felt like falling back into the old routine, the comfort of familiarity making you smile some more.

“Sometimes, yeah. I work from home, this house is only ten minutes away from their old house where I live, so it’s easy for me to help out.” You try to appear as only a good friend, nothing more. You wouldn’t do that to Charlie, you think, you wouldn’t compromise this with your own musings. The timer dings then, and you happily pull out an appetizer from the oven, transferring it to a serving platter on the island. “Here, please have whatever you’d like.”

“I already ate, really I’m fine.” Katherine says out of politeness, but you see right through her.

“Oh but I made it special.” You frown, looking at the beautifully crispy bubbly cheesey dip.

“Well if you insist.” Katherine smiles, and you smile, and you think that maybe she’s only so severe because she has to be, maybe you’ll be okay, maybe you’ll get through this and on the other side there’ll be some positive news.

Katherine has had exactly three tortilla chips when the front door opens and the comforting peace of the kitchen is disrupted by the loud sounds of laughter.

“Ha! I win!” Henry is out of breath from it, bright belly laughs that immediately bring a smile to your face.

“Oh no you don’t -- !” You hear Charlie reply, and then some sort of playful scuffle.

“That must be them, they always race to the front door.” You explain to Katherine who is already writing down stuff on her clipboard, already making notes.

“Hey something smells good.” Henry bounds into the kitchen, throws his arms around your middle for a hug and a, “Hi (Y/N)!”

“Heyheyhey, shoes off.” Charlie calls after him by the front door, his voice stern yet kind. You can imagine him running a hand through his hair, toeing out of his own sneakers.

Henry gives you an exaggerated look that’s got you stifling a laugh as he steps out of his shoes and runs them back to the front door in just his socks, before coming back into the kitchen.

“Hi kiddo, how was school today?” You greet him properly as you let him peer into the skillet for what they’re having.

“It was good – hi, I’m Henry.” He takes notice of the social worker finally, offers her a hand to shake in the way that you know he must’ve learned from Charlie.

“Hi Henry nice to meet you, don’t mind me I’ll just be over here.” Katherine takes his hand and gives it a firm shake.

Kids always had a funny way of showing their manners, you think as Henry does just ignore her and turn back to you immediately upon the permission to do so.

“I was asking dad if I could enter the science fair this year, would you help me?” He asks, eyes wide. His hair is getting long, you think, because he keeps blowing it out from his eyes.

“Science fair huh? What sort of experiment are we thinking?” You ask happily, tending to dinner.

“Something with legos, dad says there’s tons of stuff to do with them.” Henry goes to the fridge and gets water from the filter, chugs it down. You smile and shake your head, they really must have ran ran to the door this time.

“Why don’t you go set the table and we talk about it while we eat.” Charlie hints as he comes into the kitchen, looking handsome as all hell. He too shakes the social worker’s hand, voice warm when he greets her. “Hello, pleasure to meet you.”

“Katherine Gonzales, you must finally be Mr. Barber.” Katherine smiles, and Charlie winces.

“I’m sorry, if I had known you’d be here earlier I’d’ve – ” He starts, but Katherine only waves it away.

“Not to worry. (Y/N) was keeping me company.” She says kindly, before taking her purse and clipboard. “But really, just go about your business as usual. I’ve got to just do a little walk through of the place before dinner, you won’t know I’m here.”

Charlie nods, and when Katherine is out of sight, he sidles up next to you, wraps his arms around you from behind for a moment. He steals the softest kiss against your cheek before stepping away and asking, “How can I help?”

“Nah there’s nothing to do, why don’t you and Henry go wash up?” You ask after him, “How’s your arm feeling?”

“Stings but I’m okay.” He swoops down for one more secret kiss that has you laughing, has you pushing him off of you playfully in case Katherine comes back and sees. He grins, is in a good mood as he claps his hands together and goes into the dining room, “Henry! Great job honey, come on we need to wash our hands otherwise we’ll get sick, let’s go.”

-----------------

Later, when everyone is washed up and dinner is served, the three of you sit at the dining table. Charlie, being big man of the house and all, sits at the head, with you and Henry on either side. You don’t know where Katherine has gone, but you know she must be close by watching, listening. You and Charlie had both been worried that maybe Henry would act differently, or strangely with her being there, but it seems as though he’s already forgotten about her.

Or at least, for the moment.

“Alright so tell me about this science fair.” You smile as Henry serves himself a big helping of potatoes.

“Um, I know what I want to do but I’m worried about it and messing it up so I was wondering if you and dad would help me.” He says apprehensively, and you frown.

“Why worried, because of the reading?” You ask softly, not wanting to upset him.

“Yeah.” Henry sighs, pushing a fingerling potato around on his plate.

“Has someone been giving you trouble about it?” Charlie frowns now too, concerned, wondering why Henry didn’t say anything earlier.

“There’s this girl, Jenny Henderson. She was making fun of me in the library today during media.” Henry explained, and you and Charlie immediately look at one another.

“Is Jenny in your class?” Charlie asks, jaw clenching, already wanting to get up and call the teacher, wanting to call someone.

“No, she’s in the gifted class.” Henry shakes his head, takes a big sip of water.

“Was she saying anything to you or just…?” You prompt gently.

“She pointed and laughed to her friends.” Henry looks at you, and then at Charlie, and then back down at his plate, voice very small when he says, “And then her friends laughed. She called me dumb.”

Charlie puts down his silverware with enough seriousness that Henry looks up at him with wet eyes.

“You are not dumb. Everyone learns at their own pace, and everything has their own strengths. So what if Jenny Henderson can read more advanced books? That doesn’t make her better than you. And in fact, because she made you feel bad about it, means that she’s definitely not better than you.” Charlie goes to get up, puts his napkin on the table. “I’m going to call up the school and – ”

“No!” Henry says suddenly, “No don’t, that’ll only make things worse.”

You and Charlie look at each other, torn with what to do.

“Honey we aren’t going to sit by and do nothing. She needs to know that there are consequences for her actions. People aren’t allowed to make others feel bad like that.” You say, and remembering how often kids made you feel like garbage at school, knowing Charlie must remember it too. You don’t want that for him, neither of you do.

“But what if she gets mad?” Henry asks sadly.

“Then you tell me, and I’ll handle it, okay?” Charlie says seriously, wanting his son to know that he’ll always be there for him. Charlie sits back down, puts the napkin back on his lap, picks up his silverware again. “How about I wait until Monday, we can call together.”

“Okay.” Henry nods, feeling infinitely better already. You can tell just by the way he’s not hunched in on himself, sitting upright and actually eating happily.

“Since it’s Friday, what do you say we leave homework until tomorrow and do something fun after dinner?” Charlie asks, to get him into a better mood.

“Can we start the project? I can go get my legos!” Henry perks up immediately, looking between the two of you.

“That sounds like a plan to me – but heyheyhey finish your dinner, (Y/N) worked hard on it.” Charlie chuckles as Henry nearly gets up to go bolt.

He sits back down with a sheepish smile, but you only give him a friendly wink to let him know it’s all okay.

No matter what, it’s all okay.

-----------------

Charlie steels himself for this, for the grilling.

Nora has approached the stand and is walking back and forth in front of it with her hands steepled together like he’s got something up her sleeve. Charlie doesn’t like it, and neither do you.

But you’re strong, so much stronger than Nora expects.

“What were you doing there that evening to begin with, Ms. (L/N)?” She asks you.

“Henry asked me to be there, so I went.” You reply easily.

“If you’re just a babysitter, why did Henry want you there?” She counters.

“If I may speak frankly, I spent a lot of time around Mr. Barber and his son when Mrs. Barber abandoned them.” You try not to feel insulted, Charlie tries not to feel insulted for you, but that barb hits Nora, hits Nicole deep.

“Abandoned is a – ” Nora starts, but you’re not having any of it.

“For six months while she was off galivanting around Los Angeles with not even so much as a phone call, Mr. Barber needed someone to help him get adjusted. We didn’t know if Nico—if Mrs. Barber, would ever come back, and I wasn’t going to stand by and watch them struggle.” You say coldly.

“Struggle how?” Nora turns it on you, twists your words. “Are you saying Mr. Barber was unequipped to raise his son on his own?”

“I’m saying it’s not easy to adapt when you’re blindsided the way he was, equipped or not. Given no warning, no notice, nothing. I heard the argument when she left, in the middle of the night in the pouring rain. He’s my friend, I wasn’t going to make him go through that alone.” Your gaze is hard, and it’s a shame, Charlie thinks. Maybe in another life, you and this lawyer could have been good friends, you both match each other’s wits.

“Did you or Mr. Barber ever think to reach out to Mrs. Barber?” Nora points out.

“I can’t speak on behalf of Mr. Barber, but why would I want anything to do with someone who abandons their family?” You raise an eyebrow.

Nora’s jaw works, and then she turns to Nicole. Charlie does too, tries to read their mental exchange. Nicole gives the slightest hint of a nod, and he wonders if the judge sees it, if the judge sees anything at all.

“In those six months, did you witness anything happen to Henry while he was under Charlie’s care?” Nora asks, but Jay is standing up before you can answer.

“Objection, leading.” Jay calls.

“Overruled, the answer is important.” The judge dismisses it, and dread slips into Charlie’s stomach.

“Not to my knowledge, no.” You reply, trying to keep your tone light.

“Did Mr. Barber do anything reckless in those six months, that could pose as a danger to Henry?” Nora continues.

“No.” You don’t budge.

“What about in the two months that Mrs. Barber has been in communication with Mr. Barber?” She knows, somehow she knows about his arm.

“I don’t – ” You start, but she gets in your face.

“Did Mr. Barber do anything reckless in the two months that Mrs. Barber has been back in communication? It’s a very simple question.” Nora presses.

You and Charlie look at each other, and even though it’s been weeks, even though he’s fully healed up now, you both know you have to mention it, you’re under oath, you have to.

“There was an accident.” You say softly, very softly.

“What sort of accident?” Nora blinks, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

“He cut himself, but it was nothing serious, he only needed a couple stitches – ” You rush to say, and Nora gasps in mock concern.

“Stitches? My god, what did he do to cut himself deep enough to require stitches?” She asks, pushing pushing pushing you.

“I – well Mrs. Barber got him a – ” You start, and even though he’s starting to spiral, he loves you so much, loves you for trying to save him, even now, even here.

He doesn’t know if he deserves to be saved, but here you are, trying trying trying, fighting for him.

“Ms. (L/N). What did Mr. Barber do?” Nora asks, all pretense gone, nothing but a vicious lawyer.

“He used to have a thing, where he’d pretend to cut his arm with a boxcutter, but he’d retract the blade so he wouldn’t be hurt, to make it look like he was invincible.” You say through nearly grit teeth.

“You mean to tell me, Mr. Barber joked about self-harming oneself in front of his young, impressionable son?” Nora scoffs.

Charlie’s blood rushes in his ears, his hands sweat, he’s dizzy. He reaches for a glass of water that’s near the little desk he sits behind, and he’s almost afraid he’s going to drop it, hands too slippery.

“No! it wasn’t – ” You try, only to be interrupted again.

“What if Henry got a box cutter himself and didn’t think to retract the blade, and next time it was him who had to get stitches, or worse?” Nora says, and those are perfectly good arguments, which is why he doesn’t do that anymore, why he got rid of the fucking knife, why he --

“Henry’s not allowed to handle sharp objects – ” You speak, trying to backtrack, trying to fix this mess.

“Maybe so, but children emulate their parents, don’t they? And Henry looks up to Mr. Barber, doesn’t he? Is it not outside the realm of possibility, that he might take Mr. Barber’s boxcutter and do the ‘trick’ on himself?” Nora’s voice remains calm and maybe that’s the most infuriating part, Charlie thinks.

He wants to scream.

It’s tense, in the courtroom, so tense.

You and Nora look at one another, a stare-down that’s going to result in an answer one way or another.

Charlie hates her, hates Nicole.

God he hates her.

Especially when she’s the one who thought the trick was so fucking funny in the first place.

“It’s not outside the realm of possibility, no.” You say softly, not able to lie, not here, not now.

“And that would be considered quite reckless behavior, would it not?” Nora asks.

“Mr. Barber is a good person, and a good father, and that was one accident.” You shake your head.

“All it takes is once, Ms. (L/N), and from the way it sounds, this happened more than once. I wonder how many other funny tricks Mr. Barber showed Henry. No further questions, your honor.” Nora pats the wood of the witness stand before returning to her side of the courtroom, and you are asked to leave.

-----------------

Charlie floats through the rest of the character witnesses. Nicole has brought someone in, some guy. Charlie doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t care. He’s too wrapped up in his own head, too stunned that Nicole would have told Nora about that.

He’s got one more day, one more chance in this trial to prove his case, one more. And then that’s it. And then the judge decides.

He’s going to have to play dirtier, going to let Jay dig up as much as he can on this serpent of a woman he shared a decade of his life with, her and her crocodile tears.

Tears so unlike yours, when later after they’ve been dismissed, your face is streaked with hot salt as Charlie collects you in his arms there in the lobby.

“I’m so—I’m sorry.” You whisper out a little sob, tuck yourself against his neck as he moves you both out of sight. The lawyers are talking about going out for drinks later, and Charlie wants to scream.

How can they be so civil, when they’re tearing his life apart?

“Don’t you dare, don’t you apologize.” Charlie says, soothes you, whispers into your hair, “You did nothing wrong.”

Charlie catches Nicole’s eyes from across the lobby, and she sees the two of you embracing in the comfort of one another, your suits creasing from it.

He stares at her hard, hopes she can feel the venom he has for her. She turns away, hurries down the steps and out the front door of the courthouse, off to who the fuck knows where.

Charlie doesn’t care, not when he’s got you right here, in your pretty court clothes and your heart thudding against his. He doesn’t care, only rubs calming circles on your back, tries to get your tears to subside. You both have to go pick up Henry from school after all this, it won’t do to be salt-stained.

It’s the only reason he’s not a mess right now.

Well, that and you.

“I’m sorry.” You say again, but Charlie shakes his head, and when the two of you step apart enough to look into each other’s eyes, he assures you and reassures you,

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You nod, and you walk out of the courthouse, hands brushing but not quite holding onto one another.

He’ll ask you to stay again, he’ll ask, and you will, and it’ll all be okay.

Won’t it?

He passes justice with her scales and her blindfold, and now…now he’s not so sure.

The way you look up at him with sad eyes, he’s not so sure.

I only know what I know

The passing years will show

You've kept my love so young, so new

And time after time

You'll hear me say that I'm

So lucky to be loving you

-----------------

Tagging folks! @steeevienicks @heldcaptivebychaos @solotriplets @formerly-anonhamster @lookinsidemyhead @candycanes19 @adamsnacc-kler @whiskey-bumblebee @magikevalynn @tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov @romancedeldiablo @helloimindelaware @elfieboxcat @laurenshit @autumnlovesadam @peterisparker @goodboybensolo @the-marvelatic @miasera @emily-strange @proxyfoxy @disaster-rose @hazydespair @yosoymuyloca @1-800-choke-that-snoke @ktellmeastory @anongirl007 @zimmerxman @okk--maaan @flapjacques @aweirdlookingtree @callmemania-pls @theold-ultraviolence @og-selene @pinkmoontribe-blog @schopenhauerdeathsquad @mochi-jhs

#charlie barber x reader #charlie barber/reader #charlie barber x you #charlie barber/you #adam driver character #marriage story #charlie/reader #charlie/you #my writing #mind and soul #charlie barber imagine #charlie barber angst #charlie barber fluff

128 notes · View notes

jubans · 5 years ago

Text

title: 505 pairing: furuichi sakyo/fem!reader rating: m (mature) premise: maybe someday, the two of you could go beyond the four corners of that dreary hotel room.

There's hesitation in your posture when you raised your hand to knock on the room Sakyo had texted you about earlier—sinking deep into your bones as your better judgement screamed at you to turn back, go home, and never speak to him again.

Any other woman of marriageable age would think that maybe meeting up with a yakuza at a run-down hotel on a regular basis might be a bad idea. But you've known Sakyo for so long, that you've committed the fact that he's not a bad person into mind long before you even started doubting these midnight trysts.

So, you knocked. Three times, like you always did. Loud enough to announce your presence but soft enough not to disturb the silence that enveloped the dingy hallway.

You shoved your clammy hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, nervously bouncing on the balls of your feet when you heard him shuffling from the inside. Why you made such an effort to cover up—hoodie, long sleeves, sweats and all—when it was the height of summer and the heat of the day still carried into the night was beyond you. Maybe it was because you wanted to seem unassuming. Maybe it was to fool yourself (and hopefully him) that you didn't long for his touch in ways that you shouldn't even begin to think about.

But when Sakyo cracked the door open once he's taken off the locks, your legs moved before you could even think—arms going around his lithe frame as you moulded your lips into his.

He was stunned in place for a moment, unable to reciprocate. But you practically felt his armor of civility fall apart when Sakyo tangled his fingers in your hair, angling your face just so before you felt his tongue licking into the crevices of your mouth. Your mind was so engulfed in the haze of his rich, expensive cologne that you barely registered it when Sakyo began moving. He manhandled you into the room without breaking the union of your lips, slamming you against the door when he locked it shut. The soft whimper that escaped your chest was muffled but you could feel Sakyo's mouth twitching slightly against yours when he heard it.

"This wasn't part of our agenda," he breathed, momentarily breaking apart from you only to dip down for another heated kiss.His light hair was soft in your fingers as you used each tuft as a means to tug his face impossibly closer to yours. You felt the frame of his glasses digging into the bridge of your nose, but you couldn't comment on it because his hands were hiking underneath your hoodie. A growl rumbled somewhere low in his chest when he discovered how many layers you wrapped yourself in, pulling away to cast you a disconcerted glare.

You cracked him a toothy grin. "I went here under the pretense that you wouldn't respond like you did just now if I jumped you like that."

"You're impossible," Sakyo muttered before peeling himself away from you, leaving you flushed and disheveled by the door to Room 505.

The blond man walked over to the queen-sized mattress in the middle of the room, seating himself on the edge. As Sakyo laced his hands together on his legs, you couldn't help but notice the way his face contorted into something serious so quickly, as if he didn't just have you pressed up against a door a few moments ago.

You gulped, straightening yourself out before sitting at a short distance away from him on the bed.

Sakyo heaved a sigh that sounded like broken promises and dreams that slipped away too early. He promptly plucked his glasses from his face, fingers going up to massage the bridge of his nose. You could feel your lips stretch into a frown at the sight of him. He was the type that broods every time he gets, but you've never seen him look this...agitated.

"Sakyo?" you called out, hoping he would humor you with a response. But when all you're met with was white noise and scratchy music playing from the next room over, you scooted a little closer to him, reaching out to enclose his cold, cold hands in yours.

"You mind telling me what's wrong?" you murmured, nudging your nose in the crook of his neck. You felt him shiver once your breath fanned his skin, but Sakyo would let himself get shot first before admitting to vulnerability.

"It's just the usual hiccups I get at work," he said, and your grimace only deepened. Why was he still being so infuriatingly vague with you?

But you knew that there was no helping it. Sakyo had a mind that you haven't quite mapped out yet even after years of playing house with him like this. You knew better than to dip your toes into the realm of the yakuza, but that wouldn't stop you from hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time he'll let you in. That he'll let himself be a little more human and less of the demon people made the debt-collecting yakuza out to be.

"I called you here for a different purpose," he told you, voice just barely above a whisper.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, pulling away as you felt him tug his hands back from your grasp. The urgency in his actions pricked your heart like tiny needles, but you decided against making a show of disappointment. He didn't need anything else to drag him downward.

"One of the groups we've previously had a scuffle with in the past has been doing some background research of their own with my life," Sakyo spoke in his typically condescending Sakyo fashion. But there was a strain in his voice that you only noticed with how long you've spent listening to the low baritone of his words as he lied next to you in bed. The dread only pools in your gut, but you let him continue without interruption.

"Apparently, they thought it would gravely affect me if something were to happen to a certain woman I always meet in this very hotel." He threw his head back, gazing at the ceiling with a lopsided smirk curling his lips. "Pathetic of them to think so, really. Were they so desperate to get dirt on me that they thought targeting my evening partner would be enough of a leverage?"

Evening partner. You didn't like the sound of that.

He sighed again, and this time you take the time to let your eyes wander across the rest of the room. His suitcase was lying on top of a desk tucked away in the corner; his coat folded neatly on top of the surface. Other than that, the interior seemed untouched, like Sakyo just went inside to sit on the bed and nothing else.

You began to feel the sting of betrayal slowly rooting itself in the recesses of your heart. Of course you had an...inkling that this physical relationship with him would never blossom into something more since the beginning. He was a man that had his needs, and what else could a man like Sakyo want other than a woman who was a decent fuck and never asked too many questions?

"I have a property somewhere in Sapporo," he suddenly spoke again, shattering the self-loathing that you were starting to enclose yourself in.

You blinked at Sakyo, confusion dancing in your eyes, but he gave you reprieve by adding, "It's an old Western-style manor sitting on the edge of a cliff that gave me one of the best oceanic views I've seen in my life." There's a pause in his words, like he couldn't quite figure out where he's going with this narrative, much like you. But when he looked back at you, his lavender eyes were glazed over with a melancholy you never even thought Sakyo was capable of.

But the look was gone just as quickly as it came. Sakyo assumed his mask of neutrality once more, chuckling airily. "I've been looking for suitable caretakers for it, but all the maids I kept sending would steal one of the precious artifacts I've been keeping there. If you won't let me pitch in with your monthly rent, then at least let me give you somewhere better to live."

Your mouth hung agape at his words once you've finally had a few moments to absorb them. "Are you telling me to move halfway across the country to take care of a damn house?"

Sakyo shrugged. "You'll even have a secure source of income once you arrive. That is more ideal than working three minimum wage jobs, barely being able to make ends meet here in this dump of a city, now is it?"

A biting retort rested on the tip of your tongue, but you held it back because he was right. Because you refused every single one of Sakyo's offers for a loan (he even offered to just give you money with nothing in return), you had no one but yourself to rely on as you struggled to make a living.

But he had no right to point that out as he did. As someone who used to be dirt poor, he should know better than to—

Oh.

Everything clicked into place just before your frustration could boil over. When the haze of irritation had cleared in your head, you dared to look at Sakyo straight in the eye. The low light from the lamp on the nightstand was the only source of illumination in the room, yet you were still able to see the way he was struggling to maintain his façade of apathy. Your mouth twitched into a sly smile. You got him all figured out.

"Who knew you cared so much about your evening partner, Sakyo?" you chuckled, kicking off your shoes so that you could crawl closer to him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he argued weakly when you latched your lips onto the column of his throat. The groan that resounded in his chest did nothing but stoke the flames of the desire you thought had already smouldered. Sakyo shuddered under your touch, and you giggled, tugging on the delicate fabric of his turtleneck before whispering:

"Thank you."

When daylight broke through the cracks in the curtains, you found yourself squinting at the way the sunlight razed your vision. The bed was devoid of body heat other than your own, and you almost wanted to laugh at yourself for still not getting used to Sakyo's urgency to leave the moment the sun peeked from the horizon.

But this time, you didn't just wake up to a hotel room with nothing but your clothes littered on the floor. At the desk in the corner, Sakyo's coat was gone, but his suitcase still lay untouched.

You frowned, wrapping a towel around your bare frame as you padded over to check it out. He wasn't the kind of man that would forget his belongings anywhere.

As you took a closer look, you noticed that a note was stuck to the surface with a series of numbers scribbled in haste. Was this, perhaps, the combination needed to open it? Shrugging, you tried unlocking the suitcase, following the exact way Sakyo had written the numbers. It opened with a soft click once you managed to punch in the last one, and you wasted no time sifting through its contents.

Inside was a passport, a plane ticket, various documents, and fat wads of cash that had you gasping once you've totalled in how much Sakyo had left inside.

This can't be right, you thought to yourself. Why would he just leave these behind?

But as you rifled through the suitcase further, you found a sealed, white envelope. You tore it open without a second thought, only to find a small key with a torn out page lying inside. With trembling hands, you unfolded the piece of paper, feeling your shoulders relax at the sight of Sakyo's hurried and terrible handwriting.

(Name),

If you're reading this, that just means you've taken up my offer, yes? Well, I'll waste no time. Inside are all the necessities you'll be needing once you head north. The key inside the envelope opens the front door to the manor. The address is written in one of the travel documents I've fabricated, along with the fake passport. Don't worry, you won't get held up at the airport for it.

It's unlike me to impose something so sudden, I know. But as long as I have enemies, it isn't safe for anyone to be around me. My well-being would further be appeased at the knowledge of you sitting pretty in a mansion, away from the clutches of whoever might make the mistake of coming for you, as well.

I know I am not the most...expressive of lovers. But take this as your pass to see me as I am. Not as a yakuza. Not as your evening partner. But as Furuichi Sakyo. Hoping for this might be a shot in the dark, but maybe someday, the two of us could go beyond the four corners of that dreary hotel room.

Yours, Sakyo

#a3!#a3 #act! addict! actors!#act addict actors #a3 headcanons #a3 fanfiction #sakyo furuichi #furuichi sakyo #sakyo #sakyo x reader #a3 x reader #idk what to classify this as #angst #???

79 notes · View notes