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monellabella · 4 years ago

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Here’s pt.1 1/2 (sort of) of “Fight or Flight”!! You can read pt.1 here . Enjoy!

Fight or Flight

Fred Weasley x Fem!reader

Warnings: cursing, food mention, injury/ injury mentions

Taglist (Just send me an ask to be added or removed) : @krasivayadarling @amourtentiaa @plant-flwrs @pineapplesandpinas @wonderfilworld @fictionalwhores

Something's gotten into you You don't really look at me the way you used to And I'm hoping it ain't true Every single rumor that I've heard of you say

You were off with someone that I don't know Calling other people on your telephone Kinda wish I didn't know

Since first year, Fred was always pulling pranks on y/n, but she refused to retaliate because then she felt like she’d just be a hypocrite, as she was always complaining about how stupid and immature Fred and George’s pranks were.

But by fourth year, after Fred had pulled a prank on y/n that ended with her being thrown into the black lake in the middle of JANUARY, she couldn’t take it anymore, and it was Game. On.

Y/n started out with the classic colored shampoo prank- Fred’s hair was turned a ghastly shade of yellow for over a week.

Fred got her back by transfiguring every one of her quills and pens into worms.

The pranks kept getting more and more outrageous as they kept trying to outdo each other.

While George and y/n’s friends initially helped them out and kept them in check, it got to the point where there was nothing ANYONE could say or do that would stop them- including the teachers.

They couldn’t care less about the myriad of detentions they’d each get whenever they were caught- in fact, they actually started COMPETING to see who could get the most by the end of the week.

This turned into them seeing who could get into the most trouble without getting expelled.

By April, this had led to a prank war between them that got SO bad, Dumbledore himself had to intervene and make them put a stop to it when one of the pranks resulted in a number of student getting injured- I’m talking broken noses, twisted ankles, chipped teeth, a black eye or two, and one poor kid even broke his wrist.

Needless to say, they both felt terrible.

They were brought to Dumbledore’s office and threatened with expulsion if they didn’t sort this out.

So right then and there, they agreed to a truce- promising to stay as far away from each other as possible, lest one of their arguments leads to other people getting injured.

They each received a month’s detention and were made to personally apologize to every person they’d landed in the hospital wing- not that either of them minded.

As promised, they also started ignoring each other entirely.

It was hard at first- y/n still thought he was a complete asshole and she wanted to remind him every chance she got- but she knew she was on incredibly thin ice with Dumbledore and was already threatened with expulsion, so she held her tongue.

For Fred, it was equally difficult. When him and George purposely made their potion explode, causing the entire dungeon to be filled with a thick, violet smoke and subsequently evacuated, he was so used to y/n chewing him he’d already thought of a response that was sure to get her riled up.

But then he was reminded of their truce.

While waiting for Snape to come and take away god-knows how many points from Gryffindor and give him and George detention, he saw her standing by the wall, arms crossed, not even bothering to look his way. She was chatting with Alicia as they waited with the rest of the crowd to be let back into the classroom to collect their things.

They would always complain about each other. Y/n was always more than happy to remind Fred that he was brainless fuck after every stupid comment or irritating remark.

Fred could write a ten-page essay on how much of a nagging cunt y/n could be sometimes.

There was no question- they hated each other. They didn’t “miss” talking to each other. And the fact that they hadn’t spoken in nearly two weeks was NOT the reason they’d both been acting strange:

“Hey, y/n,” said Alicia. Y/n’s head jerked up, “Hm?” “Are you alright?” Alicia asked, “You’ve been picking at your food for the past 20 minutes, you’ve hardly eaten anything.”

“Oh, um,” y/n sat up and cleared her throat, “sorry. I just sort of spaced-out I guess.” she looked back down at her plate and carelessly pushed the food around. Angelina and Alicia shared a look.

“Y/n…” Angelina began, “Are you sure-”

“Ange, I’m fine, okay?” y/n interrupted, “I’m just tired.” Angelina and Alicia looked at each other again. Y/n noticed it and felt a surge of anger start to bubble up in her chest.

Y/n’s jaw clenched, and she forcefully dropped her fork down over her plate. The resulting clatter grabbed the attention of a few students nearby. She pushed herself away from the table and stood up.“I’m going to bed.” She announced.

As she started walking quickly out of the Great Hall, Angelina and Alicia started getting out of their seats, “Y/n, wait!” Angelina called out after her.

But y/n just sped up, “Good-night!” she called out, lifting her arm up and giving a sarcastic little wave before dropping it down and exiting the Great Hall in a huff.

Fred was no better- he seemed angrier and more easily frustrated these days, and the dark circles starting to form under his eyes were a clear indicator of his recent lack of proper sleep. He was more quiet nowadays, which was extremely odd indeed. He’d constantly space out, and sometimes he’d catch himself staring at y/n in class, both of them quickly dropping their gaze any time their eyes met. Most noticeably though, was that all this had started to affect his Quidditch abilities.

“Oi, Fred, s’everything alright, mate?” George asked after practice one day.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, why?” he replied flatly.

“I dunno, mate, you just seem really distracted. You hardly ever miss a bludger but lately…” George trailed off. Fred sighed exasperatedly, “Look, I just have a lot on my mind lately, okay? For fucks’ sake there’s still some sort of bloody monster loose in the castle! a-and all this bollocks about me nearly getting expelled, I just-” he sighed in defeat.

“Well, d’you want to talk about it? Might help.” George suggested.

“It’s fine, mate. I just need some time alone.” Fred answered, lugging his broom over his shoulder and walking past the locker room as he made a bee-line for the castle.

Fred and y/n were enemies- it was a known fact. So then why was this sudden separation taking such a toll on them? The fact that they had an excuse not to interact anymore was a good thing…right?

About a month or so after the incident had passed, and y/n FINALLY had her free time back after serving all her detentions, y/n often found herself on the Quidditch pitch. She was hoping to join the team the coming year, and she wanted to get in as much practice as she could.

Late one afternoon after practicing with Angelina and Alicia, y/n decided to stay on the pitch after they left. She said she wanted to work on some new strategies, but really she just wanted some time alone.

While she was hanging on her broom by her knees, hovering a few feet above the ground, a voice called out “Nice trick.” She was so startled that she slipped off and landed headfirst in the sand.

“Oh shit,” the voice said as they rushed over to her, “Oh my god, I-I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to startle you like that. Are you okay?”

She was ready to start screaming at whoever it was that made her nearly break her neck, but when she came face to face with Cedric Diggory, a look of genuine concern in his eyes, her rage seemed to subside a bit. A bit.

“Um,” she said, sitting up slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

“No, no it’s okay.” Y/n replied. She turned her neck slightly and winced. “Um, actually, could you bring me an ice pack? There should be some in the locker room.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course. Er, I’ll be right back.” and with that, Cedric practically sprinted across the field. Y/n smirked, and couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at his fervor- but it was short lived as she felt another pain at the back of her head.

“Ow,” she mumbled. She gingerly placing her hand at the sight, where a small bump was beginning to form.

Luckily, Cedric had just come back with several ice packs.

“Thanks.” She said shyly. “You sure you’re okay?” He asked. “Yeah I’m fine, just a bit of a bruise probably.” Y/n replied, holding the ice pack to the back of her head. “Well, I’ll stay with you just in case.” He said.

“I appreciate it.” Y/n said chuckling slightly. Cedric slowly lowered himself onto the ground and sat next to her.

“So, um, just curious,” Cedric began, “where’d you learn to do that little trick on the broom?” Y/n laughed, and she began to explain where she’d learnt her unusual talent.

Long story short, they ended up talking until it was pitch black out and they were both shivering from the cold night air. Cedric walked her back to her dorm, using the excuse that he just wanted to make sure she didn’t have a concussion, though they both knew she was perfectly fine.

They walked as slowly as humanly possible across the grounds. When they got to y/n’s dorm, their conversation ended, and they both stood there awkwardly as each of them tried to come up with something to say.

Y/n was still holding the ice pack, which had long since melted, and was now slowly dripping onto the floor.

“I should probably get back to my dorm.” Cedric said, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck while attempting to avoid y/n’s gaze.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course,” she stammered, “yeah, no, don’t let me keep you.”

Cedric chuckled. He suddenly seemed to remember something and he looked back up at y/n. “Oh! Um, mind if I take a look at your head one more time?” He asked. “Just to be sure there’s nothing there.” He added quickly.

“Oh! uhh...yeah!” she said slowly, “Yeah, sure.” Y/n turned around so her back was facing him.

She then felt him gently pushing her hair to either side, his fingertips brushing over the back of her neck. She felt a shiver run down her spine, and she knew that goosebumps had risen up where his hand had been, though she prayed he didn’t notice.

“Where was it again?” He asked. “Oh, um,” y/n brought her hand up to where the injury had been, “ ‘round here somewhere, I think.”

Cedric placed his hand diagonally over hers, their fingertips at the same spot. “Here?” He asked softly. y/n felt heat rushing to her cheeks.

“uM,” her voice had gone up about five octaves. She coughed and corrected herself, “um, yeah. About there.”

Cedric chuckled lightly, and she felt his breath fan over the back of her neck. She quickly brought her hand back to her side as Cedric inspected the injury. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke up.

“Well,” he paused, “I don’t see a bump or anything- maybe a bit red where you fell, but other than that, I’d say it’s fine.” Cedric took his hand away, then carefully reached over and pulled y/n’s hair back into place.

Y/n gave a sharp inhale and cleared her throat, “Well, um, thanks.” She said. Y/n turned around and looked up at him, “for, um,” she gestured towards the back of her head, “y’know, making sure I was okay and all.”

Cedric cleared his throat and blinked a few times,“Um- yeah! yeah, of course. No problem.” He said, a blush creeping up over his cheeks.

Y/n looked down and smiled to herself. “I’ll see you around then, yeah?” She asked.

“Yeah, definitely.” He replied.

“Okay, yeah, cool.” Y/n said, her brow slightly furrowed. “G’night, then.” She added. Her face relaxed as she glanced back up at him, trying to subdue her grin. “Goodnight.” Cedric replied. He nodded to himself then flashed her a soft smile as he turned on his heel and walked away with his hands in his pockets. Y/n bit her lip and grinned as she watched him walk away.

She felt her heart beating a little faster than normal, but she didn’t mind one bit. Feeling like her head was stuffed with candy floss, she turned to the portrait of the fat lady and gave her the password; still grinning softly as she walked through the portrait hole and into the empty common room.

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ceridwyn2 · 3 years ago

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This may seem like a stupid (and unpopular with some) question, with AO3, is there a way to filter out some writers in search results? I’m doing a search through a particular fandom (no, not stating which one, as I’ve seen it across more than just one fandom) at the moment, and there is a lot of crap there amongst the good gems. I’m picky when I read fanfic 😅 , and a lot of times I don’t have time to wade through hundreds/thousands of stories to look for the good ones.

By the way, this ended up being a lot longer than I originally intended 😂 as I was thinking it through. What I like in the stories I read as follows:

A) Be grammatically correct

B) Spelling correct

C) Sentence & paragraph structure correct. Dialogue for each character in separate paragraphs.

D) Point of View: maintain one person’s point of view either for the whole scene or whole story. Especially important if stories are written in first person (I/My/Me) or second person (You/Them/They). These stories are often harder to write and maintain throughout well. If it’s first person, you’re only writing from one character’s point of view: on how *I* see/hear/experience the things around *me*. *I* don’t/can’t know what the other characters are thinking/feeling other than what *I* see/observe in their behaviour, unless they tell *me* what they think/feel. Writing in second person is equally difficult to maintain unless you’re very skilled at it. You’re writing as though your addressing the reader/person directly, as if you know them personally, intimately (does not need to be sexually) by using *you*. / Example: You love to write; you should do it more often. / If you’re of a certain age and remember the ‘choose your own adventure’ child/young adult books of the 70s-90s, they were in a person point of view.

Majority of fanfiction, and fiction in general is written in third person. Third person is like you’re the audience watching a tv show/film/play/book. You’re a non-active participant of what is happening and cannot affect the direction or outcome of the story. The primary subject of the scene is referred to by their name or rank and their pronoun(s), and is often the first character mentioned at/near beginning of the scene / Example: DCI Cassie Stewart walked into the incident room of her Historic Cases Unit, with a quick glance at her officers before heading into her office. It wasn’t long before her second in command, DS Sunil Khan, or Sunny, as he preferred, wrapped on the glass window pane of her office door. / That scene is dictated from her point of view, how she directs those around her and how those around her interact with her. Had it been slightly different, but same scenario: /DS Sunil Khan looked up as the door to the Historic Cases Unit opened and saw his boss, DCI Stewart, make her way to her office, glancing at the team as she did. Having got some new leads on their current case overnight, Sunny headed towards her office to notify her ahead of the day’s briefing. / This obviously changes whose point of view is the primary for that scene to Sunil.

Third person It allows the writer to explore different perspectives and viewpoints of different characters to move the story forward. However, that being said, to avoid reader confusion, pick one character - a main character, supporting character, or a villain - as the primary character of that scene and stick with their focus/perspective for the duration of a scene/chapter. If you want to express multiple character’s reactions or points of view to a specific same scene (like say a team of detectives coming onto a murder scene) and if it makes sense to do so, you can write the scenes same but different as each character will have their own take on what they saw/perceived/when they entered/exited the scene - but each character that you’re writing about will have a separate section, separated by punctuation marks, above and below the change of perspective. However, that can easily come across as too repetitive for the reader. Might be best to put that in a notes page each scene of how each sees the same scene - because you as the audience can visualise the characters as being there, when they arrived and what they observed. When you write the scene, write it from one character’s point of view, but as you have the other characters interacting with them, they can comment on what they saw observed, contributing to the overall pieces of information, without repetition, unless it contradicts or adds to a specific point being made.

E) Age correlateable. By which I mean, if someone’s going to write about established characters that are in their 40s, 50s, etc., their life experiences, maturity, have them act/respond to each other as such. I have read stories - or rather attempted to - but the mental maturity of the author was showing through characters in their 40s, 50s, and it was obvious the writer hasn’t grasped that maturity of the characters. Listen to the character’s voices (what they’re saying, how they’re saying, even what they’re not saying but expressing visually) you’re writing about. This really comes out when writing arguments and sex scenes, btw.

F) Physical/mental characteristics: If a character has an illness or physical disability, or like affecting joints or paralysed limbs, amputations, or anything that affects movement, be aware of that, esp if writing a sex scene (a whole other rabbit hole of bad writing exists there, see next item). If in an argument, you’re trying to express the character throwing something in anger, like a mug/glass, etc., for example, and the character has an injured/disabled arm, their strength to throw is going to be limited. Show the character’s frustration that the action they wanted had less effect at releasing that anger/frustration. If the character has a visual (partial or full blindness) or auditory disability (eg. hard of hearing, deafness in one or both ears, over-sensitive to sound/volume), take that into account. Esp in arguments, if one of the people in the scene has a tendency to mumble, they may not be understood as words run together are not easily decipherable either by sound or lip reading. Mental health /illness (eg PTSD /complex PTSD [cPTSD], depression, anxiety affects physical health responses. If the characters have mental health disorders, be aware and maintain that continuity through the story. Don’t need to mention it all the time but be aware it can affect movement/physical responses, behaviour. And unless you’re House, you don’t need to include every odd, weird, very rare symptom he seems to need to diagnose something for the character 😂 .

G) Sex scenes: some are done so well that it’s seamless and flows well with the other parts of the story, where the intimacy blends well. Others, very much no so. Unless it’s a specifically written PWP (plot, what plot) story, and those can work when written well. Trust me, I’ve read otherwise well-written stories ruined by a sex scene that reads like a bad porn with characters that otherwise had physical limitation(s) in the rest of the story but were suddenly able to pull off manoeuvres of someone 20 years younger and fully able-bodied. Like someone just tacked on an explicit sex scene on that didn’t mesh with the story as if they were two completely different people that happened to have the same names as the ones in the rest of the story.

H) Continuity. Whether your story is short or long, be aware of where your characters are/what they’re doing. Having a sense of timing. Helpful to have a notepad (digital or paper) sometimes to keep track of movement. They can’t be in two concurrent scenes at the same time. Passing off information between the characters; don’t assume one character (or group of characters) knows what the other(s) are doing, unless they are in contact with each other (visual/audio/both/text). Cause/effect. Action/reaction. There may be delayed effects or reactions (over scenes/chapters), but reference them back to the original cause or action and why there was a delay. For example, somebody witnesses or experiences a tragedy, war, fire, sexual assault, accident, or other traumatic experience, and it triggers a delayed emotional or physical response hours, days, months, years later. The character may or may not be able to explain to their partner, colleague, friend what it was that caused effect/reaction. Similarly, following onto earlier example of a thrown glass/mug/vase, if it smashes there could be subsequent injury from ceramic/glass/etc. like a cut finger/palm of hand if picking up the pieces/cleaning the mess. So maybe it requires a bandage or wrap. Continuity would include making further grasping of things discomforting or painful, maybe a comment from another person inquiring what happened later on if they’re noticing a bandage that wasn’t there the last time they saw them.

I) Alternate Universe stories. I don’t mind AUs when done right - so that even if the characters are placed in a different setting, their general personality traits are very recognizable. I’ve read quite a few that nail this perfectly. Others, not so much. When it works, it works. Otherwise it’s just slapping familiar names onto original fic just to get more eyes on a story.

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #preferences #edits #filtering #writing styles #this ended up being longer and more detailed than I thought #AO3 #AO3 filters

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ikingsley · 4 years ago

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Ina x MC: Another Woman

Summary: Ina has a secret admirer.

Warnings: Fluff!

Tag: @samanthadalton @domakir @kulaykape @hellyeah90sbaby @dopeyouth @kwaj05 @thedaft1 @swimmingshoebakerydreamer

Author’s Notes: A little fic for Valentine’s Day! Thank you to my friend @kwaj05, the “Prompt-Giver” and my personal editor LOL.

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Belvoire’s campus buzzed with anticipation. It was only a few days before Valentine’s Day, but students already made plans to woo their classmates or planned grand gestures for the people they were with. Even the quietest of students absorbed the campus’s lively energy, acting more extroverted than ever. Maybe it was just being overtly friendly or being flirtatious, but everyone felt the effects of the holiday spirit.

Luna was no exception. As an intelligent, witty, attractive young woman, she was often hit on by both male and female classmates. But the stunner only had eyes on one particular woman, a certain stuffy professor. So when people flirted with her, she often nodded politely, or smiled and turned away. The lack of interest she expressed was received by her admirers, who disappointedly backed off.

It was the day before Valentine’s Day, and students piled into Professor Kingsley’s ample classroom. They came in pairs, chatting lively with their lovers.

The class started quite uneventfully. Ina watched as Luna took her seat, flashing a knowing smile as Luna nodded back at her. Then Ina began her lecture, which very suitably was about the power dynamics between couples. Ina knew that some of her students had tuned her out, but every time she looked on at Luna, she was met with a piercing pair of eyes. And this was satisfactory enough to her. Each time, she would smile to herself, motivated to continue lecturing.

And right before she was going to let the class work on their own, a soft knock at the door was heard.

“Professor Kingsley? I have a package for you,” a voice rang out.

“Hmm,” Ina hummed. She hadn’t been expecting a delivery. Maybe it was a romantic gesture from Luna.

Ina got up and opened the door. Nosey students stretched their necks out to see what was the mysterious package, Luna included. Luna had absolutely no idea what Ina could have gotten. She was more lowkey, a person who wanted to keep her private life, private. She’d celebrate with Ina on their own terms, and found no need to plan huge public gestures.

It was much to Luna’s surprise when the delivery man presented her with a teddy bear, chocolates and a bouquet of red roses. The gift was left anonymous and Ina thought she knew who had given it to her.

What... Luna thought. Red roses? That was her and Ina’s flower to each other. It carried a heavy weight, especially after the sabbatical ordeal.

Luna was uncharacteristically not having it. But a wolf-whistle from several of the frat boys in her class brought her out of her stupor. Is this was jealousy feels like? she thought. But I’m not a jealous person!

“Damn Prof! I see you,” Ford commented.

Luna did a quick glance around the room. Everyone around her was smiling, and to not look like an outlier, Luna put on her best fake smile. Meanwhile, Ina smiled sheepishly at the boys’ wolf-whistle and Ford’s comment. She gave Luna a quick glance, one that lasted merely a quarter of a second. Had she really given Luna a good look, she would have been able to tell something was wrong. But Ina’s quick glimpse at Luna’s faux demeanor made her assume that the sender was in fact her girlfriend.

Ina smiled to herself and subsequently wrapped up class. Today she was teaching back-to-back classes, and Ina made sure that Luna was well-aware she wouldn’t be able to lag behind to avoid them being caught. Quickly, Ina was left with an empty classroom. Everyone had places to go and people to see. Though she found it odd that Luna hadn’t even acknowledged her on her way out, Ina didn’t think much of it.

“Baby, I’m home!” Ina called out.

Night had fallen quickly. Ina had a faculty meeting that seemed to last hours. Dean Steinhelm had droned on again, and many of the professors fought to stay awake. Despite a relatively boring meeting, Ina had noticed that Professor Alvarez was looking at her every so often. As the newest addition to the sociology department, Professor Alvarez had worked closely with Ina. Ina once was the new teacher in Belvoire’s human science school, and she knew how isolating the experience could be. Ina took Alvarez under her wing, like a sort of mentor, despite their age difference of only a few years.

Ina walked into the office, and put down her work bags. She then strolled into the bedroom, where she found Luna sprawled on the bed doing homework. Ina stood leaning in the doorway, drinking Luna up.

“Are you gonna greet me or just stand in the doorway like a brooding loner?” Luna said, without looking up from her laptop.

“I do not brood,” Ina said, finally shuffling towards the bed.

“You so do,” Luna replied coldly.

Brr! Ina thought. Luna’s tone was slightly reprimanding, leaving Ina concerned. She seemed fine during class...“Lu, are you okay?”

“Hmm. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired,” Luna sighed.

The hours that passed between the class and now had calmed Luna down. Sometimes it would cross her mind and she’d feel a sense of jealousy wash over her. Luna hadn’t considered herself a jealous person, but with Ina it was different. There was just something about her. But then Luna realized that she was being unreasonably jealous. Ina was by far the most popular professor, and one of those stupid frat boys probably sent her that gift. And then she’d laugh because she knew the frat boys would never have a chance with Ina. This vigorous cycle repeated itself, but eventually she’d felt relieved. Ina was hers.

Ina crawled into bed, wrapping Luna in her arms. “Hey, thanks for the gift today in class,” Ina whispered into Luna’s ear.

And again, Luna felt jealousy course through her, “Ina, that wasn’t-”

“The mysterious aspect of it was quite hot. But it was also swee-” Ina said letting out a hot breath.

“Ina! That wasn’t me!” Luna exclaimed.

“Oh. So...who was that then?” Ina asked quizzically.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Does my secret admirer bother you?”

“Not really. I know you’re mine and I’m yours.” Luna’s jealousy fluctuated often, but she didn’t want Ina to feel bad about the present. Ina had no control over who found her attractive. I mean, come on. Ina was just drop dead gorgeous.

“I’m glad. A couple of my relationships...have deteriorated because of jealousy. I don’t need that extra drama in my life,” Ina said.

Now Luna really didn’t want to bring up her varying jealousy. She turned away from Ina, and Ina fell asleep holding Luna.

Hours passed by. It was almost four in the morning, and Luna was still wide-awake. She tried so hard to not feel jealous - that was so unlike her - but something wasn’t sitting right with this whole secret admirer thing. Ina shifted in her sleep, pulling away from Luna.

“Ina?” Luna asked.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Ina turned to Luna.

“No, I’ve been up.”

“Why?” Ina shifted to check the time “Jesus Lu, it’s almost four!”

“I...” Luna began.

“What is it?”

“I know you didn’t want me to be jealous and normally I’m not but I don’t know, something feels off. I know it’s not your fault, but the red roses are our thing and I-”

Luna’s rambling was cut off by a forehead kiss.

“It’s okay. I know I’d feel jealous,” Ina admitted. “It’s cute that you’re a little jealous. But I’m yours. And yours only.”

Luna sighed in relief.

“Is this why you’ve been acting weird?” Ina asked.

“I guess. Sometimes I feel jealous, but other times I know that it’s always been us. Not anyone else. My feelings have changed every couple moments.”

Ina gave her another forehead kiss.

“It’s only you,” Ina smiled while Luna leaned in for a kiss. The jealousy she felt dissipated. Their relationship had only been strengthened by the secret admirer. The two broke out into raucous laughter. It was a weird situation, but they had gotten through another hurdle together.

“Who do you think sent it? ‘Cause I think we need to have a little chat,” Luna said, cracking her knuckles in a fake overprotective nature.

Ina laughed, but racked her brain.

“Do you think it was a frat boy?” Luna hummed.

Ina shook her head. “Gifts from those students tend to be more...flamboyant and never anonymous.” Ina recalled getting serenaded by the football team on various occasions.

Finally, Ina gasped. “Oh my god...it’s Professor Alvarez!”

“The new professor of sociology?!” Luna laughed.

“Yes! Just because I was being nice to her doesn’t mean I was hitting on her!” Ina followed. “Wait...she’s married...to a man. Hold on! She mentioned she was going to send me a gift for helping her adjust to Belvoire. That’s why she was looking at me in the faculty meeting. She wanted to see if I figured out it was her! The cheap ass! I guess that’s what was on sale because of Valentine’s Day.”

“What’s your definition of nice to her? Because being nice to a friend is different than being nice to your girlfriend.” Luna whispered in Ina’s ear, her hot breath hitching Ina’s own breath.

“Come here so I can show you what nice is,” Ina said, straddling Luna’s hips.

Luna woke up to the smell of something pleasant. That can’t be Ina, she thought. She threw on a satin robe and walked to the kitchen. Her jaw dropped.

“Ina! You didn’t burn your apartment down?” Luna snickered.

Ina rolled her eyes, but didn’t turn around. “I have to focus!” she said, pointing at the iPad next to her. It was playing a very detailed video about cooking eggs and bacon. “Go back to bed.”

“Aww, breakfast in bed?” Luna smiled.

“Mhm,” Ina hummed back. “Now go before I actually burn my place down.”

“Simp,” Luna said under her breath, turning to return to the bedroom.

“I heard that!” Ina laughed.

Ina came with two plates of bacon and eggs in her hands.

“I know you felt off after yesterday, but Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” Ina said. “I’m yours, and yours only. Also, I didn’t want to buy anything because Valentine’s Day is the epitome of a capitalism-”

She was cut off by Luna reaching up and kissing her forehead.

“Babe, I’ve heard this rant before. You’re such a nerd, but I love you,” she said pointing at her lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Ina put the plates down, kissing Luna with everything in her.

#ina kingsley #queen b #ina x mc #choices #luna garcia

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viviae · 5 years ago

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Dissecting the Newspapers

What are those newspaper articles?

Well, I’m here to give MY interpretation of what is going on. Simply put, I think Anastasia is planning a coup to overthrow Vesuvia.

1) We have Anastasia fixing the canals

First off, Anastasia has no reason to fix the canals, she does not live in Vesuvia and her niece and nephew aren’t exactly permanent residence either. So why? These canal’s have been a long standing problem in Vesuvia’s history, no one knows who built them or why and half of them are unfinished so it’s safe to say they’ve probably been around since the city was founded. And then to have this mysterious benefactor who is putting in some very expensive resources to solve this issue? It’s to gain public approval for her and leave a positive impression on the masses (she did not actually speak publicly at the trial).

Her fixing the canals lead to her digging underground as well which seems to have resulted in the flooded district collapsing.

And speaking of public approval...

2) Nadia had to delay the masquerade

This threat of flooding is so serious Nadia delayed the masquerade. This should be a huge red flag as in all the other routes Nadia cannot cancel the masquerade. It’s obvious Nadia has a lot riding on the masquerade politically speaking. The people of Vesuvia love a good ole fashion masquerade and it’s pretty much the only reason anyone liked Lucio and did not start a revolution.

So we have a public figure who has been absent from the public eye for years who tries to offer two different events to improve her public standing. The hanging, which does not happen, and now the masquerade which is delayed. Even in the parts of the city where Lucio was always disliked and may have had their hopes riding on Nadia it just shows to them they are failing. Not to mention that now a foreigner is now fixing one of Vesuvia’s longest standing problems which obviously looks like it was always an easy fix but the Vesuvian royal family has been to incompetent to fix it. As well as now we have the flooded district being completely destroyed which is only going to hurt Nadia’s image more with the people.

In one fell swoop Tasya just ruined Nadia’s public image. Which if you want to plan a coup, it would be incredibly beneficial to have the current ruling figure fail.

3) Tasya has already won over the court

In the last book we got to see Tasya at work. Giving Valerius an incredibly expensive vineyard and Vastomil some rare worms isn’t exactly cheap. And while yes at face value this was just to convince them to rule Julian innocent I doubt it was just to rule Julian innocent on an even vote. They are indebted to her and have a great respect for her now as well.

And although she only has 2/5 members of the court it won’t be hard to win over the others.

4) a renowned expert in poison has been found mysteriously dead

Acontius Dogwood has been found dead, why would they include this seemingly irrelevant individual’s death for a teaser image? Well I’ll give you the biggest hint and it’s in the pudding.

If you don’t remember Nightshade allow me to remind you of this lovely quote from Julian

This poison is incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands but it’s only safe to be touched because it needs to be distilled. The distilling process for a poison can be pretty complicated and would need an expert to do so successfully. And an expert was just mysteriously killed (probably by his own creation). If he’s used to crafting this poison specifically for overthrowing kings he’s probably smart enough not to live in a city where its being used.

Until what I believe is Anastasia asking for a poison to be crafted for her. I think she killed him to keep him quiet and no one to be the wiser. And where do I think this poison is? Well let’s take a look at the flower itself.

A pale blue with darker veins inside of it.... Now lets take a look at that necklace that Anastasia gifted Portia real quick.

A pale blue with darker veins inside of it...

I think this necklace is a Chekhov’s Gun, its an incredibly odd thing to be drawing attention to as much as it has been, with even Valerius making a comment on it. More specifically I think it’s a reference to the Game of Throne’s necklace that Sansa wears at the purple wedding. It’s a pale blue necklace that has one of it’s dangling gems removed during the events as the gems hold a poison to overthrow a king... and subsequently frames her for murder.

Another point is how in the paid scene with Portia at the pillow fight it’s noted that had taken the necklace off. Now you could make an argument that this is simply because Portia didn’t want any damage to fall to the necklace but I think this was a way to make sure we the readers don’t accidentally break this gem containing an incredibly dangerous poison.

5) What is going on with the crabmen?

Ok, they aren’t actually half crab hybrids.

But what people are seeing at men in carapaces running around under ground. So I believe that they aren’t crabs, but rather men in armor. We know Anastasia is in charge of repairing the canals which has lead to her having to go underground. I think the fixing the canals is also a cover to get her to sneak armed troops underground which people are seeing. And they seem to be quite territorial and aggressive as it’s scaring the citizens... almost like they don’t want to be seen.

6) The storms

Ok, this wasn’t part of my original theory because I thought the storms were the Devil getting mad at delaying the masquerade but I saw @thesanguinerose ‘s post talking about how Julian and Portia’s parents were killed in a storm that mysteriously on the Devorak children and Tasya survived.

And now that there are these violent storms brewing in Vesuvia... in the only route where Tasya is present raises some major concerns. Tasya explained to Portia that she had offered to buy their parent’s merchant ship to add to her fleet but they denied her. And then said parents happened to die out at see on a violent storm with Tasya present. It is definitely suspicious and I think these storms are connected to Tasya and are following her around. Perhaps in the same way that the plague followed Lucio around for having an uncompleted deal.

She does seem quite well traveled and despite being a baroness isn’t at her country ruling like she probably should. Probably to avoid destroying her city but there is no reason she can’t use this to an advantage. But I am making a lot of leaps with this one that I’m not even 100% about.

7) Foreshadowing in Portia’s Route

In Portia’s route there is a certain... theme to it. Portia is pretty bent on solving the mysteries of everything going on around her. Portia in general has a real penchant for snooping and keeping secrets. So we already know what one of the bigger mysteries of the overall story of The Arcana is “Why did Julian kill Lucio" but the problem is... Portia already solved it. She solved it before anyone else did back in book X (Yes Muriel’s route answers the question of if Julian did it at the start but not why) and yet we still have a massive story.

There seems to be a theme in the secondary routes that they take a different approach to the world and story than the main three. Portia has been following the story pretty much beat by beat so far but there is something incredibly special about Portia. She has no connection to the Devil at all.

If you follow (I believe it’s @apprenticeofcups ‘s meta) the idea that Lucio is only as big as a threat in the route based on that character of that route you have an odd situation where... Portia doesn’t know Lucio at all. Portia has never even made a deal with a major arcana like all the other members of the route. Currently, Portia’s biggest obstacle and threat to her personal morals IS Anastasia. It’s not crazy to think that she’d become Portia’s biggest villain and a major villain in general.

Here is also some fun screencaps to show some foreshadowing about Portia’s route maybe holding something a bit bigger. She used to pretend she was a lost princess and says these words exactly:

And well, she might not be betrayed for her own personal throne... the throne she serves is about to be betrayed...

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i-write-and-therefore-i-am · 4 years ago

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One Monstrous Miracle (Part Five)

Okay. So. This one got away from me. It got unexpectedly dark, and I’m not sure how I feel about that but I’m going to post it and move on with the story. I am not a happy author about this chapter, for many reasons. Nevertheless, I love each and everyone of you and I hope you find it within you to enjoy this <3 (Pst! If you’d rather read on Ao3, here ya go!)

Previous-Next-First

Pairing: Aziraphale/Human!Reader

Summary: Michael takes some initiative. So does Sandalphon. Uriel is basically the emotional support nerd ig. Aziraphale has a nightmare. Reader does NOT have a good time.

Warnings: Okay listen closely. I have written a non-graphic description of a kidnapping, and subsequently a heavily-implied violence segment. I might be overstating or understating (please tell me if I am understating!), but I just want to keep you lovelies safe.

ALSO: This is NOT a warning, but while you’re here I might as well tell you that I have used they/them pronouns for Michael, and it/its pronouns for Sandalphon (from the script).

Word Count: 2730

(@gif, shits going down)

Michael was not stupid. They were not dimwitted, or blinded by heavenly goodness, or any of the things that they could very easily accuse their fellow celestial beings of…being. They had been paying the Angel Aziraphale very close attention these past millennia, and they had seen exactly what they had expected; the Angel had gone native. Worse than that, he had gone native and he was fraternizing with the enemy. THE enemy. El Numero Uno. The Demon Crowley.

Because Michael was none of the things mentioned above, they had quite a bit of room to be some other things, like cunning, vigilant, and good at waiting for just the right moment. They didn’t bring the aforementioned knowledge to Gabriel’s attention straight away for the sake of…strategy. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the Archangel-Fucking-Gabriel wasn’t the only gosh darned Archangel around (and that’s with a capital ‘A’, thank you very much), and so there really was no pressing need for Michael to give the information in the first place, now that they thought about it. They could investigate on their own, build up a solid case, and then work from there. Maybe get some respect around the elitist promotion trap that was their Heavenly home. If only.

Michael enlisted Uriel, knowing that she would be invaluable when looking for documents or anything paper related. She had the memory for things exactly like that. Michael brought Sandalphon precisely because they knew that Aziraphale was still terrified of it after what happened at Sodom and Gomorrah. Together, they monitored Aziraphale’s every move—although the angel had somehow devised a way to keep the group from ever being able to overhear any of his traitorous conversations with the hated Crowley, they weren’t deterred in the slightest bit. They could follow the pair, take pictures, perhaps the odd selfie when the mood hit. Michael was building their case against Aziraphale, and it was only a matter of time.

Armageddon threw everything into quite a pretty mess, now didn’t it? Aziraphale was openly discussing his meetings with his “wily adversary”, reporting on the current status and whereabouts of the Antichrist (Warlock. What a revolting name). Things were starting to get fun for the first time in about a hundred years, and Michael simply didn’t have the time for their surveillance missions anymore. Not to mention that Gabriel was demanding that they all stay together as often as possible, which was a nightmare in and of itself. Michael was rather looking forward to the end of the world, not for the gargantuan blood bath that would ensue, as most of their angelic associates where no doubt panting for, but for the endless peace that comes after a job well done.

One day, when the Antichrist (still Warlock, despite Michael’s very best efforts) was 10, nearly 11, Michael noticed something very strange about the familiar bookshop that they and the rest of the group had been watching for the last couple of centuries. There was a woman, well-dressed (Michael assumed. Angels, proper Angels, that is, Aziraphale not included, have no real sense of human fashion), practically cantering down the pavement, apparently towards Aziraphale’s shop. “No, that can’t be right,” Michael thought to themselves. Although, thinking back, that woman did look strikingly familiar. So familiar, in fact, that—

“Uriel! Take a look at this.” Michael had rolled her rolly chair away from her workstation and towards the cubicle to the right of hers. Uriel popped her head around the weird, cloth divider separating their “offices” with a curious expression.

“Yes, Michael? What is it?” The other angel asked from her rolly chair. Michael gestured that she should roll her rolly chair into Michael’s cubicle.

“I’ve found something strange in the Eden files, take a look at it.” The Eden files was their special code name for anything pertaining to Aziraphale that was not, strictly, on the books. This strange something happened to be a livestream of the street where Aziraphale lived. The woman was getting closer to the shop, although not quite close enough to tell if that was, indeed, where she was going. Michael pointed the woman out to Uriel.

“Now. She looks awfully familiar to me.” Michael’s gaze drifted from their finger to Uriel sitting beside them. Uriel had her thinking face on, which could mean one of a million different things and by this point in their long, coworker relationship, Michael had learned to just let her think. Uriel frowned slightly, moved closer to the screen, tapped a single key on the keyboard in front of them on Michael’s desk, and rewound the feed. She paused it. Zoomed in. Michael wondered why it was so difficult for the Management to install some touchscreens on the ground floor, at least for the Archangels and Possibly a few of the Principalities. They’d seen inside of Gabriel’s office (Yes! A whole, bloody corner office with glass windows instead of walls so that he can survey the worker bees in their nest and not one but TWO whole touchscreens!), after all. Uriel snapped her fingers in front of Michael’s face.

“Michael? Were you listening?” Michael, as you know, had not been listening. At all.

“Of course, Uriel. What was that last bit, again?” Uriel sighed and pointed at the woman zeroed in on.

“She visits the shop almost every day. She might be important.” Michael leaned forward in their rolly chair, squinting at the grainy image despite the fact that every angel had perfect 100/100 eyesight. They hummed.

“Yes. I quite agree. Sandalphon?” They called out the name of the coworker whose cubicle stood on the left side of theirs. They heard the familiar sound of the rolly chair growing nearer until Sandalphon sat beside the two other angels. Michael pointed to the woman on the screen.

“Let’s keep an eye on her.” They all watched as Uriel unpaused and the woman entered the shop.

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They did not have to wait long for the woman to make another move. Only a few hours later, she was hurrying out of the doors, clutching onto her purse and…crying?

“He doesn’t hold on to them long, does he?” Sandalphon remarked, rubbing its forefinger across its teeth diamonds. Uriel giggled but sobered when Michael glared at her. This was not the time for making jokes. That woman was certainly a human woman, there was no doubt about that. Why was she spending so much time around Aziraphale? Why had she run sobbing from his shop? Was this like that holiday Aziraphale took with Alexander the Great? Michael very dearly hoped not—Aziraphale had positively ruined that poor boy.

“Keep your focus on that woman. We need to learn more about her.”

The kept the feed trained on her as she made her way home. She didn’t live too far from Aziraphale’s shop. But just far enough that walking was just slightly out of her way. Uriel, the more softhearted of the bunch of angels huddled around the screen, wondered whether they should miracle her a taxicab, but she was quickly shut down.

“What, and give ourselves away? Gabriel would have our halos!” Michael exclaimed, shifting in their chair. Once the woman was in the door, Michael cut the feed, gaining the attention of the others. They cleared their throat.

“Ahem. So. Not only has Aziraphale been seen consistently in the presence of known Demon Crowley, but he also appears to have developed some sort of relationship with a…mortal woman. Once again, Aziraphale proves that he does not have the strength required to walk among them. Instead, he cavorts with them, befriends them—”

“Runs a bookshop,” Sandalphon growled helpfully. Michael nodded appreciatively.

“—and runs a bookshop. Clearly, he is no longer fit for his position.”

“That’s all well and good, Michael, but he can’t be removed from said position. Only the Almighty can deal with that level of personnel change.” Uriel reminded them calmly. Michael sighed deeply.

“I know that. We all know that. The only problem is something must be done about it. Aziraphale can no longer be allowed to continue this way. It’s heinous.” All the angels nodded their head in mutual agreement. They all tried to think of something they could do, but nothing seemed to jump out at anyone. It stayed like this for a few long moments before suddenly, Sandalphon gasped loudly, startling the other two.

“I know!” it said. “The girl. She’s important to him, right?” Uriel scoffed.

“She did just run from his shop in tears, Sandalphon, did you miss that part?” It was unfazed by Uriel’s goading.

“Exactly. It’s Aziraphale! He’s so soft, he’ll go groveling for her forgiveness within a fortnight. And when he does…”

“They’ll make up with each other. Where are you going with this?” Michael interjected impatiently, not in the mood for idle chatter. Sandalphon grinned, its teeth glinting in the Holy light.

“We kidnap her. Get us in Gabriel’s good books, get some information, and, of course, to scare powe ickle bitty Aziwaphawe. Perfect plan.”

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It was not, as it happens, the Perfect Plan. However, credit is due where credit is due, and that credit goes to Sandalphon for thinking of a Nearly-Perfect Plan. It would have been the Perfect Plan had Aziraphale and that blasted woman not been so stubborn and stayed apart for so long. The days until the Antichrist’s birthday were slowly running out, and the time during which the angels could execute said plan was drawing thin. Thankfully, the two made up just in the nick of time, so it had worked out in the end.

The trio had made the trip to Crowley’s flat, knowing that they would find Aziraphale there. Aziraphale had been flustered, but his story about checking about in the demon’s abode appeared to check out. Michael refused to take their eyes off of him the entire time. After they miracled away, they appeared in an alleyway not far from the woman’s home, and on her usual route. Michael had decided, because Michael was a little bit of an ass at times, to make the mystery just a smudge more difficult by abducting the woman outside of the home BUT simultaneously leaving a single, white wing feather on the floor of her locked flat. It really was quite devious for such a pure-hearted creature. Hmm.

The kidnapping went swimmingly. Uriel snuck up behind the woman, Sandalphon had thrown the bag over her head, and once everything was settled (or as settled as can be with a kicking and struggling woman in tow), Michael miracle them into a top-secret location. I’m afraid that I, as the author, am not at liberty to disclose the location of the following events, because of course I’d have to kill you afterwards, and I’d rather not do that.

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Angels do not have dreams. Angels cause dreams in other people, they take away dreams from other people, and they may, upon occasion, serve as conduits for messages from the Almighty, which often appear to other people as dreams. But Angels themselves do not dream. Except for Aziraphale, evidently, whose subconscious had decided to do away with the natural order of things to just…you know…spice it up a little. Aziraphale frowned deeply in his sleep and rolled over, sniffling.

He was in a corridor. There were no lights, only a faint glow that seemed to come from nowhere at all. There was one door, ahead of him, but the rest of the corridor was bare, empty grey concrete. He began to move towards the door, but the corridor seemed to get longer the closer he got, until he was nearly running, trying to make some progress down the hall but never moving one inch.

The scene changed, the corridor erupting into grey and black smoke that smelt faintly of saltwater taffy. The scene reconstructed itself as a square room lit with an old-fashioned lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth from the ceiling. There was a figure shivering on a metal chair in the center of the room, hands tied behind their back and a sack over their head. Aziraphale heard whimpering from the figure and made to rush over to help them but he found that his feet were rooted to the ground, as though someone had glued them straight to the floor. Aziraphale looked up from his shoes and gasped.

Surrounding the figure were Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. Michael stood directly in front of the figure, bending over slightly. Sandalphon stood directly behind the figure, fingers grasping at the sack. Uriel stood apart from them both, in the corner opposite to Aziraphale. Michael made a motion at Sandalphon and it yanked the sack off of the person’s head to reveal—

Y/N. Eyes red from crying, hair a mess, makeup smudged and beyond repair. Aziraphale felt his heart stop beating. What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of joke? A voice, nagging at the edge of his consciousness told him that no, it was not a joke. Aziraphale struggled against whatever was holding his feet down with renewed vigor. He stopped when he heard your voice, hoarse and trembling. It broke him to hear you like that.

“W-who are you? What do you w-want from me?” You coughed, and Aziraphale felt a miracle dance along the tip of his fingers. He would make you well again, he would heal whatever has happened to you. You continued. “I have m-money if that’s it! It’s n-not m-m-much but—”

“Silly girl, we don’t want your money.” Came Sandalphon’s voice.

“Mmm, that’s right.” Michael responded. They leaned in closer to you, and you sank deeper into the chair to escape them. “What we want is information.”

“Wh-What? What information? I don’t- “

“What do you know of the Angel Aziraphale?” Azriaphale’s blood went cold. He had been so close to telling you himself! After all of the Armageddon mess was straightened out, he had promised himself, he would march right up to you and tell you the truth. But not now! Not when he couldn’t be there to explain, when you were hurting, being hurt, tied up like some criminal. A noise horribly like a snarl erupted from Aziraphale’s throat, startling him. Was he truly invisible in this room? After a couple of seconds of pure terror, Aziraphale’s pulse began to slow and he realized that this was most likely a vision dream, a message from someone showing him something that was either already happening, or about to happen. He prayed to anyone who would listen that it was neither of those two options.

“I swear I don’t know!” The sound of your terrified voice brought him back. Sandalphon laughed its ugly laugh and Michael chuckled.

“Should we really be doing this, Michael?” Uriel inquired softly from her spot in the corner. Aziraphale was sure he was just projecting his terror onto her, but he thought he could almost see a hint of concern in her deep black eyes. Michael just shook their head.

“It’s not as though she’ll have very long to remember it, will she?” At this, your body seized in horror, eyes open wide in shock. Fresh tears were streaming down your cheeks. Aziraphale wanted to burn this room to the ground.

“Are…are you going to kill me?” you whispered through your crying. Aziraphale held his breath to listen for the answer:

“Oh, dear me, of course not. Do you know how much paperwork that would be? Oh no. Definitely not killing you. As long as you give us the information we need.” Came Michael’s reply.

Aziraphale felt that old rage bubble up inside him, and his sword hand itched, as though the missing sword were a missing limb instead. He took a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists. He would not debase himself in such an appalling manner. He had grown since those days, and he would not be brought to his knees by a dream.

“I told you, I don’t know anything!” you pleaded desperately. The room was beginning to fade away, smoke swirling at the edges, illuminated by the swinging bulb. Aziraphale cried out, reaching out for you only to be met with empty air.

“Oh, we’ll see about that, now, won’t we?”

The last thing Aziraphale heard before waking was the sound of Michael’s laughter.

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purkinje-effect · 4 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy 65, More Than You Can Chew

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 32. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: PTSD triggers, recollection of suggested dubcon and noncon, implied possibility of sexual assault, body horror, alcohol, chems, manipulation, toxic dynamics, one step past friskiness, trenchant self-deprecation.

“Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man's memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.” -- Mark Lawrence, King of Thorns

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“Something kicked the ‘Lurks up bad.”

Sticks did not look away from the window. As if to punctuate things, the ghoul closed up all but one of the shutters. He pulled up a chair to watch from that half-shuttered window, and motioned to keep it at a hush.

“You’re boarding up like a hurricane.”

‘Choly couldn’t finger what about it to object to. A groan gurgled from him when he rolled onto his back in the bed. Sticks had him all out of sorts just from so flippantly throwing him down. He disliked the reality that the orthotics seemed to diminish the severity of dislocations, but not prevent them altogether like they had when he’d first begun relying upon them. His back had slipped out for sure. To imagine it any worse made his head scream.

“What’s all the fuss, gentlemen?”

Angel, too, returned inside at a caution.

“Stay quiet and stay put. If I can figure out why they’re pissed, I can figure out how much we need to worry.”

The aquatic shrieking and viscous pounding coming from street level tried ‘Choly’s composure. He watched Sticks from the bed for a bit. He’d stay put, all right. Like he had a choice.

The ghoul rose, eyes out the window whenever possible, to kneel beside the bed. He fished out a bolt-action hunting rifle and a canvas bag that sounded like it contained bullets, and sat again to alternate between continuing to watch the esplanade and prepping an ammo clip. He deteriorated from anxiousness to confusion.

Various electrical sounds accompanied grinding whines which ‘Choly struggled to place. Then the distinctive hissing beam of a plasma gun rang out, and he couldn’t not shoot up on the mattress. When glass shattered, he thought at first to windows downstairs, but recalled the restaurant seemed to have long since lacked them in favor of fortification. An outcry rang indistinguishable from stress or bravado.

Soon things went near completely quiet outside. Sticks loosened up and glanced to ‘Choly with a strange wistfulness. He stood and pulled ‘Choly into a fierce hug. Kneeling, in a wet-eyed stupor 'Choly mirrored him.

“You’re alive...” The ghoul developed a broken, excited laugh, pressing his goateed chin into ‘Choly’s scalp. “You’re really alive...”

With a rapping on the door downstairs, a relieved sigh and a sniff broke Sticks away. Whimsy lit up his dark eyes. He slipped the cane off his back and returned it, in favor of the rifle. He patted ‘Choly on the upper arm and rubbed at it a bit with a small, aside smile.

“Stay up here and take it easy a spell.”

The ghoul went to lift the hatch door, descending downstairs. Shortly after, the chemist could faintly make out conversation. Left out, ‘Choly mustered himself to rise, and he approached the window to assess for himself what had happened.

“They-- Ah!” About to broadcast its eavesdropping, Angel instead sublimated with anticipation. “We have company for dinner. Forgive me, Sir, but I must go help them prepare the kitchen and dining area!”

‘Choly frowned and started to object, but the words were slower than either the ghoul or the robot. A dull, ringing pressure haloed his head. He grabbed his now-cold remainder of coffee, to sit and finish it off in resignation. He opened the shutters all the way, and pushed the window fully open, to observe and attempt to listen in. Once he’d exhausted the caffeine, he set his mug on the sill, and in alternations watched and worked to reset the joints which troubled him most, with an especial focus on the wrist and arm that had gone under him when tossed. Basic field medic training or no, he hoped he never had cause to grow accustomed to the sensation of palpating--and subsequently, popping--his own misaligned joints.

Wielding one-handed chainsaws and notched machetes, several dozen misshapen hunters shucked Merrilurk meat on the esplanade. The Furriers. Devils. Whatever they had become, ‘Choly had not seen them in clear light such as this until now. He watched as they reclaimed their rope darts from around the Merrilurks’ limbs, and pried meat from the aquatic creatures’ exoskeletons. He tried to crack his neck several times, only succeeding in worsening it before eventually breaking even again. He wondered if things with exoskeletons, lacking bones altogether, struggled as he did. He wondered, too, whether the hunters had to reset joints in any particular way.

They still wore masks, and draped, knotted garments, but they also had incorporated khaki elements of military garb, and reclaimed bits of their repurposed sheet metal armor where it still fit. He spotted several ‘familiar faces,’ but refused to speculate whether he knew any of them after yesterday. They had, he reminded himself, received no less than two doses of X-Cell-Root--hadn’t that risked them sluicing into other people with whom they’d come into physical contact?

“Bozhemoy, what a way to lose my fucking virginity.”

Forty-three years old a virgin. (Those two centuries on ice didn’t count, he hoped.) He couldn’t ever have begun to have fantasized the week’s debauchery in which he’d gotten embroiled. Surely, something as awkward as that, his memory couldn’t screw that up. Yet, Sticks had thought ‘Choly’s apparent perversion contradicted his declared inexperience. First drifting off to the Unfolding and its chaotic delirium of limbs, his mind readily snagged up in the things he and Sticks had done together. The row house had comforted and delighted him, but he couldn’t shake the possibility that Sticks had used his knowledge of ‘Choly’s anatomy to manipulate the course of events that had transpired in this room the day before. He’d never desired a penetrative act of any sort, let alone sought one. What had gotten into him?

Besides him, he sneered.

It was so unlike him. ...Or was it? He disliked not knowing in what sex acts the Unfolding may have included him. It left him even more queasy than it had at the time, the oft mentioned fact he’d blacked out amid it all.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to become presentable. He put on his reinforced gloves and persisted again in brushing out his hair and pinning it up properly. He browsed the drawer Sticks had allotted him for clothes storage. Just about every garment he owned carried negative associations. He wished to never wear a military uniform again in his life, but he did miss the sense of support of the high leather martial collar he’d lost in Voire. He rubbed at his shorn nape, grousing at the radiating nausea from high up in his neck. Just seeing the golfing attire set him sideways. He stomped out onto the balcony to pluck down the Vault suit. He disliked it least. Besides the puncture tear, it had remained in good condition despite all it had endured.

Putting his shoes back on went more smoothly. He refastened his holster and harness also, taking after Sticks’s uncertainty whether to appear downstairs unarmed. He’d hesitated while he dressed, but retrieved his coat from the balcony also, to pair with the ushanka. The sensation of fur soothed him too much, for him not to. He routed in his brain for a more correct word. Bekesha-tulup. As he nodded, his cheek burrowed against the wide turned collar.

He noticed the clawfoot tub on the balcony, filled with laundry suds and bed sheets. He pulled his coat tighter together, and frowned, unable to ignore what the soiled linens represented.

Driven by a sense of abandonment and isolation, he hobbled from the gambreled half of the upper story and to the end of the gabled half, where he proceeded to lift the hatch door and tackle the stairs with a heavy reliance on his cane. His heart wanted to wait for Angel or Sticks to come check on him, to escort him down, but his soul needed him to do it himself. Slow and deliberate, he repeated with every step. The braces improved his odds, but not his confidence. The sharp, meaty sweetness of seafood affronted him before he even rounded the turn of the stairway.

The next he knew, he had spilled down into the employees’ mudroom. His cane clattered off somewhere nearby. As he managed to right himself in the floor, he got an eyeful of the state of his left leg. Thankfully, he had not had any solid food yet. His guts knotted up, and he gnashed his teeth so fiercely his jaw popped. His knee had dislocated at an angle he thought not possible of a leg. With ginger but imprecise meddling, he seethed, but did not think it broken. Broken. His eyes whipped to his Pip-Boy screen. It came a temporary relief, that it had not cracked.

At least his neck had gone back right again.

He pushed himself along at a slumping crawl until he could reach his cane, by the shaft of which he leveraged two-fisted to stand. On his feet, he smoothed down his hat and coat. Then, favoring his left leg for hours to come, he rounded the stairs into the kitchen.

Sticks rushed about tending to half a dozen workspaces. The ghoul donned the iconic white shirt, black apron and slacks, and bowtie of a prewar ice cream parlor uniform. The clatters, sizzles, and gurgles of food prep drowned out the chemist’s giggle. He needed the minor humor to offset the slight that neither the ghoul nor his robot had noticed his fall. He called out for Angel and approached Sticks. Before his mouth could open, he received a basket of dark-colored fries. The ghoul added a freshly griddle-toasted long bun with a single slice of grilled tato, and ladled chopped sauce-seared marbled green-red shellfish into it. With a squirt of chunky sauce to top it off, Sticks tossed the bottle back into its chilled cubby to resume food prep.

“Now go on, shoo. Enjoy it while it’s hot and get out from underfoot. Once I’ve got everyone plated up, I’ll be along. If you want something to drink, Angel’s piloting the watering hole.”

'Choly sniffed at the briny, tart Merr-Roll-Lurk and stood there. His nausea waned. Though unlike the Jacob he knew, he didn’t question why Sticks had turned away the chance for Angel to cook in his place.

He nearly processed a generic disappointment that the place couldn’t serve a proper Nuka-Float without fresh milk for ice cream, but an airy wheeze came from behind him, paired with the sound of Angel’s thruster. He teetered as he looked back in the front-facing area which had once served ice cream. Behind the Mister Handy rushing up to him with an Ice-Cold Nuka-Cherry in pincer, he recognized the latch door of a walk-in freezer. Angel uncapped the beverage and offered both parts to him. He pocketed the cap before recognizing the bottle was for him, too.

“With how fiercely you’re shivering, I suggest you find a fireside seat, Mister Carey. I’m grateful you thought to dress warmly.”

‘Choly nodded, suddenly numb in the moment.

“Angel, did you choose to serve drinks? Did Sticks convince you not to cook?”

The Handy laughed sweetly.

“Mister Hawthorne is the one who required convincing to permit that I help! He is most enthusiastic a grill cook. Oh, Sir. I could hardly resist the opportunity to assist in hosting such a soirée.” With his murmured vague appeasement, it took his cane in one pincer to guide him with the other two at his sides. “Allow me to help you to a table. You seem a bit unsteady today.”

“A bit?” was all he could manage as they passed through the double-action swing doors into the dining area.

His ears rang. Their guests had removed their masks to eat, slinging them either off the side of their head or at their waist. He no longer felt so overdressed, the more he skimmed the restaurant. It felt more like a mess hall than a dining room, with its patrons bearing arms and a mishmash of military garb. Before now, he hadn’t really got the chance to admire the heavily embroidered leather work or extensive varied use of fur lining. Their dress fused design and utility.

Angel settled him at a two-seat table beside the fireplace in the back room, then returned to its post. A large figure on their knees fed the fire. He said hello to the unmistakable back of Reese’s head.

He pocketed his gloves to eat barehanded. It only took a bite for him to melt in the texture of warm bread. He knew he’d regret it later, but he craved inclusion, and he had to know why Sticks had made such a fuss for having the recipe. The longer he held the mouthful, the more the savory, bright sauce overtook him. The chopped long-grain meat contrasted the starchy tato. He let out a soft shocked moan. How could something like a Merrilurk taste good?

The figure stood with delight. Two patches of shoulder-length, irregularly blended indigo-ruby hair streaked the front of each ear, but they otherwise appeared mostly unchanged since their last encounter.

“So glad to share the legendary Glenn Johnny experience with you, Melancholy! May I join you?”

He held a hand over his mouth to cover his useless hurried chewing, and nodded when he couldn’t verbally welcome them. The goliath sat.

“Didn’t expect your lot out this way so soon after, well. You seemed to be settling in on base anyway.”

“It’s all accordingly.” They flashed him that lemniscate grin. “I’m sure Sticks has already told you our plans in the coming months.”

“Everybody keeps assuming I know the first thing that’s going on,” he blurted out, before taking another bite. “No, he’s been too busy in the kitchen to tell me anything.” Or help me when I fall down the stairs. He set down his food to grouse at his knee under the table with one hand, and gesticulate at the hunter with the other. “You, uh. Still go by Reese?”

“I’m confirmed Tiresias now.” They barked a laugh. “Everything’s gone far better than any of us anticipated, I assure you. The General’s plan would Unfold all the Rust Devils together, which pitted us against each other and likely wiped out both. But yours combined the Furriers and the Devils, which pits us against her, should the need arise. She steeply underestimated you, Colonel.”

Angel brought Tiresias another pair of Merr-Rolls-Lurk, which they accepted graciously. ‘Choly’s mind wadded up like cotton, trying to process just how badly he’d failed in eradicating the Devils--he had only worsened matters exponentially. The two ate together quietly for a bit before the hunter spoke again.

“We were afoot to reclaim battle salvage, but the opportunity to quarry after a clutch of Merrilurks appeared when we rounded the bridge between Back Central and Historic. We swam after them. The fight began in the water, and we drove them up onto land. We cornered them on the shore front outside this restaurant, and knew our fortune. We delivered this bounty to Glenn Johnny’s--to Sticks--by sheer chance. There he is!” they bellowed. “It’s like pulling teeth to get you to serve anymore! We’re all blessed you could not turn down so much peak season ‘Lurk.”

“You got me.” The ghoul sat at a row of tables nearby. “The hatchlings aren’t the firmest meat, but they make the best rolls.”

‘Choly made eye contact with him, looked down at his food, then back to him. His mouth felt thick.

The ghoul picked up one of the two rolls he’d served himself. Despite the boisterousness, Sticks had sat close enough they could hear one another.

“So, how do you like it?”

“Surprisingly edible. It is edible, right?” The whole room broke into laughter, and his ears rang. “Is it bad I’m more blown away by the bread? Fresh, griddle-toasted bread? How did you even have this much bread at the ready?”

“You can freeze dough, you know.” Sticks took a bite. “You really have been starved since you came out, haven’t you?”

“Angel’s been cooking from prepackaged prewar holdovers and foraged produce. It’s... it’s made do. Does its best. The kinds of ingredient compromises it’s got to make these days don’t necessarily lend well to the recipes it knows. It can’t taste or smell, so substitutions are total guesswork. Things just aren’t its fault!” His ears burned. “Not that it really matters whether Angel’s a good cook or not. You know my gut’s got other plans. That I’ve got to have my Melancholia.”

“You’ve been eating prewar food?” Sticks’s face screwed up at the thought. “No wonder your insides are a mess.”

‘Choly’s face ran hot.

“Say, Tiresias... You called these rolls legendary. How’d you know this place once made a big deal about them?”

“This establishment was a hub even decades after the Great War. Survivors from all around the Merrimack kept it running as a crux of Lowell hospitality. Over time, the locals either died or Deenwood conscripted them. Sticks eventually inherited Glenn Johnny’s, as one of the last people who cared to keep it running. He’s done such a marvelous job of it, wouldn’t you say? But he hasn’t held regular hours in decades!”

Sticks jeered playfully at the ribbing.

“Yeah, yeah, trained by the best. Let it alone. Nobody’ll ever make ‘em like Phil, but I know my rolls are good enough you’ll get ‘em no matter when I step in the kitchen.”

“My heart warms to know you still pride your work.”

‘Choly picked at his tato fries, which had sopped any sauce which dribbled off the roll. Sticks cemented business arrangements by cooking. That’s all this was, right? Everyone involved was simply communicating their goals. Everyone... Was he consorting with raiders again?

“So... what’s become of Laverne’s offer?” Sticks started with a low lyric. “Seeing as I held up my end, I think I deserve that level of compensation. Of course, there’s also the little matter of my extensive hospitality...”

Tiresias frowned, and took the time to finish off their third roll to form a thought.

“The General’s requisitioned the Towers as an extension of Deenwood, and declared it a restricted building, even from the Unfolded. We couldn’t get your reward out of there before she instated security measures. We’ve only got access to what we’ve reclaimed from Back Central. Lucky, you found a working Pip-Boy, yes?”

“I am not just gonna give Sticks a Mark-V, Tiresias. Prove to me he’s done more than cook us dinner.”

The Unfolded that had spoken held incredulity in their knobby, asymmetrical musculature.

“I earned one fair n’ square, and you know this. Russian dressing’s just the icing on this cake.”

‘Choly took notice that every single Unfolded he could see from his seat wore one model of Pip-Boy or another. These raiders operated with more than some vague structure, even before. Some Nuka-Cherry washed down his dread, then another two swigs sought to drown it. His scalp prickled when Tiresias raised a hand to insist that Sticks stay.

“Don’t quit us. Your arrangement with the Rust Devils stands fulfilled,” they insisted, in something of a speech, to Lucky’s disgust. “You upheld your end of all bargains. Outfitting the Furriers with fresh ballistics weave. Guaranteeing the Rust Devils could breach Deenwood and get at its robotics. And orchestrating that the Furriers kept the Devils on point, so that the General could bestow the Unfolding upon the lot of us. And of course, opening up your kitchen today. The ‘Lurk boil is both a tradition for the parts of us that have lived here in some capacity for many decades, and a virgin experience for the newest pieces of us. It rings true as a celebration of the Enlisted continuing to harbor ties with you, through Colonel Melancholy.”

‘Choly sputtered, speechless. Surely, Sticks hadn’t promised them anything without consulting him first!

“On account of you, and in spite of you,” Tiresias continued, “we present to you a Mark-V Pip-Boy. It’s not the Mark-VI prototype promised you, but we can hope it compares to your expectations.”

“I get you bent over backwards for one of these things.” Lucky grunted, retaining a firm grip on his knapsack. “I get it, but I don’t respect it. What monetary value could you possibly give me for it? These things are damn near priceless now, and you know it."

“You’re wringing me dry here, but I’ve got about three hundred caps to my name.”

“Three hundred!” he snorted. “I was thinking more three thousand!”

Not even Lucky’s superior could budge him on this. But did he still acknowledge his C.O.?

“I’ll close whatever value gap Sticks lacks,” ‘Choly said, reflexively.

Sticks reciprocated his stare with poorly-stifled indignity.

Lucky clicked his tongue.

“If you’re offering to trade your Four for my Five, nuh uh. No way. Nobody’s ever happy to get stuck with one of those.”

With a gasp ‘Choly flinched into coddling the device on his wrist. He’d often compared the Mark-IV he’d procured to escape Vault 111′s hydraulic door, to the Mark-III Deenwood had assigned him during active duty... but he couldn’t speculate what order of magnitude must separate a Mark-IV from a Mark-V, to to elicit such distaste in Lucky. For his mannerisms, he supposed this Unfolded must’ve at least partly been Felix. The black cat mask at his waist confirmed it for him.

“I’d never be without one myself. Something else. What about. What about--” Context stuffed his lungs full, when the option came to him. As the words spilled from him, he prayed the offer distracted them from Angel. “Whataboutmysackofgolfclubs?”

“Come again?”

Lucky let out a pointed chuckle as he sat on the ledge of the table.

“Am I... highballing?”

“Pssh. No. No. I just remember, you were an avid golfer. Can’t believe you traveled all this way with ‘em. Lowballing something fierce. Even if you’ve got a full set, that’s only, what, six hundred caps? Try again, champ.”

‘Choly glanced to Tiresias and Sticks, coming up empty. What could he possibly have that Lucky would want? He gulped and motioned for Lucky to get in close. He ineffectually swallowed, and whispered in his ear,

“I don’t have any X-Cell-Root, but do you have any interest in a couple doses of regular X-Cell? The kind that existed prewar?”

Lucky straightened and wobbled on his mismatched feet to think, donning his mask for emphasis.

“Also not worth the couple grand of my asking price, but definitely more interesting of what you’ve tossed in the pot so far. Keep going.”

“I traded all my caps for ammo yesterday.” His ears burned again. “What... what about prewar bonds? Or my gold and silver?”

“Screw paper! Buuuut...” Lucky raised an eyebrow. “How much gold and silver we talking?”

“I’ll get Angel to fetch it for me. Now, I can prove I’ve got what I’m offering, but I realize you haven’t even shown me you’ve got a spare Mark-V to begin with.”

Lucky’s eyes bittered up. He slapped ‘Choly in the middle of the back. ‘Choly couldn’t hide his queasiness.

“I’ll be right back.”

‘Choly jerked back when a mask appeared inches from his face. Before he knew it, an Unfolded with far too long a torso to be healthy, and far too many arms, draped herself across his lap, coiled behind the chair, and draped herself around his shoulders dreamily.

“C.O. Melancholy,” the skeleton cooed, “you didn’t greet me, so I must greet you.”

“Hh hello, Bones. Is it still--” The Nuka-Cherry had started settling his flesh heavier, and his head slurred a bit.

“--Certainly.” She set his hat in his lap to pet his hair. “You look to have withstood triplicate Unfoldings in tact. Even before yesterday, I would have adored to explore you in full...” She sniffed his hair.

Stifling a shiver resulted in an even more intense shiver.

“I, I really apPREciate your talents and gifts.” He couldn’t quite get a grip on the hands in his hair, or along his sides, or down his front, or-- He squeaked. “I’m sure the alterations you made to my coat dID A LOt for my surviving yesterday. Could yOU NOT--”

“Oh, you’re most welcome.” She only paused enough to remove her mask and rub her cheek against his. “Even without a full uniform, you still very much look the part of a commanding officer. Tiresias has been instated our Sergeant First Class. Lucky and I have joint duty over the outfit’s quartermastery. If he can dote tech and weapons upon you, I can certainly dress you... and undress you, as the case may be.”

To emphasize her words, she began to unzip his Vault suit, and slipped a hand against his clavicle.

Sticks whipped to his feet with a snarl.

“GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!” He was stymied by the eyes of everyone in the room, ‘Choly’s included. Softly, he backpedaled, “He doesn’t want you like that. ...You’re upsetting him...”

“I’ll only accept such an accusation from him.” Bones hugged him closer. She pressed her smeared, nearly double-wide mouth sweetly to his face. “It’s not true, is it? Tell him.”

Every surface of ‘Choly’s mouth stuck to itself, and he self-inflicted a scowl as he leveraged a hand between her face and his.

“He means to say, the only attraction I’m capable of is debasing. Fetishistic.”

“A purely carnal arrangement is more than pleasing a thought. Oh! Unless...” She rose up on the back of the chair to get sing-songy with the ghoul. “You don’t wish to share him?”

Exasperated, the ghoul pushed the remainder of his food to the nearest Unfolded, who accepted it with enthusiasm. He slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms to stew in silence.

‘Choly flushed so deeply in mortification that his face may as well have bruised.

“Knock that off.” Lucky returned inside, oblivious to the conversation temperature. “We’re busy here.”

He shoved Bones out of ‘Choly’s lap. She kept her grip on the back of the chair to right herself. With a harrumph, she leaned in to kiss ‘Choly on the face one more time before lousing in one of the wall booths.

He pulled up a chair and set the requested device in his lap. His three shoulders skewed when he saw on which wrist ‘Choly wore his. Smoothing at his peppery chin-length hair, produced an ahem and gestured that he’d proved he could deliver.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Sticks rose expectantly with an awed smile. “I’m humbled.”

“Angel,” ‘Choly called, thinking that by now it surely would have produced itself. “Angel come here.” When it finally did, he asked it at a hush, “Be a dear. I need my security box. And the two ampuoles of X-Cell.”

Rather than demonstrate its storage compartment before them, Angel rushed off then returned with the requested items.

“Will you be needing anything else at present, Sir? I’m caught in something time-sensitive.”

“No. Thank y--” It had already left again. “What gives?”

Before he could even really survey its contents, Lucky had already grabbed the box from him to look it over himself. Tiresias shriek-laughed at his impatience, boxing ‘Choly’s ears in the small enclosed space.

“I’ve gotta ask, Melancholy. Ain’t even October yet. Why the fuck were you singing a Christmas carol last night?”

“Not to me,” he defended a little too quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at Bones pouting. “Not to me, it isn’t. The lyrics swept me up in the moment. I guess I didn’t think I remembered it all.”

Lucky nodded thoughtfully, and placed the Mark-V on the table.

“So a Five for your precious metals, two amps, your golf clubs,” he glanced knowingly to Sticks, “and three hundred caps from the ol’ ghoul.”

When ‘Choly nodded, Lucky poured the box into his knapsack with a chortle, then tossed it down on the table with just the cash in it. Sticks briefly excused himself, only to plop down a Glenn Johnny’s doggie bag on the table with an emphatic jingling and a frown. Without hesitation or gratitude, the ghoul snatched up the Pip-Boy and got to trying to latch it on. Pocketing the bag, the black cat jumped to make him sit back down, and stripped back the leather wrist to point out the various required hookups to the glove’s ports. Unable to observe the process with Lucky between the two, ‘Choly hemmed and shoved a few fries in his mouth, then picked at his own Pip-Boy amid conversation.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” ‘Choly asked Tiresias. “You’ve all got Pip-Boys. They’re all different models. I recognize a few Mark-III’s, and the Mark-IV’s like mine... and know now that the grey ones are Mark-V’s. But there’s a few I don’t think are any of those. Just how many unreleased models did RobCo have in development?”

“A few, I suppose. Never really poked around back there.” They pulled inside themselves a moment, and put their witch mask back on to recompose. “The General’s model is a 3000-Series, Mark-V. We have 3000-Series, from Mark-I to the prototype Mark-V’s. The bombs interrupted RobCo’s projects, of course.”

“You’re mostly seeing a spectrum of remastered junk parts.” Lucky didn’t look up from his rigging effort. Sticks squirmed a bit, pinned in place by someone occupied only with guaranteeing Sticks didn’t mess it up. “Only a few of us have Pip-Boys 100% factory-issue. Even a mix of 2000-Series parts, where we could line ‘em up. More than I’d like, but they get the job done. Fives, though. The Fives might not have got fully finished, but they’re a helluva lot better than the Fours. Slated to hit the market in 2079.”

“This one has got a deck, right? Is it ambidextrous?”

“Duh. Not that it matters for Sticks. And it’s got two. RobCo was working on fusing their terminal word processors with the, ah, personal information processor. The pips. The 3000-V was the first foray into that undertaking. Full data entry capacity, with a processor for each deck. Once the company got it streamlined enough to market, they put all their attention on refining all the bells and whistles on their next prototype.”

When Lucky finally sat back, ‘Choly awed to see just how quickly Sticks’s Mark-V ticked away at its boot sequence. The screen’s slimmer font displayed easily twice the lines of text at once as the Mark-IV, and even from afar looked easier on the eyes. He pursed his lips and focused on his health page, and left Sticks to get acquainted with his new toy.

As Lucky spoke next, ‘Choly’s attention paled in recognition. Systemic CFC-based connective tissue damage. Antigen dysregulation. Chronic arthritis and arthralgia. Syncope. Neurological damage, with memory lacunae. Shell-shock. Addictions to Med-X, Calmex, and Mentats. Every chem he’d taken the night before. He hadn’t taken anything all day. Not since the Addictol. Something inside him broke, lacking the cognitive capacity to discern from the diagnostics what, if not Addictol, Olivia could have possibly tricked him into dosing himself with. The Pip-Boy sure as fuck couldn’t seem to tell him.

“Mmh, hmm. Melancholy. You mentioned memory... I have to ask you. I could be adjusting better to my Unfolding. Confirmation only did so much. Talking to you might help me with that, if that’s all right with you.” When ‘Choly didn’t shut him out, Lucky scooted his chair to sit with him and Tiresias. “It’s the Gen’s fault Lowell’s devoid of what you’d call normal life.”

Sticks groaned, snapping ‘Choly back to reality a ways.

“Are you really gonna start from the War, onward?”

“I guess so.” Lucky shrank a bit, stuck in his head and feeling sorry for it. “That’s the trouble of it. I feel like I remember that far back. That amounts to something, right?” Tiresias’s nod spurred him on. “I’ve remembered a lot of things lately I don’t think I should. Memories tend to start to muddy, the more times they survive the Unfolding. Doesn’t sit easy inside me.”

“Go on.” Tiresias rubbed at the cheek of their mask. “Let it manifest.”

“The Gen paid locals to volunteer for chem trials. Over time, when people didn’t come home, the settlements started distrusting her. Didn’t take long before she couldn’t get enough volunteers for whatever she was doing week to week. So she started abducting people. Called it getting drafted. But, that’s all common history fact. We all remember bits of the Lowellites we used to be. And most of us remember how important this restaurant’s always been to us. What’s got me all screwed up is, I can’t quite place exactly why my gut instinct’s to distrust you and fly to anger. Part of me doesn’t just remember reporting to you before the War. Part of me... wait.” Lucky looked to Sticks, and pointed like he had the ghoul’s name on the tip of his tongue. “Glenn Johnny. John. Johnny. No, Johh... honey. I was Jahani.”

‘Choly’s stomach clenched up hard enough he could taste seafood in his sinuses. His lips drew back tight.

“This doesn’t appear to be proper dinner conversation,” Sticks joked. He flew to stand behind ‘Choly, and gripped his shoulders square in reassurance. He then held up his left arm. “Shouldn’t we be discussing the in’s and out’s of how to use one of these things! Huh! Huh!”

“Jahani. Heydar Jahani.” ‘Choly couldn’t tell if he was staring at him or through him. Sticks slouched and let go when his persuasion failed. “You had a reason to approach me specifically about this?”

“So the memory is a sharp one.” Lucky crumpled inside, though the affirmation intensified him. “Heydar Jahani, huh. You got into the Vault. I had to make my own. Why was that, again?”

“Are you asking me, why you avoided dying in Vault 111? You really are Lucky. I mean, look at me.” Tears froze him in place. His eyes glazed over as he slipped out of the present. “How the hell did you get from Sanctuary Hills to Lowell?”

“I... I don’t know. It... was hell trying to wait out the fallout. I was so sick, even before. I returned to base, hoping to scav chems. Not to be sick anymore. But the Gen had already risen to General, and she was only interested in giving me more chems that no one had taken before. I had no choice but to trust her. She always... sounded like she demanded no one die from the chems she gave us. Like she could boss around the universe. If we became something else, like she became something else, it wasn’t killing us. She could make peace with just about anything short of losing a test subject. So we did. And we all became something completely new, too.”

‘Choly didn’t stop just because he’d drawn blood digging his fingernail along his chin scar.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. What, are you going to read me, too? Or do you expect me to apologize for what I did to you over two hundred years ago?”

“Read you?” Lucky had to process that ‘Choly had interpreted his narrative as a measure of the General’s character. He began to scoff and sniff. “You were my C.O. for three years. And you were like a husk, every time you dosed us. You check out a lot, don’t you? When you don’t like that you like doing things?”

Lucky lunged at him and snarled. Bones sprang back between them, only for ‘Choly to shove her back out of reflex.

“Lucky.” Tiresias didn’t need to stand to reach and seize the black cat’s wrist from where they sat. They demanded his eye contact. “Unlatch before you get snagged up in indisputable insubordination. It’s bristling enough, for you to go against your S.F.C., but another entirely to slander your colonel. You sought guidance in him, not accusations. You lose control of the manifestation.”

“The manifestation is the only thing I’m in control of.” He hissed at Tiresias and struggled against their grip, only to keep snipping at ‘Choly. “The manifestation is my only clarity. Did you ever have a conscience! That’s why just the thought of you pisses me off! Your roommate promised me CM, but you never followed through! It’s your fault I got Psycho-sick. It’s your fault I had to be Psycho-sick all those years in my bomb shelter. And it’s your fault I’m even still kicking today.”

“You still have a Psycho addiction, despite being a part of so many communal X-Cell-Root doses?“ ‘Choly’s face couldn’t turn down any deeper in his deer-eyed shock. “Does that mean that you... all...?”

“Why the fuck do you care now when you didn’t care when you dosed me over and over! I can’t be the only one here you fucked over, either!”

“It’s not his fault if I couldn’t make good on that offer in time. If I had known you were still alive, I would’ve tried to find you some Psycho and returned with it. Considering what happened to me, you can understand why I wouldn’t think you made it.” Lucky’s head whipped up to glare wild at Sticks. “Besides! What good would a couple doses have done you holed up in the ground for years?”

‘Choly was too far gone to defend the ghoul, and the ghoul was too dumbstruck he’d even slipped up in the first place.

“No conscience, Melancholy! No scruples, Sticks! Is that why they kept you on! Promoted you! They only commissioned the broken and the insane! I don’t know if I believe in karma, but she definitely shat on the two of you! FUCK!!” He wagged a vitriolic finger at Sticks. “At least you aren’t my sergeant anymore.”

“LUCKY.” The witch roared, standing to yank the cat forward with enough force it likely dislocated his side-shoulder. “I will tear you limb from LIMB if you do not unlatch his instant. Ground this, or I put you in the ground!”

“I... I like doing things.” At a dusty hush, ‘Choly couldn’t focus his eyes. His hands tucked themselves into his hat, to feel of the fur.

“Ohh, Sir. Sir.” Angel swayed back into the room, and used its tendrils to address him. “Sir, I have something that requires your immediate attention for a yet undetermined duration.”

“Christ, you have the worst timing in the world.” Sticks helped Angel help ‘Choly stand. “What’s so pressing you didn’t interrupt sooner?”

“I’m afraid that’s not to your pay grade, Private,” it snubbed, concerned only with ushering its owner out of the dining hall and upstairs.

“I enjoy it,” ‘Choly said again hobbling back through the kitchen.

The wraith of uncertainty cut furrows in his face in directions skin shouldn’t form natural creases.

He found himself with Angel on the covered balcony. He could still hear the Unfolded arguing beneath them, but he could also hear the inebriated handful that had decided to fool around on the pavilion stage to entertain themselves. The Mister Handy urged him over to the bathtub, over which hung a string of lights. The scent of soap sobered him. His jaw slacked.

“I know how badly you’ve--”

“Poshol ty! Nev’yebenno v rot! --Vanna s penoy.”

“Do stop cursing at me and enjoy it while the water’s hot, Mister Carey.”

He screwed up his face and began to strip like his life depended on it. Angel collected his effects as they came off, nearly worried he’d fling something off the ledge.

“Angel, I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he lauded, standing nude before the tub. “This is the only reward I have wanted from the moment I thawed out.”

“As I was saying, I know.”

He slid into the tub and enveloped himself in the dense, fragrant suds. In an instant, his stresses deliquesced, and he forgot even his time or place. The suds stung his chin scrape, but he didn’t care. He tipped his head back into the water and loosed his mess of hair from its pins, then stretched out with a groaning sigh. The tears ran again, indistinguishable from the bathwater.

“I think I wouldn’t have been driven to murder if I’d only had a bubble bath.”

Glass shattered downstairs. ‘Choly didn’t so much as flinch, relaxed to the point he could forget in the moment that anything could be wrong. Angel fretted and paced all about the balcony.

“Ohh, I do wish I had the confidence to break up the impending bar fight, but they’ve inherited those scoundrels’ robotics prowess, haven’t they? Ohhh... that will be such a mess come morning. Surely, Mister Hawthorne can handle this. It’s his establishment, after all...”

“Ogromnoe spasibo, moy Angel. Ya khochu byt’ s toboy vsegda.”

“You’re intoxicated, Sir. But I love you, too.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“You haven’t been moderating me.”

“There are other more serious slips in verbiage these days than people knowing a military chemist is bilingual.”

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#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #fo4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfic #sole survivor #ghoul oc #mutant oc #mister handy #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #angel #tiresias #bones #lucky

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chronicbatfictioner · 5 years ago

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Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 9

The first time Barbara saw him, she thought she was seeing things.

The first time Barbara noticed Tim noticing him, she turned towards Dick while wondering out loud if she was seeing things. Dick had answered not-helpfully, "no, but I have been watching you both glaring at them monitors for a really good long time that my eyes are getting sore. And my eyes are kind of surgically and genetically modified."

Turning to Dinah for encouragement and/or clarification was not helping. She has been alternating her glare at the monitors, Tim, and when she saw Barbara's glare, she quipped, "this may be the beginning of a very, very interesting telenovela."

"What's a telenovela?" Dick wanted to know, there was a shit-eating grin on his face that was directed to Tim, who was still glaring at the monitors almost unblinkingly.

"It's... something I'd rather you don't know of..." Barbara replied mindlessly, trying to refocus at the scene on the monitors before her. But to say the sight was somewhere between odd and - dare she thought it - endearing would and should be constituted as an understatement.

There has been quite a ruckus in Gotham since the discovery of the bodies of the Court of Owls' High Council. Dick's data was sent over to the GCPD - discreetly and exempt from all or any incriminating snippets. The GCPD matched the names with the headless carcasses they had found throughout the city. The names were haphazard, and even Barbara could not figure out the direct relationship between most of the victims.

There were a few, however, whose link was rather obvious. One was a Harriet Arkham, and the other was a Philip Kane - both are members of Gotham's Founding Families. Philip Kane was the brother of Martha Wayne, wife of Dr. Thomas Wayne; whereas Harriet Arkham was the wife of Philip Kane and daughter of Amadeus Arkham, the founder of Arkham Asylum.

From then, they were stuck to the point where Barbara decided that they ought to keep the 'why' under 'because they were members of the Court of Owls', and not look further for the time being.

Figuring out the 'Bane' guy was proven to be less difficult.

Born in a prison city of Peña Dura at the island country of Santa Prisca, where his mother was incarcerated for an unknown reason, Bane was said to have overturned the 'corrupt and vile Government of Santa Prisca and came to Gotham for business opportunities' - or so his visa statement said. He came under a diplomatic passport, alright. But Barbara knew that the passport was forged nine ways to Sunday. The Immigration's excuse when an inquiry was sent to them - under the pretext as a federal agency - was that they have no information of legalities of Santa Prisca, and thus have no reason to deny Bane's entry to the US.

It has only been a month since Dick got 'integrated' to the Birds of Prey, but he was proven to be quite an asset. Bane-matters aside, there were a number of missions in which Dick's stealth skills - be it in an enter-exit situation or in providing physical backup - were immensely useful. Dick himself turned out to be quite an easygoing person - not to mention that he looked quite exotic and very well-built that is pleasing to the eyes.

When it comes to a new alias, he had requested the name 'Robin Goodfellow', and Barbara complied without thinking much aside for the literary reference. It was Tim who commented that he recalled that the name 'Robin' was something Dick's mother used to call him.

Today, they were greeted with a rather brutal scene from the surveillance cameras around the Wayne Tower. A group of heavily armed people was attacking someone who apparently was quite versed in fights and lethal forces. From a distance, the person looked like Ra's Al Ghul, the supposedly immortal Master of the League of Assassins in all of his gloriously extravagant costume. Green, overflowing cloak with gold lines that Barbara knew were made of real gold; loosely fitted tunic; a long wraparound belt made of very, very soft leather that hid several weapons; loosely fitted pants with cuffs on the ankles; and shoes that would cost approximately as much as her monthly electricity bills.

Given that Ra's Al Ghul was also the CEO of Algol Enterprises - the company that owned half of Gotham along with Wayne Industries, the attire was not overly curious. Barbara had met him once in a gala held to benefit the Gotham PD. Her subsequent investigation of Al Ghul eventually discovered that the man was using the Algol Enterprises as a front; and that his real money came from assassination business through a group called the League of Assassins. It was rumored that he controlled two-thirds of Africa's indigenous tribes, as well as two-thirds of the Indochine's indigenous tribes. And not a single law enforcement agency in the world had ever even come close to find evidence of the 'assassination business'.

The person was holding a small bundle of a child under one arm while fending both of them against costumed thugs. While he looked like he would be able to finish the job, Tim commented that several groups of armed thugs seemed to be coming on to help their fallen comrades.

"I'mma go and help." Dick eventually decided. "Really, people are having a free-for-all brawl right on my doorstep and they're not inviting me? Rude."

She didn't stop him, or Tim, when they went out and vaulted over several buildings toward the rooftop where the altercation was taking place. Once she could switch on Tim's goggle-cam, she realized that the man was not, in fact, Ra's Al Ghul.

He was a few inches shorter, but a lot wider than Al Ghul, albeit with similar jet black hair that was not as long as Al Ghul's would have. His features were decidedly caucasian, in spite of the tanned skin. His facial bone structures were square-ish, different than Al Ghul's longish structure. He was also still very young, approximately her age with the scowl, probably less without.

Within minutes, Dick and Tim's assistance of the man managed to drive the thugs away. The next step should be - if the guy was willing - Tim would take them to the Birds' safehouse. Otherwise, and if the guy was not willing to be persuaded, Tim would place a tracker so that Barbara could figure out who they were.

Right now, though, Barbara wondered if Tim would be as effective and diplomatic as she needed him to be and not affected by the other man's... charisma.

Tim was smitten. Clearly and absolutely. Every inch of his body language screamed, 'hi, let's frolic. And by frolic, I don't mean the PG-rated one!' - and Dick confirmed her suspicions by giving a stage-whisper through the comm-links, "O, did our kitten has just reached puberty?"

She didn't groan. Oh wait, she did. "I was hoping he won't get it for another year or two - decades, that is. Or ever. Mama cat is sharpening her shotgun's bullets by now, I think." she quipped back.

"What even, you two... I can hear you, you know," Tim growled at them and glared at Dick for a moment before turning back to the other man. "But, anyway. Hi, hello! We're with the Oracle and would like to extend the invitation to you and your... charge here to get some rest, and maybe stitches," he told the stranger. "I'm Stray, by the way."

"I'm Talon," Dick waved at the guy from a safe distance - both out of range of his sword and of Tim's claws. Tim, on the other hand, stood a mere few feet away right in the guy's personal bubble.

"I have heard of the Oracle. I am the Red Ghost." The stranger growled between gritted teeth. "We duly appreciate your hospitality, gentlemen, madame. Especially since I reckon our reservation at the Ritz has likely been compromised."

At the comment, Barbara promptly searched for new reservations of the presidential or junior suites made under Al Ghul's company, name, or anyone linked to Ra's Al Ghul. She found one, hidden deep under several shell companies and nominees, for the Presidential Suite.

She also found the bug planted within the hotel's international server that would alert whoever planted that thing for reservations under about three hundred names, including some quite formidable politicians and dignitaries. Being - as Tim said it - the data hoarder that she was, she downloaded and stored the names for future references. Maybe one of these days, she could send herself on vacation to a Ritz somewhere under one of those names. If she's lucky, somebody might try to assassinate her and she could practice her defense and evasion skills.

Come to think of it, a girls' night out in a presidential suite sounded quite cozy. Adding assassins or ninjas to the mix would've been the highlight of their year.

She shook herself out of the daydream and refocused on Tim. The little child has been set on the ground and was scrutinizing Tim intently.

"I am Damian Al Ghul Wayne," he stated in an oh-so-high-pitched-yet-so-regal voice. "I duly thank and shall accept your hospitality before continuing my journey to reach my father, Bruce."

The pen in Barbara's hand fell to the floor.

"Houston," Dick quipped, "we have a problem."

#Batless!AU #Tim Drake #Barbara Gordon #Dick Grayson #Dinah Drake #Red Ghost #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #Stray!Tim #Talon!Dick #Oracle!Barbara #RedGhost!Jason #bby!damian

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hcpefulmarshmallow · 5 years ago

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Time for some long, unnecessary Meta. I’ve had this one in my brain for ages, but I haven’t really had an excuse to talk about it until recently. Identity isn’t a major theme in Nagito’s character (although it plays it’s part), and so, I’ve been putting this one off. Then, my good pal Ashi had to go be a literary genius and incorporate some really interesting things into their Gundham, and now I have all the excuse I need. So I’m going to be talking about him, too, to a marginally lesser extent, using aspects of the Best Gunny’s characterisation. (Seriously though, plug. I’m not even sure it’s possible to follow this blog and not know about Ashi’s Gundham, but on the off chance: @the-taboo-king.)

Under a cut for length, philosophy, and shameless, shameless Roulette.

This is the part where I say something that makes the reader’s eyes glaze over, but indulge me. No Exit is a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre. It’s about three people - Garcin, Inez and Estelle - who are all doomed to hell, except hell is just an ordinary room, and it’s really, really good. I’d highly recommend.

The characters spend much of the start of the play sitting around, waiting for Satan to show up with the hot pokers and the lube, but once the three of them are gathered in this room, nothing happens. All they can do is sit there, get to know one another, and watch the people they left behind on Earth live out the rest of their lives and move on. There’s nothing there except three chairs; nothing else for them to do. It’s explicitly mentioned that hell has no mirrors, so for instance, when Estelle wants to fix her makeup, she has to rely on Inez to tell her if it looks alright or not. The trouble is, Inez is really attracted to Estelle, so Estelle has no way of knowing if Inez is telling her the objective truth or not. Furthermore, Estelle is kind of grossed out at the thought of another woman being attracted to her, so she starts flirting with Garcin. Not because she’s especially interested in him, per se, but he is the only man there, and Estelle thrives on male attention.

Garcin doesn’t seem to want much to do with either Inez or Estelle at first, preferring to focus on watching his wife try and cope with the terrible reputation he left behind. However, eventually she, and everyone who knew him, dies or moves on. It becomes like he never existed, as it does for them all.

Garcin accepts Estelle’s advances, but it’s not her attention he wants. It’s Inez’s. She’s furious, jealous, and ready to throw some hands. Inez’s fixation remains on Estelle; Estelle’s on Garcin; and Garcin’s on Inez. Things become vicious between the three, until, at last, the door to hell opens. Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

The play is especially famous for the line “Hell is other people”, and directly opposes the old adage, “I think, therefore I am”. It posits that humans exist because we are seen, and therefore if we are unseen, we do not exist. At this point, Garcin has become dependent on his feud with Inez. He might be forgotten in the world, but as long as she hates him, there’s a him to hate. The absence of mirrors removes the characters’ abilities to reflect on themselves, so they can only experience themselves through one another. In that sense, their purpose here isn’t solely to be punished, but to punish one another for all eternity.

So, what does this have to do with Dangit Roomba 2, the game where everything’s made up and the deaths don’t matter? Like I said, this play has been in the back of my mind for a while when it comes to writing Komaeda, but it hasn’t been explicit enough for me to justify writing oodles about until recently. So before we talk about Nagito, let’s talk about the man, the myth, the hamster dad himself.

Identity is a major theme for Gundham. He cultivates his own very, very carefully, only breaking character here and there either to adjust himself (and comment on a “good line”), or when he’s flustered and his composure slips just a little bit. Given how much effort he puts into his words and appearance, you’d be probably correct in assuming he wants to be seen a certain way. He appears to thrive off the fear and intimidation he inspires, yet despite demanding “silence and solitude”, he seems to crave companionship, and find it best in those who can easily reconcile his demonic persona with the kind, nurturing person he is underneath, as opposed to people who try and see directly through it. He needs that persona, you see. He can’t cope with it being stripped away. I’ve spoken about Gundham’s tendency to play the bad guy even when he is, objectively, the hero, before, so I won’t belabor the point too much. But what I’m driving at here is, who he is, and how he’s seen, are too intricately linked to be separated.

If you recall, the door to hell opens and Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

I can think of no better example than the ideas in No Exit, and the intricacies of Gundham’s character, falling into place better than Ashi’s future verse. Which is really, really good, and a masterful take on the philosophy of identity. When Gundham shatters the mirrors and covers the reflective surfaces in his living space, he is effectively robbing himself of the ability to see himself. He’s forced into the vulnerable position of his identity being placed in the hands of others. With no way to reflect on himself - literally and symbolically - he has to take what others say to him as is. Rely on other people to cultivate his appearance and judge what he can no longer see, and therefore, alter. Coupled with his persistent, subsequent self-aggrandizing and deprecation, and he’s submitting himself to the torment of being made into the villain of this story, no matter what he does from hereon out.

You see, the world isn’t in despair anymore. He’s been given a second chance. The door to hell is open, and Gundham has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t.

Like Garcin, he becomes reliant on the fight. The constant struggle against people who will see him in the worst light possible, no matter what he does. But unlike Garcin, Inez, Estelle, or even Nagito - and we will get to Nagito - he isn’t forced into this state, for survival or for punishment. At least, not by a third party. He’s condemning himself. He’s robbing himself of the ability to improve, or to see himself improve. He doesn’t think he deserves to. He relies on others to validate who he is, because others have always let him down. Always seen him as the villain. The weird kid. The one not worth including. He’s waiting to be told, “Actually, you’re a bad person and I don’t want to be near you”. He’s waiting to be abandoned and left alone because, when there’s no one left to see him, he will, effectively, no longer exist. He’s given up on a meaningful, extraordinary death, opting to instead languish in the depths of oblivion. For someone who has grappled for years to forge an identity he can live with (again, that other meta I did on him a while back), this. This is hell.

Now that I’ve outed myself as a secret Gundham Tanaka stan blog, let’s talk about his boyfriend. Identity is less a key theme for Nagito, and more a background element to his character. So it hasn’t been something I could justify a thousand-odd words on so far. But now I have an excuse, I’m going to talk about the single most underrated ship in all of Dimple Raddish. Like I usually do. Look, there’s been a semi-recent semi-surge on popularity for Roulette in the fandom, just let me ride it out, okay? As someone who doesn’t shut up about these two, I have no idea how much of it I’m responsible for, but I am arrogant enough to take more credit than is due, so. You’re welcome, fandom.

For all the things Nagito is awkward and dumb at dealing with (see: All The Things), helping Gundham cope post-tragedy is one thing he does pretty effortlessly. Because what Gundham needs is what Nagito has in perpetuity: relentless, unyielding love. The only way Gundham will ever face himself again, is if he’s forced to believe there’s something worth facing. There is an opportunity in seeing himself as others do. He can see the good things he’s never let himself acknowledge before.

Now’s as good a time as any to say: this is not a healthy way to be. And I’m not trying to imply that the love of the right person can cure years of trauma and abuse. But you know what can help? Being treated with some basic decency and respect. And heck, even love. Gundham is not a role model, and Nagito, less so. He’s a morally ambiguous, deeply damaged young man. He can’t really be fixed. But he can be given the support he needs to heal.

This is the inevitable part in all my long metas where I lament that Nagito’s childhood was loveless, and robbed him of the ability the feel any kind of self-worth. That he’s rendered incapable of recognizing his own needs much less putting them first, as a result of them never being met. That he’s a good person who deserves a good life, and despite having been through insurmountable hell, it’s a wonder he came out the other side so, very capable of selflessness. And that it’s tragic his biggest wish in life is to just know how to feels to be loved in any way by anyone, just to have the most basic, fundamental human experience. F in chat.

Nagito has interests, and hobbies. He...reads, sometimes. He likes dogs. His luck ruins everything. But when he isn’t encouraging others to chase that One True Hope, what is he actually doing? What would he be doing if he never attended Hope’s Peak? Given how many times he’s been treated like a burden, can he ever truly feel like he’s worth something to anybody?

There’s a sense of static around him, I feel. Like when the video quality suddenly drops, and it takes you a moment to realise. Who is he, exactly? The answer is simple and sad: whoever he’s told to be. He’s spent his life being treated like his feelings are a burden and he’s useless trash, therefore he is burdensome trash. In class he is often ignored and ridiculed, so he largely keeps to himself during group activities, and whenever he says something out loud, he often scolds himself for it before anyone else can. You know, that whole, “Haha sorry, that was a bit much, guess I’m just trash” thing he does. He has to be this way. For his own survival, for whatever sanity he has left. It’s easier to be treated like garbage if you believe you deserve it.

It’s normal for people to be different around different people. But I find that to be especially true with Nagito as I play him through different relationships with different people. The more he is with Gundham, the more his nurturing, animal-loving side comes out. The more he is with Celeste, the more we see his intelligent, competitive, gentlemanly side. With Sonia, his ability to be princely and adventurous; with Chiaki, his gentle and relaxed nature, with Yuuki, or the WoH, or literally any child under his care, we experience a strong paternal side to him. He is by no means a different person, but different aspects of his personality are given more dominance over him as a whole, based on what somebody sees in him. He’s very capable of stepping up, but only when he feels someone expects him to. Otherwise he’s content to sit on his hands and watch, because he doesn’t think he deserves anything better.

Nagito will not see these things, or anything especially good, in himself until he is given permission. Until he is made to feel, by an authority higher than himself, that it’s okay. He exists as others see him. If someone he looks up to, whose opinions he values, recognises the - for lack of a better term - hope in him, he will eventually be forced to accept that it’s there himself. He might even. You know. Develop enough self-respect one day to forge a more self-actualised identity. Have the audacity to want things, and have dreams and stuff. He might even follow them. It’s a long, tiresome, non-linear process; but a worthwhile undertaking if I say so myself.

I guess the tl;dr here is that: both boys validate themselves through the eyes of other people because it’s the only way they know how. It’s not a good or healthy thing to do, but with the right kind of support, and enough time and patience, maybe next time the door to hell opens, they’ll have the courage to leave.

#( this wasn't as in-depth as i'd have liked #i could have kept going but the word count bro #so imma just leave it like this and hope i've made my point )#meta;#long post;

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tomhiddleslove · 5 years ago

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How can a naked space seem so full? Feelings furnish the stage in the resplendently spare new production of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” which opened on Thursday night at the Bernard Jacobs Theater, and they shimmer, bend and change color like light streaming through a prism.

Directed by Jamie Lloyd — and acted with surgical precision by Tom Hiddleston, Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox — this stripped-down revival of Pinter’s 1978 tale of a sexual triangle places its central characters under microscopic scrutiny, with no place to hide. Especially not from one another, as everybody is on everybody else’s mind, all the time. They are also all almost always fully visible to the audience.

This British version is the most merciless and empathic interpretation of this much performed work I’ve seen, and it keeps returning to my thoughts in piercing shards, like the remnants of a too-revealing dream. I had heard good things about this “Betrayal” when it debuted in London earlier this year, but I didn’t expect it to be one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.

“Betrayal” was dismissed as lightweight by Pinter standards when it opened at the National Theater in London four decades ago, and hearing it described baldly, you can sort of understand why. The high concept pitch could be: “Love among the literati in London leads to disaster, when a publisher discovers his wife is having an affair with his best friend!”

True, the play had an unusual structure, with its reverse chronology. (It begins in 1977 and ends in 1968.) Early critics regarded this as an unnecessary and confusing gimmick. As for all that brittle, passion-concealing wit and straight-faced deception, wasn’t that the stuff of old-guard West End masters like Coward and Rattigan?

With subsequent productions and a first-rate film in 1983 — featuring Jeremy Irons, Ben Kingsley and Patricia Hodge — earlier naysayers began to perceive a creeping depth and delicacy in the work, which for me now ranks among Pinter’s finest. Curiously, despite three starry productions (the most recent led by Daniel Craig and Rachel Weisz), “Betrayal” has never been done full justice on Broadway.

Until now.

Mr. Lloyd’s interpretation balances surface elegance with an aching profundity, so that “Betrayal” becomes less about the anguish of love than of life itself. Specifically, I mean life as lived among people whom we can never truly know. That includes those closest to us; it also includes our own, elusive selves.

The three central characters here are Robert (Mr. Hiddleston); Emma (Ms. Ashton), his wife, a gallerist; and Jerry (Mr. Cox), a literary agent who was the best man at their wedding. Though the majority of the scenes are written for two, Mr. Lloyd keeps all his main characters onstage throughout. (He has also taken the liberty of introducing a fifth, silent character, in addition to the Italian waiter, played with gusto by Eddie Arnold, who appears in the original text.)

That means that when Jerry and Emma are in the rented, out-of-the-way flat where they meet in the afternoons, Robert is present as well — silent, unreacting and at some distance from the others, but undeniably there.

The hoary saying about three being a crowd comes to mind. But then sexual betrayal is inevitably crowded, isn’t it? The absent figure in the triangle is always there as an obstructive phantom, so that no interactions are unconditionally between two people. To borrow from Michael Frayn, whose “Passion Play” is my other favorite 20th-century drama about infidelity, adultery adulterates.

Mr. Lloyd’s “Betrayal” makes us feel this premise all the more acutely, by offering no distractions from the wounded and wounding souls at it center. As designed by the ever-ingenious Soutra Gilmour, and lighted with whispering subtlety by Jon Clark, the set remains a sort of modernist blank slate, like an abandoned contemporary showroom — or, perhaps, laboratory. Nor do the cast members ever change their clothes.

This means the focus is unflinchingly on how these friends and lovers behave, and on the distance between them (wonderfully underscored by a slyly, slowly moving stage). What they say is often as trivial as the most basic small talk. In Pinter, the greatest dramatic weight lies in what’s unspoken, in the darkness of unsorted feelings.

The three principal performers here allow us uncommon access to that darkness. They each achieve a state of heightened emotional transparency. And what we see, in their faces and bodies, and feel — in the less easily described energy that reaches across the footlights — is a harsh and beautiful muddle.

Pinter, like Chekhov, understood that reactions never come singly (though the shrilly opinionated discourse on social media today might lead you to think otherwise). The word “ambivalence” doesn’t begin to cover the thoughts in play in the first scene, when Jerry and Emma uneasily meet in a pub, two years after their affair has ended.

Emma has initiated this encounter. But as played with breathtakingly clear confusion by Ms. Ashton, she can’t explain why she did so. She’s looking for something she misplaced once, or let time carry off, but you know she can’t put her finger on what it is.

As played by the excellent Mr. Cox (best known here as television’s “Daredevil”), Jerry is less palpably unmoored; he would seem to have a thicker skin. And this shifts the center of “Betrayal” to its portrait of a marriage and its corrosive secrets.

As slender and sharp as a paring knife in his dark navy clothing, Mr. Hiddleston’s lacerating Robert seems to live in a state of existential mourning. He can be wittily combative, most memorably in a brilliantly staged restaurant scene with Jerry.

But you’re always aware of the regrets, the uneasiness, the sorrow behind the unbending facade. The scene in a Venice hotel room when he ever so gently, confronts Emma with evidence of her infidelity is almost too painful to watch. What you are witnessing is the conclusive collapse of a marriage’s fragile and necessary structure of illusions.

As a marquee name of films and tabloids, Mr. Hiddleston is the obvious draw here. But it’s the relatively little-known Ms. Ashton (who is also a playwright) who is the breakout star. And her deeply sensitive performance elicits a feminist subtext in “Betrayal.”

Power is a governing dynamic in Pinter. And I’ve seen productions in which Emma, as the only female onstage, emerges as a crushable odd-woman out in a boy’s club society. It’s telling that in this production she is the only major character who doesn’t wear a jacket or, more surprisingly, shoes.

She reads as more vulnerable because of this, but also as more humane and more open to figuring out just what has happened. Emma wants so much — professionally, romantically, domestically. And she’s harrowed by the realization that nothing she thought she had has ever been solidly hers.

More than ever in this version, which features a melancholy soundscape by Ben and Max Ringham, “Betrayal” becomes an elegy about time and memory, in which nothing stays fixed or certain. There’s new resonance to the continuing references to a joyful moment when Jerry threw Emma and Robert’s little girl into the air at a family gathering.

It’s mentioned in the very first scene, when Emma and Jerry meet again. The problem is they can’t agree on where the event happened, in his kitchen or hers.

Ms. Ashton’s Emma tries to conceal how much this small discrepancy upsets her, but her eyes are brimming. She thought she’d always at least have this memory intact — a vision of everyone, together, happy for a moment. It turns out she was mistaken.

[ Link to the full article in source below. ]

#Tom Hiddleston #Zawe Ashton #Charlie Cox #Betrayal Broadway #bernard b jacobs theater #Jamie lloyd production #Harold Pinter play #Theatre tom #Tom hiddleston stage performance #Tom as robert #Zawe as emma #Charlie as jerry #Broadway debut #The New York Times review #New York City

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raendown · 5 years ago

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Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4255 Chapter: 26/42 Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

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Chapter 26

Sitting in a room with Butsuma and Tajima at the same time had always been a little stifling even before this stupid little feud between them really started. After the events at Susumu’s birthday party and the rumors that flew from one end of town to the other before the day was over, sitting in a room with both men now felt downright suffocating even with dozens of other bodies between them.

Even worse, every body filling in the spaces around the council table now understood the tension between the two men who had brought them all together and the group as a whole seemed to have separated in to two different camps. The first camp seemed to find this whole mess shameful and only the chain of command stopped any of them from scolding either Butsuma or Tajima. The second camp found the situation nothing less than amusing in a petty sort of way and seemed eager to egg the two of them on, much to Tobirama’s dismay.

Neither of them needed help being dramatic, he could say that with absolute surety.

He would have liked to say it made the council meetings even more awkward but with so many different personalities and opinions to navigate with each new issue they discussed it was always a circus in that room anyway. Adding the drama of their two founders facing off against each other while trying to maintain a thin veneer of affability wasn’t really all that odd. Not fun, certainly, but not as terrible as it could have been. At least they were pretending to be nice.

Until now all of Tajima’s plans had been flavored with sneaky undertones, back alley deals and spy recruitment, scheming maneuvers he had attempted to undermine his perceived opponent with. Tobirama watched the man stand up and clear his throat and he wondered if Tajima was switching gears entirely or just trying something new to throw them all off.

“Thank you all for being so prompt this afternoon,” he called, silencing the last few voices still quietly murmuring in idle conversation. “We have a lot of things to go over today. There are several updates from my son Izuna about the situation with the Inferno Squad, who are now calling themselves the ANBU apparently, that will be covered in the briefing. Nara-san had concerns about the hospital resources to address. And many other things as well but first there is something I would like to put before the council for review.”

“Please,” Madara rumbled under his breath in the seat beside Tobirama, as had become their usual. “Thrill us.” The two of them shared a smirk until Tajima pulled a form out of the dossier he’d brought along with him.

“I have here a form that I believe the council will find very interesting - and concerning. You will all recall the recent alliance forged with the Land of Iron and the many benefits therein, one of which being the contract signed allowing us to purchase their weapons at prices well below the current market. It was a shock to me then, when I read over the first order form about to be sent and the receipt detailing our enclosed payment." Tajima's gaze slid triumphantly down the table. "My esteemed colleague has made an error, I believe. Did we not agree on five hundred yen per unit?" From the expectant pause it was clear he was waiting for an answer.

Through gritted teeth Butsuma admitted, "Yes, that was the agreement."

"Ah, then you will understand my confusion upon seeing you have written that we are to pay five thousand yen per unit. For such disposable weapons, their quality made to match their purpose, can we be expected to pay such a high price without emptying our coffers overnight?"

Tajima sat back with a haughty look of victory all but dripping from his features, eyes locked challengingly down the table with Butsuma's as though daring the man to climb out of the hole that had just been dug for him. Around the table other members of the council were murmuring to each other with a mixture of shock that such a mistake had nearly occurred and relief that it had subsequently been caught. With each new voice that chimed in to exclaim their surprise Butsuma's spine stiffened more and more in his seat.

Unable to make himself feel surprise, Tobirama checked to be sure no one was looking in his direction before giving in to the urge to roll his eyes, leaning sideways against Madara to express his exasperation without words. He knew the message was received loud and clear when his husband reached across under the table to squeeze his hand and weave their fingers together in support. It was starting to feel like not a single meeting of the high council could be completed without some sort of drama or clash rising between their fathers and it had started getting old a long time before now.

"I hardly think one error in paperwork constitutes a state of emergency," Butsuma growled, "I will rewrite the receipt. Let us move on." He clearly did not enjoy the condescending smile his rival sent him for his words.

"Rest assured that I have already fixed this error before it could cause us harm. The order is well on its way to the Land of Iron with a properly written receipt."

"Then I do not see the point in mentioning it."

Of course he knew why it had been mentioned, Tobirama was sure of that, just as everyone present was probably sure why it was mentioned. Tajima was only too happy to smile at him like a viper smiles at its next meal. "There can never be too many cautionary tales for how such a simple mistake may cause so much damage. To our reputation, to our coffers, to any future contracts made with the Land of Iron."

Halfway between them, Tobirama wondered whether anyone would notice if he simply disappeared from his seat.

"It is good that you caught this before it could come back to bite us," the Yamanaka heir spoke up. Against all physical odds Tajima somehow managed to puff himself up even more.

"Yes, I rather thought so."

"Truly you and Butsuma-sama make an excellent team."

"What?" Startled to have someone else included in his compliments, Tajima's voice came out as a flat demand. Miraculously Yamanaka-san didn't seem to notice.

Smiling in what he clearly believed to be an encouraging manner, the younger lad sat forward with an earnest expression. "With both of you here working together our village will accomplish every goal we set for ourselves, I'm certain. We are incredibly lucky to have the two of you working side by side; you complement each other so well."

Half the room was forced to hide their smiles behind hands and sleeves or a well-placed fan as Tajima's expression soured comically and, across the room, Butsuma mirrored him almost exactly. In his own seat Tobirama tightened his grip on Madara's hand until he was sure both their knuckles must have turned white from the pressure. Petty laughter bubbled up in his throat but he clamped his teeth and refused to let it out. How the Yamanaka heir managed not to notice the obvious tension between their two founders was beyond him but for once he decided he could celebrate a little stupidity if it gifted him with such a golden moment as seeing Tajima gnash his teeth like he was doing now.

Whether his plan had been to pull Butsuma down, raise himself up, or both, this certainly wasn't the result he had been hoping for. Instead of distancing himself from his rival, not only had he been compared and found equal but had been deemed only part of an essential whole. Never had the rage of another human being been so satisfying to witness.

"The floor is open for other discussions," Tajima declared icily. He seat in his seat with rigid purpose and set his gaze stubbornly on the notes he had brought with him. If Tobirama had to guess he would have said every one of those documents was to be further proof of Butsuma's incompetence, abandoned and unnecessary now that the man was too angry to speak without shaming himself with another screaming match.

Around the room each of those who had hidden their smiles before were forced to do so again as Butsuma stood for a moment with indignation still clinging to his face and invited the Nara clan head to lead their discussion about hospital funding. Both he and Tajima refused to look at each other for the rest of the meeting even when they were required to interact, preferring to make their address to the empty air beside each other's heads. It was both hilarious and embarrassing to watch them act like such children but those who took note of their behavior were not surprised in the least.

No matter how entertaining the idiotic shenanigans between them were becoming, however, they were all there for a specific purpose and it wasn't long before a serious mood had once again fallen over the meeting while they discussed which new trade agreements or fundraising opportunities they could pursue to budget in a research division for their growing hospital. Even Tajima eventually gathered himself enough to take part, though he did refuse to comment on any topic Butsuma happened to be leading.

For his own part Tobirama found it quite hard to keep his concentration on the issues at hand when all he wanted to think about was the warmth in his palm where Madara had yet to separate their hands. Hidden out of sight beneath the table where he wouldn't have to worry about flaunting their relationship so unprofessionally during a serious meeting, he could even feel a strong thumb drawing circles on the back of his hand. Was it absent? Purposeful? He couldn't tell but the mystery of it occupied him so thoroughly he nearly missed having his opinion asked on something - and he couldn't even find it in himself to be ashamed of his inattention. Not when the distraction was Madara.

The meeting lasted only a short while longer than usual but it was enough that Tobirama found himself viscerally disappointed, left with less time before the end of the day and forced to stay late to finish several things instead of going home with his husband as he had planned. After spending several hours trading soft touches and gentle squeezes it was an unwanted reality check to watch Madara head off at Hashirama's side after work while he stayed behind at his desk with several urgent scrolls awaiting his attention. Having spent at least twenty minutes of that everlasting meeting planning out a nice dinner they could have together he was understandably irritated even before he pulled the first scroll towards himself, unrolling it with a bitter scowl, and told himself that he wasn't jealous of his own brother. Not at all. Just because they were best friends and Madara had seemed delighted to be invited over for hot pot didn't mean there was anything to be jealous over.

Other than the fact that he was stuck here at work while others were treated to Madara's company in a relaxed environment where he might have been bold enough to weave their hands together again.

It felt like it took twice as long as it should have for him to get everything done for the day and make his escape. Every time he thought he was ready to go someone else stopped by and dropped a new problem in his lap or sent a bit of paperwork back with new suggestions that needed addressing. The longer he stayed the more Tobirama despaired of his own brain and how much advantage their leaders took of it. Out of all the people who worked in the tower he was probably the one with a hand in the most projects at a time even if he wasn’t the lead on all of them.

Eventually he was able to declare himself ready to leave before anyone else showed up with more work, although he ruefully noted that there weren’t many chakra signatures left in the building to do so, most people other than the security team having packed it in an hour or more before. He slipped away just as one of his office mates came back but refused to look them in the eye in case they tried to speak with him about something that might hold him back even longer. Seeing Madara again and sneaking in as many kisses before bedtime as he could was much more interesting than any sanitation dispute or road planning project could ever be. If he had to drag the man away from Hashirama's house then he would.

At least that was his intention until he stepped through the door to the scent of hot pot thick in the air and his stomach set up a raucous protest of any plan that did not involve finding the source of that delicious smell. Following his other senses led him in to the kitchen where his husband, brother, and his brother’s wife all sat around the dining table with half empty bowls. Madara's expression was only mildly curious upon seeing him but the sensation of warm chakra bubbling and happily reaching out for him was nearly enough to stop him in his tracks so he could melt in to a disgustingly happy puddle. He wondered if the man even realized he could feel such reactions and if he should mention it or just keep this pleasant little nugget to himself. It wouldn’t do to embarrass Madara in to containing himself in the future.

“There is still food on the stove if you are hungry.” Mito invited him to serve himself with a graceful wave of one hand. With a grateful nod Tobirama headed to the cupboards for a bowl, brushing his hand subtly against Madara’s sleeve on the way by. It wasn’t the kiss he had wanted but that could wait until he wasn’t distracted by the ravenous hunger in his belly.

“Long day?” Hashirama asked as he portioned out a large helping. “I’m surprised you’re only leaving the office now.”

“Every time I tried to escape someone else had a new emergency for me to solve.”

“The price of being indispensable,” his brother teased gently.

If there was one thing that Tobirama appreciated about his brother it was that Hashirama understood his own intellect and had never experienced any jealousy for having a brother that could think circles around him from a very young age. He seemed quite glad for it, actually, and many times expressed his embarrassed gratitude that so many things were piled on Tobirama’s shoulders rather than his own, more than aware that there were certain things he simply wasn’t equipped to handle. Being ungrateful for what talents he did get blessed with was simply not in his nature and there was a pure sort of honesty in that which couldn’t be found in many others.

Carrying his bowl to the spot next to his husband, Tobirama sank down and took up his chopsticks immediately with a mumble of itadakimasu under his breath before digging in. Madara shook his head with what he chose to interpret as fond exasperation.

“Don’t let me interrupt whatever you were talking about before I arrived.” Tobirama flicked his chopsticks dismissively but Hashirama only shook his head as well.

“Nothing important. We were just regaling Mito with everything that happened in the meeting.”

Tobirama hummed, chewing through another bite. “I didn’t hear much from either of you today. Honestly Anija, you need to assert yourself more. Sometimes I could almost forget you were there.”

“I get bored!”

“You’ll need to do this yourself when you inherit the clan; you can’t always just let your brain fall asleep in meetings. Honestly.”

“But…” Hashirama wrinkled his nose with a sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Tobirama peeked sideways at his husband. “I didn’t hear much out of you today either, which is much more odd than it is for him. Is everything alright?” He was relieved to see Madara give him a casual shrug and a reassuring pat on the knee.

“Everything’s fine, I just had something else on my mind is all, an idea of sorts, but it’s not fleshed out enough to put it before the council.”

“I don’t supposed you’d like to share with the class?” Tobirama asked.

“Give me a little bit to think it through some more. There’s something just on the tip of my tongue, per se. I know it’s there but I can’t quite figure out…bah, you’ll understand when I tell you about it.” Madara harrumphed a little and looked around the table. “Change the subject. I’m done with thinking for the day.”

From her seat across the table Mito lifted one carefully shaped brow at him. “I wasn’t aware you had ever begun.”

Hashirama flustered his way through trying to scold his wife without insulting her while at the same time diffusing his best friend without making it sound like he was taking sides. Watching the three of them and their dramatics was much more entertainment for Tobirama than thinking about all the meetings. As necessary and admittedly fascinating as he found politics and bureaucracy he’d learned years ago that it was just as important to let his brain turn off sometimes and refresh itself. Oftentimes doing so allowed him to come back to his work the next day with fresh ideas he wouldn’t have been able to come up with in the overworked, frazzled state he saw too much of around the tower these days.

Dinner was pleasant, a nice couple of hours spent catching up with the brother and sister-in-law he should really spend more time with. The evening grew dark outside as they all sat sipping tea around the table. Mito engaged him with descriptions of the seal books she was hoping to have delivered for his birthday while Hashirama and Madara chattered on about some sort of nonsense he tried not to listen to. The two of them had a tendency to get involved in the most random and nonsensical shenanigans when left alone together for too long and Tobirama had decided that not knowing was safer. As long as no one got hurt and he didn’t have to help clean up it was best to just let them have their fun, enjoying their own sort of distraction from work in the form of brief stupidities.

When they finally left it was with full bellies and eyes drooping, ready for sleep after a pleasant evening spent letting the world pass them by. It was nice to return home and wander upstairs together to go through their nightly routines. They had already slipped under the sheets and wrapped around each other when Tobirama blinked as the ceiling with a light frown.

“I forgot to ask you again what you were thinking so hard about during the meeting. Do you still need time to get your thoughts straight?”

“Hm? Oh, that. Actually I suppose you would probably be a good person to help me with it since it’s something you’ve done on a smaller scale for a while now. I was thinking- you know how you train Kagami?” Madara shifted against him but Tobirama was busy frowning up at the shadows above them.

Curious but not seeing where this was going yet he said, “Yes, I am aware of my own student.”

“He only learns from you. Only your perspective, only your jutsu, only when you have the time available after leaving the office.” Twitching, he hurried to add, “Not that I’m saying you don’t give him enough! It’s just…a little scattered to be the norm, don’t you think?”

Frowning a little deeper, Tobirama was forced to nod slowly. “I suppose so. There are many days I wish I had more time to give him. Sometimes I give up my lunch hour as well but that’s not something I can do all the time.”

“Right. And it’s something that’s probably prevalent in all of the clans unless they have someone specifically dedicated to training the younglings.”

“Which would only present the same problems you mentioned before.”

“Yes!” Madara squirmed against him as though so excited by the idea about to burst forth he could not contain himself, a sentiment Tobirama could certainly relate to. “So I was thinking that perhaps the children of Konohagakure could use a more formalized education and it’s been plaguing me for days the best way to do that. Obviously pulling all the seasoned shinobi away from their jobs all the time wouldn’t be a great idea – imagine the chaos of undone paperwork – but then I thought, well, what about an academy?”

Despite the many talks he’d had with himself about this very subject Tobirama could no more stop the rush of heat through his veins than he could have stopped the tides.

“A formalized academy just for training the next generation here in a safe environment,” he whispered slowly.

“Well, that was the idea anyway. I’m not sure if it’s a realistic project or just a pipe dream; I don’t even know where to begin on setting it up. They would need a curriculum of some sort and indicators of passing certain skill levels – tests? And who would teach them? You would know a lot more about all of that than I woul- ah!”

Madara cried out with surprise as Tobirama rolled them both over without warning and bent to ravage his husband’s mouth, unable to hold himself back any longer. One arm took his weight so he could lift the other to cup that glorious, startled face and tilt them together, taking and taking in a way he was always so careful not to do when they kissed. All thoughts of the boundaries he had set for himself fled like smoke in the wind.

Incredibly, he was not pushed away. Rather than toss him across the room for taking such liberties Madara groaned and melted under the onslaught, responding with what fervor he knew, and Tobirama had to suppress the urge to snarl his approval because it would have meant pulling himself out of the moment. With his free hand dancing over the body underneath he almost managed to forget himself until he realized his muscles were tensing with the intention of rolling his hips and pressing just a little too far past those boundaries he had already thrown away.

Both of them were panting a little when the kiss finally ended but Tobirama couldn’t bring himself to pull away more than the inch or so he needed to drop his forehead against Madara's with a dazed look in his eye.

“I have never been more attracted to you,” he blurted, still wrapped up in the surprise that Madara's big idea was to provide a better future for the children of their village. Never had it been so hard to hold back the words he knew his partner wasn’t ready to hear.

“Oh. Um.” Blinking up at him, Madara seemed to flip through a few different expressions before he settled on hesitant interest. “I wouldn’t mind you, uh, expressing that a little more.”

“You-?” Tobirama blinked. That wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting.

Although to be fair he’d had no idea what to expect since he’d been so careful after the night he came home too drunk to restrain the passions that wanted so badly to come out, not when he knew it would be all too easy to place a hand in the wrong spot, to pull at clothing in the wrong way, small gestures that would feel so natural in the moment but would lead to things he knew were off limits. Rather than tempt himself or earn his partner’s displeasure it was better to set a limit and stay on the other side of it. He was very good with limits – sometimes.

His laboratory would tell other stories.

Perhaps, however, there were other variables that he hadn’t considered. Things like the fact that he’d never bothered to ask where Madara had placed his own boundaries. Coming from two different cultures meant he didn’t have a solid idea of what was going on inside that thickly maned head.

“How about,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side and bending to nose at the length of neck exposed to him, “you tell me when you would like me to back off. And maybe also when you might like me to keep going.”

“I think I can do that,” Madara breathed.

Not even the draw of such an interesting new concept or the continuous stress of having to deal with the superfluous feud between their fathers was enough to break through the bubbling thrill of having Madara pull him in again and moan softly at the glide of his hand, playing with the edges of a well-worn sleep shirt without yet slipping underneath it. Tomorrow he would have a lot on his mind but for now all Tobirama wanted to think about was the way Madara's body felt warm underneath him, the way inquisitive fingers traced patterns on his back, and the impossible possibilities that might not be quite as impossible as he’d been thinking they were.

#rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #hashirama #butsuma #tajima #fanfiction

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kita-lavellan · 5 years ago

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2019 Writer’s Round-Up

I was tagged by both @pikapeppa and @elveny so I figured I’d better put some effort in and try to figure this out. It’s not going to be easy since I have my writings scattered everywhere, including handwritten snippets, but I’ll give it my best shot!

Word Count

I can only really get an approximate number for this since, as I mentioned, my writing is scattered all over. Having said that, I’ve gone through my Googledocs going back to January, checked 4TheWords, double-checked what I’ve posted on AO3, and skimmed my last 3 months of Tumblr Posts, and totally ignored my handwritten stuff (I’m not word-counting that for you :p).

After dividing the word counts from my collaborative Original Fiction pieces by 2, and adding it all together with the help of a spreadsheet...

2019 Total Wordcount: 127,565

Number of Smut Scenes

Three.

A low number for me, but I’ve been writing a lot of original fiction that hasn’t centred around the topic.

New Things I’ve Tried This Year

Science Fiction!

I’m usually a strictly Fantasy writer in my original works, but @skekiss challenged me to try my hand at some Sci-Fi, and not only was it surprisingly fun, but it also didn’t turn out terribly, so I might do some more of that next year.

Favourite Thing I’ve Written This Year

My Favourite piece of Original Fiction was that Science Fiction piece my friend challenged me to do. It still doesn’t have a title, but here’s a snippet...

In the year 2421, the colonization of Mars finally became more than a simple societal need to expand, it also became a financially viable option for the over-crowded people of Earth.

The ship, destined to terraform Mars into a planet that humans could not only live on, but thrive upon, was named ‘The Scout’, and set out for the red planet in the year 2436, from a launchpad that had been constructed in international waters.

The Project was funded by nations from across Earth, and ‘The Scout’ was outfitted with the most advanced technology from all of the participating countries.

It was designed to be capable of terraforming Mars into a state that would allow for the development of permanent settlements in a sustainable manner, and construction was completed in under ten years.

The subsequent five years between it’s completed construction and the eventual launch date was spent finding and training a crew of over 3,000 officers, medical staff, scientists, and civilians from all walks of life so that they would be fully prepared for the challenges ahead.

It was a joyous and celebrated day when ‘The Scout’ launched from Earth, it’s state of the art quantum drive meant that travel to Mars would take the ship only sixty days.

Somewhere along their journey between the two planets, ‘The Scout’ encountered the sudden creation of a wormhole close enough to them to disrupt the ship’s controls and, unable to steer away from the pull of the forming singularity, the ship was pulled inside.

By chance, the addition of quantum energy from the ship’s drive core to the forming wormhole stabilised its throat long enough for ‘The Scout’ to emerge from the other side before it collapsed upon itself, stranding ‘The Scout’ and all three thousand souls in an unknown galaxy...

“Kelsey!”

The shout of her name drew her golden-brown eyes from the presentation, complete with an interactive holographic projection, to her employer.

He looked angry, she noticed, which wasn’t surprising really since he’d sent her to get fresh stock from the workshop an hour ago.

“Branner-”

“What do you think you’re doing, girl!?” he snapped as he used his broad shoulders and tall frame to force his way between crowds of early morning shoppers and over to where she was standing.

“Umm…” Kelsey turned her eyes back to the presentation for a moment, the display had continued to explain about ‘The Scout’s’ settlement on an uninhabited planet with permission from the other races of the odd galaxy they’d found themselves in.

The young children were chasing holographic stars and barely paying any attention to their own history, their supervising teacher looked ready to tear her own hair out, and Kelsey turned back to Branner guiltily.

“Nothing?”

He glared at her for a long moment, his own gaze flicking to the presentation and his eyes narrowing.

“Get those ship parts back to the stall, I’ll be along in a minute,” he growled, and Kelsey nodded, moving quickly past him and dodging the smack he aimed at the back of her head with practised ease.

As for fanfiction... I think my Favourite piece of 2019 is probably “Fascinating”. A little Solavellan one-shot I did about my favourite flirt with the bald elf.

Fascinating can be found here

Favourite Fic I’ve Read This Year

Asking the tough questions now... hmm. I do even less reading than I do writing when my depression flares up, but I’m gonna scour my AO3 for my top 3 of the year...

In no particular order;

1) Begin Again by Anthropasaurus A recent find of mine. There are only two chapters, but AO3 says I’ve visited this fic 7 times, so that should tell you how invested I am already. It looks like it’s going to be interesting and clever, so I’m excited to see where this one goes. Rating: M Pairing: Solas/Lavellan Tropes or Tags: Time-travel, Self Harm/Suicide mention, Angst, Slowburn, Fixit-Fic. Summary: “There’s a small moment, as you’re harvesting a person when you feel their soul almost literally in your hands. All you would need to do is cast your spell right at that moment. We know where my body and Solas were at that time. It’s the only chance we have Dorian.” The years following the Exalted Council had not been kind to Raven or Dorian. Years of thwarting Solas at every turn took everything they and what few allies still survived had. They all knew the end was drawing near and if they didn’t act fast, southern Thedas would fall. But not even Solas could have foreseen what would happen when the Veil fell. Her memories of Redcliffe paled in comparison to the atrocities that now spread across the land. The Evanuris were free and roamed the lands like a plague. Whatever plans Solas had had failed. It had been weeks since she had seen him on the edges of her dreams. She feared the worst.

2) Spark of Hope Series by Elveny I don’t read series often, I like all the story in one place, but Elveny’s Lyssa/Solas story just sucks you in, and you’re clicking “Next Chapter/Next Story” without even realising it until you’ve read the whole thing in one night and are DESPERATELY left wanting for more. *coughs awkwardly* It’s not finished, but there are 147,000 words (approximately) over 5 stories, and a new one coming sometime in 2020, so it’s absolutely worth reading. Rating: E Pairing: Solas/Lavellan Tropes or Tags: Anxiety/Panic Attacks, Emotional Hurt, Break Up, Prequel Story Included. Summary: Everything has gone wrong. Corypheus has opened the orb and the magic did not return to Solas. A giant Breach is throbbing in the air, threatening the whole of Thedas before he is powerful enough to do what he set out to do. Instead of following his plans, he finds himself in Haven, caring for an unconscious elven woman whose palm sizzles with green magic... his magic. He needs to keep her alive if he wants any chance to get it back. But then... she wakes.

3) Elastic Heart by cedarmoons I’ve read this half a dozen times, and the end of the first chapter STILL makes my heart stop >.< This is the fic that convinced me there were actually good Solavellan Writers hiding out there. I’ve found many since then, but this was my launchpad moment. Rating: E Pairing: Solas/Lavellan Tropes or Tags: None Summary: For the DA Kinkmeme. After making love to Lavellan, Solas accidentally tells her his identity.

Writing Goals for 2020

At least, an easy question! Write More. I’ve had a rough year for writing with many depression flare-ups. I’m hoping that 2020 I can get back to a more regular schedule, starting with a whole day of it on Jan 1st, I’ve cleared my schedule to get some writing time in and have my fingers crossed that it will be a good starting point for the rest of the year.

Thank you’s and Tagging...

Firstly, thank you PikkaPeppa and Elveny for tagging me! I’ve written more this year than I thought I had, and that’s been a lovely surprise, and a bit of a mood boost too. Thank you @skekiss for getting me into Tumblr. I’m not sure if I should thank you for this since it’s EATING my life, but regardless, I’ve met some fun people here in the last three months. Also, Thank You to @the-solavellan-archive for giving me a place to hang out, and share my Solavellan works, and for welcoming me with open arms ^_^

Now to tag people who may want to take part in this...

@rivainisomniari, @lyrium-lavellan, @solas-disapproves, @cornfedcryptid, @skekiss, @faerieavalon, @ranawaytothedas

If you feel like doing this and I’ve not tagged you, feel free, and @ me so I can be nosey! :D

#Not Dragon Age #Sort of Dragon Age #Writing #Writing Meme #About Me #Real Life #2019 Writer's Round-up #2019 Writer's Round Up #2019 Writer's Roundup #About Ari #About Arista #About Arista Holmes

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insanityclause · 5 years ago

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Until now.

It’s mentioned in the very first scene, when Emma and Jerry meet again. The problem is they can’t agree on where the event happened, in his kitchen or hers.

#betrayal (play)

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chiseler · 5 years ago

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The Head -- It Just Won’t Stay Dead

In the early 1960s, the overwhelming majority of European horror films imported to the United States were either British or Italian, the British films being easily understood and the Italian ones frequently pretending to be of British origin. Examples of French horror were rare (odd for a country whose cinema was so rooted in the fantastique), reaching an early apex with Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face (1960), which came to the US in a well-done English dub called The Horror Chamber of Dr. Faustus during the Halloween season of 1962.

Seldom paid much attention in retrospectives of this fertile period in continental horror cinema is a rare German example, Die Nackte und der Satan (“The Naked and the Devil,” 1959), which came to the US retitled The Head almost exactly one year before the arrival of the Franju masterpiece. Critics like to refer to The Head as “odd” and “atmospheric,” words that seem to disregard deeper consideration, never really coming to terms with it as anything but a sleazy shock trifle. However, it was in fact the product of a remarkable and rarely equaled concentration of accomplished patrimonies.

Consider this: The Head starred the great Swiss actor Michel Simon, renowned for his roles in Jean Renoir’s La Chienne and Boudu Saved From Drowning; it was directed by the Russian-born Victor Trivas, returning to his adopted homeland for the first time since directing Niemandsland (1932, aka No Man’s Land or Hell On Earth), a potent anti-war statement that was all but obliterated off the face of the earth by the Nazis when he fled the country, and who furthermore had written the story upon which Orson Welles’ The Stranger (1946) was based; it was photographed by Georg Krause, whose numerous international credits include Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory (1957); its sets were designed by Hermann Warm, the genius responsible for such German Expressionist masterpieces as Robert Weine’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919), Fritz Lang’s Destiny (1921), as well as Carl Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and Vampyr (1932), and its score is a wild patchwork of library tracks by Willy Mattes, the Erwin Lehn Orchestra, and a group of avant garde musicians known as Lasry-Baschet, who would subsequently lend their eerie, ethereal music to Jean Cocteau’s The Testament of Orpheus (1960). If all this were not enough, The Head was also filmed at the Munich studios of Arnold Richter, the co-founder of the Arri Group, innovators of the famous Arriflex cameras and lenses.

Though made after the 1957 horror breakthroughs made in Britain and Italy (Terence Fisher’s The Curse of Frankenstein, and I vampiri, co-directed by Riccardo Freda and Mario Bava), The Head represented a virtual revolutionary act in postwar Germany, where horror was then considered a genre to avoid. The project was proposed to Trivas by a young film producer named Wolfgang C. Hartwig, head of Munich’s Rapid-Film, whose claim to fame was initiating a niche of exploitation cinema known as Sittenfilme – literally “moral movies” – which, like many American exploitation films of the 1930s, maintained a higher, judgmental moral tone while telling the stories of people who slipped into lives of vice (prostitution, blackmail, drug addiction), their sordid experiences always leading them to a happy or at least bittersweet outcome. Though it goes quite a bit further than either Britain or Italy had yet gone in terms of sexualizing horror, The Head nevertheless checked all the boxes required for Sittenfilme and was undertaken by Hartwig in early 1959 as Rapid-Film’s most prestigious production to date.

After the main titles are spelled out over an undulating nocturnal fog, the story begins with a lurker’s shadow passing along outside the gated property of Prof. Dr. Abel. With its round head and wide-brimmed hat, it looks like the planet Saturn from the neck up. When this marauder pauses to pay some gentle attention to a passing tortoise, we get our first look at the film’s real star - Horst Frank, just thirty at the time, his clammy asexual aura topped off with prematurely graying hair and large triangular eyebrows that seem carried over from the days of German Expressionism. More bizarre still, he later gives his name as Dr. Ood, whose explanation is still more bizarre: at the age of three months old, he was orphaned, the sole survivor of a cataclysmic shipwreck .

“That was the name of the wrecked ship,” he explains. “S.S. Ood.”

The ambiguous Ood takes cover as another late night visitor comes calling: a hunchbacked woman wearing a nurse’s habit as outsized as an oxygen tent. This is Sister Irene Sanders (the screen debut of Karin Kernke, later seen in the Edgar Wallace krimi The Terrible People, 1960). Though Irene cuts a figure as ambiguous and unusual as any Franju ever filmed, she owes her greatest debt to Jane Adams’ hunchbacked Nina in Erle C. Kenton’s House of Dracula (1945). As with Nina, Irene lives in the hope that her deformity can be eradicated by the skill of a brilliant surgeon.

When Irene leaves after meeting with Dr. Abel, Ood presents himself with the written recommendation of a colleague he previously, supposedly, assisted. A burly old walrus of a man, Abel (Michel Simon) already has two younger associates, Dr. Walter Burke (Kurt Müller-Graf, “a first class surgeon”) and the handsome, muscular Burt Jaeger (Helmut Schmid), who hasn’t been quite the same since an unexplained brain operation. Both associates share a creative streak; Burke is also “an excellent architect, [who] designed this house,” while Jaeger “designed my special operating table; it allows me to work without assistants.” (So why does he have two of them? With names that sound the same, no less!) Given the high caliber of Hermann Warm’s talent as a production designer, Burke and Burt together are every bit as skilled in architecture as was Boris Karloff’s Hjalmar Poelzig in Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Black Cat (1934). The main floor of Abel’s sprawling house is dominated by a vast spiral stairwell, striking low-backed furniture, a mobile of dancing palette shapes, and an overpowering wall reproducing Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Virtuvian Man.” Down in the lab, Burt’s robotic surgical assistant looks as if it might have been conceived by the brain responsible for the Sadean mind control device in Jess Franco’s The Diabolical Dr. Z (1965) - a film that, along with Franco’s earlier The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962), seems considerably more indebted to Trivas on renewed acquaintance than to Franju. The film was shot in black-and-white and at no point inside Abel’s abode do the silvery, ivory surfaces admit even the possibility of pigment.

Adding to its effect, the music heard whenever the film cuts back to Abel’s place is anything but homey. It consists of a single, sustained electric keyboard chord played in a nightmarish loop that seems to chill and vibrate, its predictable arc punctuated now and again with icy spikes of cornet. Though I don’t recall reading any extensive discussion of the film’s music, The Head represents what is surely the most important advance in electronic music in the wake of Louis & Bebe Barron’s work on Forbidden Planet (1956). Though the film’s music credits list bandleader Willy Mattes, Jacques Lasry and the Edwin Lehr Orchestra with its music, the most important musical credit is displaced. Further down the screen is the unexplained “Sound Structure, Lasry-Baschet.”

Lasry-Baschet was a musical combination of two partnerships – that of brothers Francois and Bernard Baschet, and the husband-and-wife team of Jacques and Yvonne Lasry. The two brothers were musicians who played astonishing instruments of their own invention, like the Crystal Baschet (played with moistened fingers on glass rods), the Aluminum Piano, the Inflatable Guitar, the Rotating Whistler, and the Polytonal Percussion. The Lasry couple, originally a pianist and organist, began performing with the Baschets on their unique devices in the mid 1950s. Some of the music they produced during this period is collected on the albums Sonata Exotique (credited to Structures for Sound, covering the years 1957-1959) and Structures For Sound (credited to the Baschet Brothers alone, 1963), a vinyl release by the Museum of Modern Art. These and other recorded works can be found on YouTube, as well; they are deeply moving ambient journeys but I cannot say with certainty that they include any of the music from The Head. That said, the music they do collect is very much in its macabre character and would have also fit very well into Last Year At Marienbad (1961) or any of Franju’s remarkable films.

When Ood meets with Abel and expresses his keen interest in experimental research, the good doctor mentions that he has had success copying “the recent Russian surgery” that succeeded in keeping the severed head of a dog alive – however, his moral code prevents him from taking such experimentation still further. After leaving Abel, Ood finds his way to the Tam-Tam Club, a nightspot where a life-sized placard promotes the nightly performances of “Tam-Tam Super Sex Star Lilly.” This visit initiates a parallel storyline involving Lilly (Christiane Maybach), who supplements her striptease work as an artist’s model, and is the particular muse of the brooding Paul Lerner (Dieter Eppler), a man of only artistic ambition, much to the annoyance of his father, a prominent judge who wants him to study law. Maybach reportedly won her role the day before she began filming. According to news reports of the day, the actress originally cast – the voluptuous redhead Kai Fischer – had signed on to play the part, after which producer Hartwig decided she must also appear nude. Fisher sued Hartwig for breach of contract in March 1959 and he was sentenced to pay out a compensatory fee of DM 4,000 – in currency today, the equivalent of about $35,000. As it happens, Christiane Maybach doesn’t appear nude in the film’s final cut either.

The English version of The Head opens with a credit sequence played out over a shot of the full moon taken from near the climax of the picture. Unusually, the German Die Nackte und der Satan doesn’t present its title onscreen until Lilly is ready to go on. It’s superimposed with inverted commas on pleated velvet curtains that suddenly rise, revealing a stage adorned by a single suit of armor. Lilly dances out, stage right, garbed in a medieval conical hat, scarves, a bikini and a black mask, performing her dance of the seven veils around the impervious man of metal. She only strips down to her bikini but her dance ends with her in the arms of the armor we assumed empty, which tightly embraces her as its visor pops open, revealing a man’s face wearing skull makeup. Lilly screams, the lights go out, and the house goes wild with applause – a veritable blueprint for the striptease of Estella Blain’s Miss Death in Franco’s The Diabolical Dr. Z (1965).

The music heard during the film’s Tam-Tam Club sequences was recorded by the Erwin Lehn Orchestra, evidently with Jacques Lasry on piano, though its emphasis on brass is its outstanding characteristic. Erwin Lehn was a German jazz musician and composer who established the first German Big Band Orchestra for South German Radio. Brass was a major component of his sound – indeed, he made pop instrumental recordings credited to The Erwin Lehn Beat-Brass. You can find their album Beat Flames on YouTube, as well.

Backstage, the beautiful Lilly is a nagging brat, drinking and flirting with patrons while berating Paul’s lax ambitions on the side. Dieter Eppler, a frequent player in the Edgar Wallace krimis and also the lead bloodsucker in Roberto Mauri’s Italian Slaughter of the Vampires (1964), makes for inspired casting; he looks like a beefier, if less dynamic Kirk Douglas at a time when Vincente Minnelli’s Lust For Life (1956) would have still been in the minds of audiences.

Once Ood joins the payroll, Dr. Abel confesses that his heart is failing rapidly. The only means of saving himself and perpetuating his brilliant research is by doing the impossible – that is, transplanting the heart from a donor’s body into his own, which he insists is possible given his innovation of “Serum X.” What Abel could not foresee was that his own body would die during the procedure. Ood tells Burke that the only way to save Abel’s genius is to keep his head artificially alive, which his associate rejects uncatagorically, pushing Ood over the edge into murder. Then Ood proceeds with the operation, working solo with Jaeger’s robo-assistant passing along surgical tools as he needs them. When Abel revives, Ood breaks his news of the procedure gently by holding up a mirror and exclaiming that he’d had “one last chance – to perform the dog operation on your head!” Abel screams in revulsion of what he has become. The conciliatory Ood gently cautions him, “Too much emotion can be extremely dangerous now.”

The severed head apparatus is a simple yet ingenious effect, shot entirely in-camera and credited to Theo Nischwitz. It utilizes what is generally known as a Schufftan shot, a technique made famous by spfx shots achieved by Eugen Schufftan for Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926). Essentially, Michel Simon was seated behind a pane of mirrored glass with all the apparatus seen from his neck up. The silvering on the reverse portion of the mirror was scraped away, allowing the camera to see through to Simon and the apparatus while reflecting the apparatus arrayed below his neck, in position for the camera to capture its reflection simultaneously. In at least one promotional photo issued for the film, Simon’s shoulders can be transparently glimpsed where they should not be.

Irene returns to meet with Dr. Abel and is surprised to find new employee Ood now alone and ruling the roost. When he offers to perform her operation himself, she instinctively distrusts and fears him – but is reassured after hearing Abel’s disembodied voice on the house’s sophisticated intercom.

After the killing and burial of Burke, whose body Bert Jaeger later finds thanks to the barking of Dr. Abel’s kenneled hounds (a detail that one imagines inspired Franju’s use of a kennel in Eyes Without a Face), the film introduces the dull but nevertheless compulsory police investigation, headed by Paul Dahlke as Police Commissioner Sturm. Sagging interest is buoyed by a surprise twist: when Dr. Ood returns to the Tam-Tam Club and asks the perpetually pissy Lilly to dance, he refers to her in passing as “Stella,” prompting her to recognize him as “Dr. Brandt” (the scorecard now reads Burke, Bert and Brandt), who has inside knowledge pertaining to her poisoning of her husband! Given that his earlier writing projects include Orson Welles’ The Stranger and the bizarre Mexican-made Buster Keaton item Boom In the Moon (also 1946), in which an innocent shipwrecked sailor is rescued from his castaway existence only to find himself confused with a serial killer, Victor Trivas would seem partial to characters who live double lives.

Though Ood/Brandt’s aura is basically asexual through the first half of the film, the second half requires him to take an earthier interest in the female bodies finding their way into his hands. He takes the already tipsy Lilly/Stella home for a drink and some mischief.

“What’s in the glass?”

“Drink it and find out.”

“I hope it’s not poisoned.”

“That’s not my specialty, is it?”

Lilly/Stella becomes the necessary auto parts for Irene’s pending operation. In a nicely done montage, the film dissolves from Lilly’s unconscious body to a glint of light off the edge of Ood’s poised scalpel. It cuts to a curt zoom into Abel’s scream at being forced to watch a procedure he abhors, then a dissolve from his mouth to the spinning dials of a wall clock, followed by some time-lapse photography of cumulous clouds unfurling from an open sky, before Irene awakens in her recovery room with a decorative choker around her throat. She is able to gain her feet and covers her nude body in a sheet. She finds Ood lounging in Abel’s old office. He walks toward her as the sheet tumbles off her bare shoulders.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Well, I… I’ve a strange kind of feeling, as if my whole body were changed, as if my body didn’t want to do what I wished.”

Therefore, Ood has not only taken away her deformity but her responsibility for her actions, as well. Though she has never smoked before, she craves a cigarette. As Ood lights one for her, her wrap falls further, undraping her entire bare back and thus exposing a birthmark on her left shoulder blade that becomes an important plot point. Ood confesses she’s been unconscious for 117 days, during which time he has passed the time by performing numerous enhancing procedures on her inert body. When he compliments her superb figure, she self-consciously covers her legs and recoils from him.

“Why run from everything you desire?” he asks. “You can’t run from yourself.”

He draws Irene into a surprising deep kiss, which – to her own apparent horror - she returns. Ood then tries to take things further but she refuses. After a brief (and surprisingly curtailed) attempt at abduction, he releases Irene, who dresses in a black cocktail dress and heels left behind by Lilly and returns to the humble apartment she kept in her previous life, where a full-length mirror stands covered. In a scene considerably shortened by the US version, she rips the cover away in a movement evocative of a symbolic self-rape, and glories in her new reflection. The score turns torrid, brassy, and trashy as she admires her shapely terrain, fondling the curves of her breasts and hips in a prelude to a gratifying personal striptease. She then goes to her bed, where she tries on an old pair of slippers; she laughs and kicks them away, delighted at how small her feet now are. When she wakes the next morning, she finds a pamphlet for the Tam-Tam Club in Lilly’s old purse, which leads her body back to its former place of employ. When she arrives, another striptease artist is working onstage with a bed. This performance appears to burlesque Irene’s own motions from the night before; she kicks off one of her shoes as Irene had done.

From the moment she walks into the club, still wearing Lilly’s clinging black dress, Irene evokes a black widow, a kind of Alraune – the femme fatale of Hanns Heinz Ewers’ novel, filmed in 1930 with Brigitte Helm and in 1952 by Hildegarde Knef. Like Alraune, she’s the beautiful creation of a mad scientist’s laboratory, but unnatural. In this case, she’s not really a soulless artificial being out to destroy men; on the contrary, she is soulful, starving for some insight into who she is, what she is. In this way, she particularly foreshadows Christina, the schizophrenic subject of Baron Frankenstein’s “soul transplant” played by Susan Denberg in Terence Fisher’s Frankenstein Created Woman (1966).

She quickly attracts Paul’s artist’s eye, just as the now-topless dancer onstage swirls into a swoon on a prop bed – unconsciously mimicking Lilly at the only time she ever saw her, when Ood gave her a sneak peek at the unconscious woman on his living room couch. She asks about Lilly, whom Paul mentions has been dead now for three months, her body (in fact, Irene’s former body) found maimed beyond recognition on some railroad tracks. He asks her to dance, but Irene refuses, as she has never danced, never been asked to dance before. But he insists and they both discover that she can: “You must be a born dancer!”

Beautiful and irresponsible, she allows herself to follow Paul back to his studio, where drawings of Lilly are displayed. Paul asks to draw her, and when she turns her back to bare her shoulders, he recognizes Lilly’s beauty mark. She flees from the apartment and confronts the unflappable Ood.

“You must have grafted her skin on my body!”

In the movie’s most hilarious line, he fires back, “You have a poor imagination!”

She rejects his true account of the procedure and demands to see Dr. Abel, so Ood takes her down to the lab for a personal confirmation from the man himself. Ashamed to be seen this way, Abel pleads with Irene to disconnect him from the apparatus. She is driven away before she can accomplish this, and tries to shut away the horror of the truth that’s been revealed by losing herself in her new relationship with Paul – but the old question arises: Does he love her for her body or her mind? There seems to be one answer when he first kisses her, and another and his lips venture further down her front.

I should leave some things to be discovered by your own viewing of the film, but it demands to be mentioned that Irene – the triumphant climax of Ood’s genius, so to speak – actually survives at the end of the film to live happily ever after. Think about this. This is something that would have been considered unacceptable in any of Hammer’s Frankenstein films at the time – indeed, through the following decade. So, although Ood is ultimately destroyed (you’ll need to see it to find out how), the mad science he propounds is actually borne out. It’s left up to Paul and Irene, as they walk off together toward a new tomorrow, how they will manage to live with the fact that the two of them are in fact a ménage à trois. Will they keep the details of her existence a secret? Will medical science remain ignorant? Should they ever have any, what will they tell their kids?

The Head was hardly the first word on severed heads in horror entertainment. In his own admiring coverage of the film, Euro Gothic author Jonathan Rigby likens the film to the story of Rene Berton’s 1928 Grand Guignol play L’Homme qui à tue la mort (“The Man Who Killed Death”): “There, Professor Fargus revived the guillotined head of a supposed murderer and the prosecutor lost his mind when the head continued to plead his innocence.” Earlier such films would include Universal’s Inner Sanctum thriller Strange Confession (1945, in which a never-seen severed head is a main plot point), The Man Without a Body (1957) and The Thing That Couldn’t Die (1958), the latter two proving that the concept was actually trending at the time The Head was made. Also parenthetically relevant would be She Demons (1958), which involves the nasty experiments of a renegade Nazi scientist living on an uncharted tropical island, who removes the “beauty glands” of native girls to periodically restore his wife’s good looks. Though The Head wasn’t the first of its kind, many of the traits it introduced would surface in similar films that followed – not only in Franju’s Eyes Without A Face or Franco’s The Awful Dr. Orlof and The Diabolical Dr. Z, but also in Anton Giulio Majano’s Italian Atom Age Vampire (1960), Chano Urueta’s The Living Head (1963), and most conspicuously in Joseph Green’s The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, not released until 1962 though filmed in 1959, some six months after The Head.

It must be mentioned that the film’s unusual quality did not go unrecognized by its American distributor. Trans-Lux Distributing Corporation advertised the film that took a most unusual approach to selling a horror picture. The ads did not promise blood, or that your companion would jump into your lap, or shock after shock after shock. Instead, Trans-Lux promised that “At The Head of All Masterpieces of Horror [my italics] That You’ve Ever Seen… You Must Place… The Head.”

Of course it was an overstatement, but the size of its overstatement would seem to have narrowed appreciably with time.

So why has The Head, with its rich pooling of so much European talent, been so neglected?

A key reason may be that horror fans like their actors and directors to maintain a certain consistency, a certain fidelity to the genre. Horst Frank (who died in 1999) would appear in other horror films, but never again played a lead; he pursued his career as a character actor and singer, maintaining a career on the stage and keeping close to home, never making films off the continent or appearing in productions originating from England or America. After The Head, Victor Trivas made no more horror films. The other four features he made had been produced a quarter century earlier and the majority are impossible to see in English countries. Those who remembered him for Niemandsland would have considered The Head an embarrassment, an unfortunate last act. It wasn’t quite a last act, however. The following year, he returned to America, where he sold his final script to the Warner Bros. television series The Roaring 20s, starring Dorothy Provine. Though the show avoided fantasy subjects, it was a voodoo-themed episode entitled “The Fifth Pin,” directed by Robert Spaar and televised during the series’ first season on April 8, 1961. The guest stars included John Dehner, Rex Reason, Patricia O’Neal and, surprisingly, beloved Roger Corman repertory player Dick Miller. Trivas died in New York City in 1970, at the age of 73.

The English version of The Head is considered to be a public domain title and has been available from Alpha Video, Sinister Cinema and other PD sources. This version was modestly recut to create a new main title sequence and to remove certain erotic elements unwelcome to its target audience in 1961. Happily, a hybrid edition – which, in a fitting fate, grafts the English dub onto the original uncut version from Germany – was recently made available for viewing on YouTube.

In the immediate wake of The Head, producer Wolf C. Hartwig pushed another erotic horror film into production, Ein Töter hing in Netz (“A Corpse Hangs in the Web,” 1960). Scripted and directed by Fritz Böttger, the film (Böttger’s last as a director) was first released in America as It’s Hot In Paradise (1962), sold as a girlie picture with absolutely no indication of its horror content. It was later reissued in 1965 as Horrors of Spider Island (1965). Under any of its titles, the film is notably lacking all of the artistic and aesthetic pedigree that made its predecessor so special and, indeed, influential.

Sixty years further on, The Head warrants fuller recognition as a spearhead of that magic moment on the threshold of the 1960s when so-called “art cinema” began to be fused with so-called “trash cinema,” leading to a broader, wilder, more adult fantastique.

by Tim Lucas

[1] Victor Trivas’ Niemandsland may be viewed online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-4XhNMWoyw

[2] Rapid-Film’s later successes would include the German film that was subsequently converted into Francis Ford Coppola’s directorial debut (The Bellboy and the Playgirls, 1962), Ernst Hofbauer’s Schoolgirl Report film series (1970-80), and Sam Peckinpah’s Cross of Iron (1977).

[3] You can see Lasry-Baschet perform and be interviewed in a French newsreel from January 1961 on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awaFd6gArLg&t=46s.

[4] Well, as “recent” as 1940, when footage of a supposedly successful Soviet resuscitation of a dog’s severed head was included in the grisly 20m documentary Experiments In the Revival of Organisms. The operation was performed (and repeated) by Doctors Sergei Brukhonenko and Boris Levinskovsky, making use of their “autojektor,” an artificial heart/lung machine not unlike the contraption seen in The Head. A close look at Experiments reveals that it really shows nothing that could not have been faked through means of special effects. (When George Bernard Shaw learned of the Soviet experiment, he’s said to have remarked, “"I am tempted to have my own head cut off so that I can continue to dictate plays and books without being bothered by illness, without having to dress and undress, without having to eat, without having anything else to do other than to produce masterpieces of dramatic art and literature.") Experiments In The Revival of Organisms has been uploaded to YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ap1co5ZZHYE.

[5] Rigby, Jonathan. Euro Horror: Classics of Continental Horror Cinema (London: Signum Books, 2017), p. 79.

[6] Joseph Green also worked in motion picture distribution and later formed Joseph Green Pictures, which specialized in spicy imported pictures, some from Germany. It’s possible that he saw the Trivas picture when it was still seeking distribution in the States. When Ostalgica Film released The Head on DVD in Germany under its Belgian reissue title Des Satans nackte Sklavin (“The Devil’s Naked Slave”), the disc included The Brain That Wouldn’t Die as a bonus co-feature.

[7] A fine quality homemade experiment, it runs 91 minutes 47 seconds and can be found at: The Head (Die Nackte und der Satan) 1959 Sci-Fi / Horror HQ version!.

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debiteful · 5 years ago

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Summer National Holidays Collection

A collection of unrelated stories meant to evoke images of North American national holidays in the first week of July! That would be Canada Day for me, and Independence Day for those just south of me. This certainly could be applied to most summer celebrations though.

Each story will have a large, blue title; this will hopefully help people pick out the one(s) they want or don't want to read.

Sight for Small Eyes

A tiny woman just wants to see the fireworks!

Content warning: giant/tiny, giantess, female tiny, overall just a fluff piece (I put this first so the more sensitive readers don't have to scroll through the rest)

Slightly over 600 words.

Picnic

A lunch date takes an interesting turn when the tiny takes a dive into a big drink.

Content warning: soft vore, willing male prey, willing female pred, giant pred, tiny prey, drinkplay, mouth play

Just shy of 1k words.

Barbecue

An exclusive cookout includes tinies as toppings.

Content warning: hard vore, digestion, unwilling prey, giant pred, tiny prey, foodplay, implied multiple prey

About 600 words.

Going out with a bang

Two nagas resolve a tense intimate moment with a big snack before going to see fireworks.

Content warning: soft vore, romantic context, kissing, willing but resistant prey, pushy pred, both male nagas, size difference (1/2 size prey), digestion implied, reformation mentioned, big belly, vore in public

Roughly 1k words.

Sight for Small Eyes

In the dying light, she scrambled through the crowd, expertly dodging gigantic feet. Most of the giants around her knew to watch for tinies, but not all of them could be totally vigilant at all times. She caught glimpses of others like her through the forest of legs. She paid them no mind; she was determined to get a perfect viewing spot for the fireworks. Somewhere ahead were the bleachers designated for her kind, set aside so they could see the main event of the day. Though the show was to be high in the sky, the sheer number of massive people blocked out almost all of it. She had to get to the front of the crowd before it started.

The wayward toe of a sandal knocked her off her feet. She flew a short distance through the air before landing with a thud in the short cropped grass. Far above her a surprised voice boomed, and she saw a face look around. Unfortunately, they didn't see her in the twilight, so they moved on without so much as an apology. Once she caught her breath she scrambled to her feet. She hurried along desperately, determined to get a seat in time.

A shrill scream rose above the voices of the crowd, followed by a terrific boom. She caught the sight of green sparks through the heads high above her. She was going to miss it! The crowd had fallen relatively quiet and the feet were mostly still as ahead ran between them. Where was the end to this? It seemed eternal!

She panted and slowed to a walk to catch her breath. Intermittent explosions made her jump. She bit her lip, eyes squinting to hold back tears. "Why couldn't I make it in time?!" She cried out.

Someone spoke, odd after everyone had fallen so quiet for the fireworks show. She ignored it and pressed on. From above, a giant hand came down and closed around her. She screeched and kicked wildly, always annoyed when giants tried to manhandle her.

"Easy there," they whispered loud enough to break through her frustration. As she stilled, they opened their hand, holding it palm up. She was face to face with a pretty giantess who was smiling softly. Her voice stayed low as she spoke, a consideration many giants neglected, "I think you'll be able to see from my shoulder. That is, if you don't mind. I'm really sorry about grabbing you, but I really wanted to help."

Her eyes darted down, and she bit her lip. The tiny lady smiled at the sweetness of it all. She raised her voice a little, "Thank you! I'd like that very much!"

The giants nodded and slowly moved her hand to her shoulder, letting the smaller person climb across to their shoulder. Her tiny feet nimbly carried her to beside the massive neck, and she sat down, the collar of her shirt keeping her up against the bigger lady's neck. It was warm compared to the cool summer night air; certainly better than any bleacher.

She watched in delight as sparks trailed up through the air before the firecracker burst, thundering noise tearing out along with the brightly coloured sparks. She giggled in delight; this was the best seat in the whole world. Deep, hearty laughter joined her high cheerful noise. She blushed, realizing the giantess could hear her.

Thankfully, she said nothing and the tiny woman was spared further embarrassment. They both fell into silence, only the occasional gasp of amazement escaping as they watched the brilliant display. Thanks to a stranger's kindness, she got to witness it all.

Picnic

She swung the basket cheerfully, making sure to make smooth movements so she didn't destroy the contents. There. Up on the hill was the perfect spot. It was within the shade of a large green tree and the grass was short but lush. She set down her basket and pulled a red checked blanket from it.

A small head poked from the breast pocket of her button-up shirt at the sound of the blanket unfurling. He looked around with a grin, declaring, "Perfect!"

She chuckled and shook her head, "I'm glad you approve little guy."

He shot a glare in her direction. She sat down, and he scrambled from his secure spot. He tumbled down her torso with shrieking laughter, bouncing off her leg before hitting the blanket.

"Be careful," she cautioned as she unpacked the basket. He didn't respond, instead choosing to scramble up the woven exterior of the basket and perch on the edge.

Once it was empty, she closed it and he sat happily on the lid. They both surveyed the delicious spread. "Where do we begin?" He called, excitement ringing in his voice.

Her tongue swiped across her lips slowly as she considered. Settling on the sandwiches, she broke a chunk off and handed it to her little companion, then set to work on the larger portion. He was grateful and silent as he too began to eat.

Together they worked through sandwiches, cheese and sausage, and a slice of pie. To wash it all down was sparkling fruit punch. There was only about half her glass left when he whined, "Hey, hold that down for me!"

"But you have some right there," she narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips, but complied with his silly request. He grabbed the rim, then stood and rolled right in!

She gasped and tried to pull away, but she didn't want to spill so the cup ended upright and away from the basket. She held it up to eye level and watched him tread to keep himself afloat in the fizzy drink. He was grinning like a madman. The suspicious squint once again settled onto her features, but now a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Two could play at that game.

She swirled the cup gently, sending the little man into a dizzying spin. She lifted it to her lips and took a delicate sip, letting him bump against her lips before righting the cup.

He was briefly overtaken by the rushing fluid around him. He came up sputtering. She couldn't tell if his cheeks were red from humiliation, lack of air, or the juice itself, but the rosy hue was charming. He gave her a wicked glare, and she stuck her tongue out at him with a wink.

He splashed at her, the droplets hitting the clear plastic. She giggled as he shouted, "Well do it if you're gonna do it!"

"Alright," she whispered and put the cup to her lips. On the bottom edge of her vision she could see his eyes widen and a smile split his face. She closed her eyed and opened her mouth wide, upending the cup into it.

He got a stellar view of her mouth in the brief moments he had as he fell in. Twin rows of perfect, white teeth lay before a red-stained tongue that waggled expectantly. In the very back was her uvula dangling above the dark void of space that began her throat. He hit her tongue, the soft warmth a pleasant change from the chilled liquid he had been in moments ago.

She shut her mouth, plunging him into complete darkness. Her tongue flexed beneath him and he was swept up by a wave of fluid. The juice flowed forward, knocking him against the backs of her teeth gently before flowing back. Her tongue arched, cutting him off from the drink as she swallowed.

Her tongue relaxed into the bottom of her mouth and he lay at the tip. He turned and crawled across the soft expanse blindly. He enjoyed the flexible bumps that shifted beneath his hands and knees, and accepted the slick coating that made him occasionally lose his balance.

She let him get to the middle before she raised her tongue and pinned him gently to the roof of her mouth to give him a long, soft lick. His clothes were soaked, making him seem sweet, much to her delight. He squirmed at the lick, and struggled to avoid the subsequent ones as well. His tiny body wriggled against her muscular, saliva-slicked tongue.

"Mmmmm," she hummed happily as she pushed him around her mouth. The sound vibrated all around him, shaking him down to his core.

As quickly as he entered her mouth, he was repositioned and swallowed. The muscles constricted around him, squeezing him downward. She touched her throat lightly, two fingers lightly tracing his path. There was only the slightest bulge for her to follow, then it disappeared behind her ribcage.

She burped lightly, mostly from the fizzy drink certainly. He only barely heard it as he splashed down into her stomach. It was a noisy, busy place. Thankfully the enzymes were more intent on breaking down her picnic lunch than him, so he was safe. He listened to the monstrous growls and rumbles as her stomach worked around him. He sat up against the almost wrinkled stomach wall, soaking in the heat and enjoying the small movements as it pushed at him mindlessly.

He looked up, though he knew it was an empty gesture, and called out, "Thanks for lunch babe!"

She grinned and patted her full belly, "No problem dear. Let me know when the acid starts getting nippy and I'll let you out."

"Of course!" Came the muffled reply. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The sun had moved far enough now that the blanket was half in the sunlight. She laid down and soaked in the delightfully warm rays.

Barbecue

The party was bustling. Everywhere you looked there were people: lounging against trees while chatting, reclining in lawn chairs, and picking up food at the long, buffet style table. A single person manned the grill, flipping sizzling patties and rolling sausages to ensure an even cook. The scents were mouth watering as they were carried along the light summer breeze. Intermittent clouds gave pleasant respite from the late afternoon sun. Beyond that, there was a wide variety of chilled drinks to help keep you cool.

The food itself was the main attraction; not many parties allowed the delicacies served here. There were the usual barbeque staples of course, the grilled meats, the chips, the starchy salads, and the condiments, but there was a special bowl off to the side. It was filled with tinies, each one bound by a pickle or slice of meat, held together with a toothpick behind their back. Few of them bothered to struggle, but there was always a small panic when someone approached.

All you had to do was grab a toothpick, set the bundle on your sandwich or plate, then slide the pick out, leaving them trapped until you ate them. It wasn't as sturdy, but it rarely needed to hold for long.

One person slid a pickle wrapped tiny onto their sausage, squishing them between the edges of the bun. They shrieked and tried to kick, but it meant nothing but slight humour to the hungry giant.

They took a big bite, teeth scraping the top of the tiny's head as they sliced through the food. Micro wails sounded in sheer terror and the aloof giant chuckled as they chewed and swallowed their mouthful. They narrowed their eyes and tilted their meal around as they inspected the tiny treat. Wide, terrified eyes darted to and fro and the small body wriggled from within the pickle.

They grinned widely, then opened their mouth wide. Saliva hung in strands between the two sets of teeth, and their tongue poked out slightly as they took another big bite, this one completely engulfing the tiny garnishing their sausage. Their tongue stripped the pickle away first, mulching it quickly between massive molars with loud crunches.

Now relatively free, the tiny scrambled to escape, though it was a vain attempted. The giant tongue shifted beneath them, pushing the food and body alike to the side to be chewed. The teeth pulverized the sausage and bun, but only pressed firmly around the tiny. Each movement of the jaw crushed their ribs painfully, but not harmfully, simply driving the air from their lungs. Gasping for air was all but impossible between the humidity, heat, saliva, and half-chewed food.

The tongue came back for the exhausted, bruised tiny, dragging them with the food towards the back of the giants mouth. They gulped the whole mess down with ease, chuckling as they felt the tiny weakly struggle within the mush inside their throat.

Their stomach growled at the unusual movement inside of it. They weren't used to live prey. Still, it was all the same to the stomach itself. Its muscular walls flexed and churned the fresh food with the slurry of previous mouthful and acid. No one could hear the tiny screams as they were overtaken by the giant stomach, joining the rest of the food.

The giant finished off their sausage with a third mouthful, satisfied for now. It was certainly worth coming to this party for the rare treat. Perhaps they would have a couple more on their own just for fun. There was always room for more in their belly!

Going Out with a Bang

He squirmed to get comfortable against the tree, blushing and looking up at the formidable man holding him there. Their scaled tails intertwined as the larger naga held the smaller man's chin up with two fingers. He flicked his barely forked tongue and gazed hungrily into his prey's eyes.

He looked back, heart racing and breath coming and going quickly from his lungs. He swallowed hard, then mumbled, "Come on, what's your pl-"

A firm kiss cut him off, and he returned it immediately. It lasted several luxuriously long moments. He couldn't help but follow slightly when the other pulled away, but the two fingers on his chin pushed him back as their owner spoke, "You know very well, this isn't the first time silly."

He laughed, making the small naga blush and look away before whining, "But what if someone sees us? This isn't exactly private."

The large naga pressed closer to his trapped little prey, then looked around. There were people milling about, but no one was paying them any mind in particular. He grinned down at him and reached up with his free hand, using both to hold his head firmly. He opened his mouth wide, jaw clicking loudly. At the sound, the little naga's eyes widened. He struggled, but it was no use with his tail twisted up and his body pinned between the tree and the muscular body of his predator. The jaws slid over his face and around his head, hot breath washing over him. He squealed and his shoulders wiggled, but powerful hands grabbed his arms and immobilized him. He whined, though his voice was muffled as his head was forced down his throat, "Come on love, why you gotta do this today."

The complaint was punctuated by a whimper as he slid deeper into the hungry naga. He panted as he shoved his snack in further, swallowing hard but letting his arms do most of the work as he slowly doubled over. Soon, only the slender tail was visible. He grabbed it and pulled it from around himself with a grunt. Seemed the little guy was making him work for it today. He groaned softly as he felt his belly stretch, finally having him down far enough to begin to curl inside his stomach.

He put a hand against the tree truck, gulping between heavy breaths. With a self-satisfied smile he slurped up the very tip of the tail. His belly was round and heavy, and he supported himself with his arm as he caught his breath.

He gasped then moaned softly as he felt his prey shift inside him. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled words that vibrated his stomach lining, "Well are you happy now? You big meanie! I was hoping to see the show tonight too. I thought we were just gonna snuggle up on the grass and… and…"

He trailed off, the heat of his face obvious even from inside his body. The stuffed naga pushed off from the tree, sitting back on his coiled tail and rubbing the sides of his rounded, bulging belly with both hands. He spoke softly, knowing how much more clear his voice would be to the prey filling him, "But our messing around earlier made me miss supper and with you smelly sooooo good, I just couldn't resist."

He flicked his tongue out and closed his eyes, continuing to massage his stretched belly which gurgled and growled happily. Again he felt the incredible sensation of the twisted naga inside him move. Then, something firm rubbed against the stomach wall. His tail squirmed with pleasure at the strong nuzzles. He bit his lip and hissed heavily, "Goodness, save some for later, I still need to get to a place to watch the show."

After a moment, the small voice asked, "You're really still going? Like this? With me all- all-"

"Yes," he smirked, chuckling softly as he pushed one hand in firm circles across the front of his bulging belly. "Everyone will be so jealous, wondering what I ate to make me so full," he giggled at the indignant gasp from within, then continued, "I'll tell everyone who asks exactly who's in there and just how pleased I am to have you all to myself. Better hope they don't catch you away from me once you've reformed later tonight."

He felt a small, weak punch to the inside of his gut, and grunted, smug grin never leaving his face. With a groan he pushed himself upright and slithered off to find a place on the lawn to watch the fireworks.

All settled in, he was once again able to give his massive belly some rubs. The smaller naga had been awfully quiet, probably too flustered to speak. Even now, he could feel the heat of a humiliated blush. He murmured softly about all the people around, describing the faces of those bold enough to gawk at him and his meal. Occasionally his prey squirmed, sending waves of pleasure and shivers of delight through his long body.

As the first firework went off in the ever darkening sky, he was certain his prey was beginning to feel the effects of his stomach acid. It was like a limb had fallen asleep, but all over, according to him; no more than an aggressive tingling over his entire body.

His hands held his belly firmly, enjoying the weight and smoothness of his stretched stomach. He had stopped rubbing, allowing his captured meal to enjoy the thundering bangs of fireworks, even if he couldn't see the dazzling display of colours that accompanied it. Yes, this was certainly a wonderful way to celebrate. Perhaps it would become a tradition of theirs. Such musings wandered his mind as he relaxed and enjoyed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you enjoyed one or more of these stories! Please ask me to tag, theres so much going on in these I probably wont get them all. Also, I still do story requests! Feel free to shoot me a message if you would like something like these done for you.

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