#but not every story needs to serve the same purpose. it would be so boring if it did

[bogkeep]

i think reading artemis fowl at an impressionable age makes you immune to the "your main characters need to be relatable and likeable" argument

[ssa-dado]

Annoyingly Yours - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, angst though it's more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: At 33, Aaron Hotchner prides himself on discipline and control... until you become his deskmate. With quirks that seem to clash against his precision, you’re nothing short of maddening. Even your breathing seems to provoke a visceral reaction in him... surely out of frustration, right? Not out of... attraction?! Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set in 1998, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon and Rossi were charge instead). Word Count: 4.4k Dado's Corner: Based on this ask sent by the loml @c-losur3. Made a few tweaks because I can. And because I’m evil. Enter Aaron “convinces himself he hates you while secretly nursing a big fat crush” Hotchner. A timeless classic. Hope you like it.

masterlist

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Written in blue gel ink on a neon pink sticky note, it sat smugly atop the pristine case file Hotch had spent hours perfecting the night before.

No signature, no admission of guilt.

Just a bright, audacious square of defiance left to mock him.

In all his years as a profiler, he’d never encountered a case this easy to solve. Hell, he wished his active investigations were even half as simple as this. Because only after approximately half a second of analysis, the profile of the Unsub was crystal clear:

Female. Early 20s. A twisted sense of humor. A fascination with philosophy, particularly the existential, though occasionally dabbling in absurdism. Works in law enforcement - specifically, the BAU. Only writes in blue ink because she needs her words to stand out as much as her personality does. Likely has a compulsive habit of arriving to work early but never early enough to beat him to the office.

And there she was, the Unsub, strolling through the entrance just as the clock struck 6:01.

“Good morning, Hotch,” you said without even glancing in his direction, as if you somehow sensed his irritation wafting across the bullpen.

You were the Unsub.

His polyglot, sarcastic, sticky-note-vandalizing deskmate.

Case closed.

“Why did you leave me this?” he scoffed as his fingers carefully peeled back the neon pink square from the folder.

The glue resisted just enough to be infuriating, threatening to leave a smear on what he privately considered his masterpiece - a report so cleanly written that it might one day serve as the gold standard for FBI rookies.

And now, his file, had been vandalized.

It bore your mark.

“Educational purposes,” you said airily, as you dropped into your chair facing his own, a complete lack of regard for the disruption you caused just by existing in his vicinity.

He despised it.

That your desk had to face his, ensuring that every time he so much as lifted his gaze, he was met with the perpetual source of his unease, was nothing short of torture.

Why couldn’t you be like his last deskmate? That moron at least had the decency to leave him alone unless absolutely necessary.

The most small talk he’d ever inflicted was the occasional, self-congratulatory monologue about whatever barely-legal college girl he’d managed to con into bed last Friday night with the oh-so-irresistible revelation that he was FBI.

At least after spewing his bullshit, the guy would shut up and return to his self-inflicted misery, no doubt haunted by the limitations of his pitifully small brain.

You, instead, were far too smart - too sharp for your own good, really - but still your humor was as broken as his own. You had the same, if not more, level of drive. And for some inexplicable reason, you shared his obsession with arriving early.

It was maddening.

It was his thing - his small act of rebellion against a world that had always expected more from him than he could give.

His hours of solitude before the office filled with noise, before the madness and the demands of others hijacked his peace. Those few precious hours were his escape, his refuge, where he could think, where he could breathe.

But no, you had to show up too. Every damn morning.

“Educational purposes?” He echoed flatly, regretting, for the hundredth time, that he ever encouraged you to speak before his second cup of coffee.

“Yes, Hotch. I’ve never seen you use a sticky note,” you retorted, as if your reasoning were completely rational and not mildly absurd. “So, naturally, I assumed you didn’t know they existed. Thought I’d be kind of me to introduce you to the concept.”

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm sliding off his tongue with a sharpness that matched the ache now forming at his temples. “I know what sticky notes are. I don’t use them because they’re impractical. They always leave glue residue, it’s annoying.”

Since for some reasons he felt the need to emphasize his point, he held up his sacred notebook - a worn, leather-bound treasure he treated like an extension of himself. “That’s why we have these. To take proper notes. Like agents. Not middle schoolers.”

But you didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the movement slow and casual, yet just enough to make him irrationally nervous that you might tip over. “They don’t leave residue if you close the case fast enough. The glue won’t have time to dry. But I guess if it takes you ages to solve something, that’s not really the sticky note’s fault, is it? Sounds more like a problem with the agent.”

His jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

The nerve of you.

He hated how his body betrayed him like this, the faintest tingle at the back of his neck, the way his pulse faltered and then stuttered, because his decision to remain silent didn’t let his voice do the stammering instead.

Oh, he wanted to argue.

Desperately.

To lay out an irrefutable case demonstrating, that the fault lay not in the man who would undoubtedly climb the FBI ranks faster than anyone dared imagine but in the cheap adhesive some factory somewhere had slapped onto your stupid pack of hot pink sticky notes.

And all he wanted, absurdly, was to prove you wrong.

Not just wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

But instead of offering a retort worthy of his reputation, he exhaled sharply, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours, narrowing into the kind of look that could silence seasoned agents, suspects, and even Gideon when necessary.

Yet somehow, it had no discernible effect on the 21-year-old profiler sitting across from him - the one who’d been in the BAU for barely three weeks and already seemed impervious to his most withering glares.

As if in response to his futile attempt at dominance, your smirk widened, as though you could hear the unspoken debate raging in his head. Worse, it looked like you were enjoying the fact that you’d managed to rattle him.

And God help him, he felt rattled.

“How many of those sticky notes do you have?” he finally asked.

Your response was almost immediate.

“As many as you need,” you said as you pulled open your top-right drawer – the drawer that had come to symbolize everything he couldn’t categorize about you.

It housed your so-called “essentials”: pencils, a collection of elastic bands you had an infuriating habit of launching at him when the mood struck, and the same six markers in various states of decay - probably relics from your high school days. There was a stapler in there too - one he had to admit, with no small amount of shame, he borrowed from time to time.

But then there were the other items. The ones his categorically organized brain couldn’t quite justify sharing space with stationary essentials.

A box of tea - the kind of black tea with a scent so strong it practically sucker-punched him from across the desk every time you brewed it, chocolate bars that mysteriously appeared and vanished like contraband…

…and, as it turned out, the dreaded sticky notes.

They were hidden beneath the tea box, of course - because why not force him to think about the assault on his nostrils that would begin precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes from now?

You lifted the box, revealing the fluorescent pink squares of doom, a shade so bright it only made the pain going on in his head since the first moment you opened your mouth today even worse.

“I only have hot pink, though,” you announced, holding the sticky notes up.

“…And?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to use hot pink? Do you have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary,” you said, your lips curling into that infuriating smirk again. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d whine about a color demasculating your sacred reports.”

He felt his pulse thrum in his ears at that.

He almost - almost - wanted to tell you that you were looking at a man currently wearing pink socks under his neatly pressed slacks. A pair that had, unfortunately, turned pink during his first solo attempt at laundry in college and had somehow managed to stay in his rotation all these years, as a reminder that even the best could make mistakes.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was embarrassed - he wasn’t - but because he knew you’d twist it into something else entirely, another jab, another laugh at his expense.

And the last thing he needed right now was more of this.

Whatever this was.

Instead, he picked up the hot pink sticky notes, tapping them against his palm. “I’ll take them, we’ll see if it’s really the agent’s fault."

By mid-morning, to his reluctant surprise, the sticky notes had become one of his favorite tools - not just for their undeniable practicality but because they gave him the perfect weapon to deliver a dose of your own medicine.

And you deserved it. Absolutely, unequivocally deserved it.

After all, it wasn’t him launching elastic bands at his deskmate with sniper-like precision at ungodly hours, the faint thwack cutting through the quiet bullpen as the band landed squarely in his lap, while he was clearly trying to work. This, from the same person who’d managed to fail their firearm certification twice

It wasn’t him leaning subtly - though not subtly enough - to sneak a peek at his case files because your own workload wasn’t challenging enough to hold your attention. Still too new to the team, you’d only been sent into the field once, a prisoner of the bullpen and endless paperwork. Yet, despite the monotony, you remained undeterred, tirelessly determined to prove your worth at every possible turn.

And it certainly wasn’t him disrupting the flow of the day by asking if his coffee needed refilling when he was clearly already immersed in work, only to return moments later with an extra steaming cup - and a piece of chocolate from that drawer - placing it without a word on his desk like it wasn’t an unnecessary intrusion. Because you were just kind like that.

It wasn’t him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric bunching unevenly around his elbows - a motion so predictable it had practically become your tell when you were wrestling with a puzzle more stubborn than the agent that solving it.

Nor was it how your forearms inevitably transformed into impressionist paintings of smudged blue ink, the accidental artwork often bleeding onto the cuffs of your shirt, leaving the unfortunate soul seated across from you utterly derailed from whatever he’d been about to jot down, unable to look away.

It wasn’t him who dressed like that.

Had a brain like that.

A voice like that.

A face like that.

No.

It wasn’t him. It was you. And that was the problem.

Because for all his irritation, for all his carefully constructed disdain, he couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop… what exactly?

…Right.

Couldn’t stop scribbling down his meticulously crafted revenge, which he would plant squarely on your desk the moment you wandered off to refill your coffee.

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” – Benjamin Franklin

Thought you might enjoy something to ponder while you’re busy ignoring the typo you made on page 7, line 15 of your report.– A.H.

He placed the sticky note precisely in the center of your desk, ensuring it was impossible to miss. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, feigning an air of indifference as he watched you from the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long.

He didn’t look up when you arrived, but he heard it - the subtle shift in your breathing, the gasp as your eyes widened. The pages of your report rustled as you flipped through them, and the sharp exhale that followed told him you’d found it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Never had a sound been so soothing to his ears.

And yet - he should have known better.

He barely had time to blink before the loud thud of your hand slamming onto his desk jolted him upright. He looked up to find you standing over him, your eyes gleaming with a smugness so infuriating it made him want to wipe it off your face.

His gaze darted down to the sticky note you’d slapped in front of him, and -

Oh.

Hotch stared at it. Then stared some more.

There, in all its crude glory, was what could only be described as a "creative interpretation" of a very specific part of the male anatomy, staring back at him from the bright pink square.

“The proportions are all wrong.” He deadpanned.

And then you, with all your infuriating composure, leaned on his desk.

Close. Too close.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner," you said, raising a brow. "If you want it anatomically correct, maybe next time you should hand me a reference photo."

His brain short-circuited.

For a horrifying moment, he couldn’t think of a single word, but only at the implication of what you said… you couldn’t mean that… right?!

“Not yours!” you blurted out, your hands flailing in a frantic attempt to erase the moment. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking for- I just-”

"And I certainly wouldn’t-" he cut in, his own voice breaking due to the sudden clumsiness of his own tongue.

But the damage was done.

Your cheeks turned the same vivid shade as the neon pink sticky note still plastered defiantly on his desk. He felt his own face burning, and the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, like his own body was actively rebelling against him.

Both of you were way too stunned to say anything that wouldn’t somehow make it worse.

Hotch’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation, but every possible response felt like it would either escalate the embarrassment or reveal… something he wasn’t ready to confront.

And then, mercifully - or perhaps not - your survival instincts kicked in.

“I’ll just… uh… get more coffee,” you muttered, backing away from his desk like it might physically combust if you stayed a moment longer. You turned on your heel, clearly aiming to escape the bullpen as fast as humanly possible. “Do you want some?”

He blinked, thrown off by the question. “Yes, thanks. Black,” he replied automatically, his voice still a little stiff.

As soon as you were out of sight, he allowed himself to crumble. His left hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if they could massage the ridiculousness of it all out of his brain.

Stupid. The whole thing was so stupid.

A slip of the tongue, a misstep, blown completely out of proportion.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, undone by a pink sticky note and a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

With a low, frustrated groan, he let his hand drop, hitting his forehead against the heel of his palm in a futile attempt to snap himself out of it.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He stared down at the open case file in front of him, its neatly typed words mocking him with their clarity.

He knew they were legible - he’d written them himself.

But right now, the letters blurred into meaningless smudges on the page, overridden by a far more vivid image - your face.

Flushed. Wide-eyed. Flustered.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Just a joke, he reminded himself. Just a stupid, ill-timed joke.

And yet his chest still felt tight, his pulse erratic, like he’d run up the stairs two steps at a time.

His gaze flicked to the sticky note still sitting on the edge of his desk, as bright and offensive as the moment it had first been slapped down in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.

There. Problem solved. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

He could move on.

But then his hand stilled, his grip loosening as he stared at the crumpled ball of paper.

His pulse still raced, his mind still spiraled, and all because of… this.

A rational man would throw it away. Rip it into pieces, toss it into the trash, and let it become a fleeting, forgotten memory.

He should throw it away. He would throw it away. Any second now.

But his hand didn’t move.

Instead, and against every shred of common sense he prided himself on, Hotch smoothed the crumpled edges as best he could and opened his desk drawer, tucking it far into the back, behind a few other things he pretended not to care about but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Hidden away, out of sight.

Safe.

From what? From you? From himself? He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t dare linger on the questions.

Instead, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand - but even as he turned his attention to the files in front of him, the pink still lingered in his periphery, an afterimage burned into his mind.

Of your flustered face.

Adorable.

So adorable that, over time, that sticky note became far from the only item inhabiting that drawer.

Aaron Hotchner - the very man who had once scoffed at your so-called “miscellaneous essentials” drawer - now secretly had one of his own.

A collection of odd, seemingly random things: items you had given him, thrown at him in moments of boredom, or those ridiculous little tokens you’d started exchanging lately that blurred the line between teasing and genuine thoughtfulness.

Because that’s what deskmates did, right?

They shared. They joked. They exchanged these odd little tokens of camaraderie that somehow made the job less crushing.

Except this felt like something more.

Maybe you were more than deskmates. Maybe even… friends?

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Gideon, had been starting to observe the two of you like he was profiling a particularly complex unsub, his sharp, knowing glances making Hotch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Then there was Rossi, who took an almost perverse delight in making his observations less subtle. "Synergy," he'd say with a pointed smirk, the kind that made Hotch’s jaw tighten. "It’s a rare thing, you know, finding compatibility like this. Magic, really."

They saw something. Something neither of you was ready to admit.

And ominously - no, deliberately - they decided to exploit it.

Because that’s what bosses did.

The BAU was chronically understaffed, perpetually fighting against the outdated perception that profiling was glorified guesswork. The pay wasn’t anything to write home about, either. Most cases were worked from behind desks, saving the budget for the bigger field assignments.

But what the BAU lacked in glamour, it tried to make up for in partnerships - teams so seamlessly synchronized they became the backbone of the unit.

Apparently, you and Hotch had become one of those teams.

What had started as two distinct desks - two well-defined territories with clear boundaries - had slowly morphed into one chaotic shared space.

A 5’x5’ no-man’s-land where it was impossible to tell where your workspace ended, and his began.

Like now.

The oversized map of your current case sprawled across the desk, forcing you both into closer proximity than either of you would normally allow.

You were perched on his side of the desk, tracing potential paths and patterns, completely absorbed in piecing together the unsub’s geographical profile.

He told himself he was focused. Jotting down victim locations. Marking points on the map with  little red magnets.

Totally immersed in the task at hand.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the occasional brush of your arm against his felt electrifying in a way it had no right to be.

Because your voice, low and steady as you murmured your observations, felt less like background noise and more like the only sound in the room.

And yet, this closeness, this seamless partnership, felt natural.

Effortless.

Distracting as hell.

So distracting that by the time he placed the last magnet, he realized he’d miscounted. One victim left, and no magnet to place them.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your eyes scanning the map, “It looks like we might’ve missed a pin for Daniel Hardman.”

How diplomatic of you.

How unnecessarily kind, considering it was entirely his fault.

He’d miscounted the magnets - a mistake caused by a momentary lapse in focus when, mid-count, you casually asked him if he wanted to go watch the first Star Wars prequel with you next year.

It wasn’t just the advance planning that sent his mind reeling - though the thought of you penciling him into your future like that was disarming enough - it was the fact that you remembered he liked Star Wars.

A detail you had no business remembering, and yet, somehow, you did.

“Yes, sorry. There are more in my drawer,” he said, standing quickly to fetch them himself. But before he could stop you, you were already at the drawer, pulling it open.

“It’s the second one-” The words barely left his mouth before he heard the gasp.

“…from the top,” he finished weakly, already knowing what you’d seen.

There they were. Your tokens. In his drawer. Staring right at you.

The gun casing from the bullet you’d proudly handed him after finally earning your firearm certification on your third attempt. You’d declared, almost giddy, that you’d never be a burden to him again, and maybe it was his lessons, you’d added shyly, that had helped you finally overcome it. He wasn’t sure what had struck him more: the pride in your voice or the fact that you’d thought of him at all.

A framed solo photograph of the two of you from that year’s Thanksgiving spent stuck in the bullpen, drowning in case files while Rossi and Gideon insisted on a makeshift dinner with takeout. You hadn’t hesitated for a second, throwing an arm around him for the picture and leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, maybe it had been. For him, it had been anything but.

Every single elastic band you’d launched at him -143, though he’d never admit to counting.

A single stray hair tie - the one you’d used to tie his hair into a ridiculous fountain one day when his fringe had gotten so long it kept falling into his face. He’d left it like that the rest of the day, silently cursing himself for how much he didn’t hate it.

An unopened pack of hot pink sticky notes, the only color he now allowed himself to buy, though he’d never admit why.

And, of course, every sticky note you’d ever left him, arranged in chronological order - except for one.

The “caricature,” the crude drawing that had started his ridiculous collection. That particular sticky note hadn’t stayed long in the drawer. Somehow, it had made its way home with him, “inexplicably” framed and placed on his bedside table.

It now sat next to his alarm clock, the two most irritating objects in his life.

Both constant reminders of things he couldn’t seem to escape - one for its relentless insistence on dragging him out of bed every morning, and the other for how it made him feel every time he looked at it.

And now here you were, looking up from the drawer, eyes wide. “Hotch…”

He tensed, his pulse quickening with each step you took toward him… what were you doing?

Without a word, you opened your drawer—the infamous "essentials" drawer he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

Except this time, its contents had changed.

Because right on top, perched like a cherished keepsake, was a photo he hadn’t known existed.

Another one from that Thanksgiving night.

The one photo taken moments later, when you’d decided, in your infinite ability to wreak havoc, to joke about “capturing a moment” and had wrapped your arms around his head, holding him still as you planted a kiss on his cheek.

His expression in the photo was pure indignation, eyebrows furrowed in protest - though it also captured the deep rouge spreading across his cheeks.

“This one is my favorite,” you said, laughing as you held it up for him to see. “You’re so red in it, it’s hilarious.”

He stared at the photo, feeling the telltale warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him all over again. His ears burned as he managed to mutter, “Never been kissed by a woman before.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

You blinked, your laughter abruptly halting as your mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, seriously? Are you-?”

He sighed, cutting you off before your pity or disbelief could spiral out of control. “I was joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly deadpan. “I’ve been kissed by women. Multiple.”

You burst into laughter again, this time doubling over. “Oh my God! Why did you say it like that? Multiple! Hotch,” you said, gasping for air between giggles, “you’re killing me.”

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the map in front of him. “You’re killing me.”

You didn’t hear him, thank God - or if you did, you gave no sign. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

A moment later, you were back at his side of the desk, the missing red magnet in your hand. You held it out to him, your smile still warm, still lingering. “For the record,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think it’s kind of sweet. That you framed it, I mean.”

His hand hesitated as he reached for the magnet, his fingers hovering just over yours. Something so simple suddenly felt unbearably complicated.

Delicate.

He couldn’t seem to figure out how to take the magnet without brushing against your skin - not that he didn’t want to.

He just wasn’t sure if he should.

“It’s a good photo,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before darting back to the map.

Safe. Neutral.

But you didn’t retreat.

If anything, your smile only grew.

“Yes,” you said, voice just as quiet. “It is.”

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[intothegenshinworld]

     "An Enchanted Evening" 

Banquets and parties alike weren’t uncommon in the Zapolyarny Palace. Funny enough, you seemed to be getting invites to them nearly every other month. One of the more silly perks of knowing Pulcinella, you suppose.

 ⟡

Like any other event, PULCINELLA would be the one signing his name as the sender of your letter of invitation. With your long standing acquaintance, he can’t help but see you as his adopted grandchild and a possible successor in the future. No matter the event, he’d try his best to involve you. At first he only did so to grant you access to the most elite connections in Snezhnaya and to elevate you to a higher status, but you quickly found your way into the hearts of the other Harbingers as well. From serving glasses of champagne during the annual winter ball as a server, to being seated amongst the most important people in Snezhnaya as a beloved friend. – Luck must be on your side if you’ve swayed all of their hearts, and who are you to refuse their affections?

As another close acquaintance to the 5th Harbinger, it's natural for CHILDE and you to have a close connection too. While you might not share the same lust over power and battles, you're able to confide in him without judgment. He is good company, and he often shares the most epic stories from his adventures and the more wholesome ones of his family in Morepesok. Should you at any time find the banquet to be boring, he's more than up for leaving and sneaking you out. However, be prepared for a scolding from Pulcinella once your missing presences are noticed by the others.

If you decide to sit next to PANTALONE at the banquet, you’ll likely catch his smile crumble at some point during the banquet—it being replaced by a scowl as annoyance visibly sets on his face. When yet another plate crashes or a fight breaks out and chairs get thrown across the room, he unconsciously counts the heaps of mora he’d need to spend on repairs just because a few people are insolent and refuse to have manners. Fortunately, he seems to have a soft spot for you. If you ever happen to break anything, on purpose or not, he suddenly seems to be oblivious to the action. Ask him anything, and he'll get it for you. After all, everything has a price, and what's a few million mora and a couple of favors if he can capture your heart in the end.

After a glass of wine, SIGNORA will start to share gossip with the Harbingers, often causing arguments between others as these bits of news are not in favor of her colleagues. She watches the entertainment from a safe distance, but if you call her out, she’ll try to avoid causing any more chaos during the banquet. Of course, in return she expects you to keep her entertained instead. If you drink, she’ll coax you to drink enough for you to spill your own secrets. And while she doesn’t care about the safety of others' private affairs, she’ll keep yours close to her chest.

As the fireplace crackles in the background, ARLECCHINO will mutter disapprovingly under her breath. The loud arguments, the spilled wine, — she can't stand the lack of etiquette at the table, and the sight of an elemental attack nearly hitting you makes her cringe. So, go on. Sit next to her. She'll keep you safe from the more unruly Harbingers. In the meantime, if you're polite and express genuine interest in her, she might share a few stories from Fontaine — but only if you offer some stories of your own in return. No ulterior motives, she simply wishes to know you at a more intimate level than the others do. 

Between the enthusiastic and annoyed Harbingers, SANDRONE appears to be disinterested. Unimpressed by the stories of her colleagues, she sits in the chair, poking the food on her plate with a bored expression. If you try your luck by approaching her for a conversation, she’ll likely gain some energy. Mention her robots or any of her current projects, and she'll expect you to listen thoroughly for the remainder of the night. Don't worry, if you fall asleep you can rest your head on her shoulder. It's not like she'll be joining any dances or the conversation of the others anyway.

While the fellow Harbingers are captivated by the variety of food and bustling atmosphere, CAPITANO will find a way to excuse himself to take a breather. Often, events like these are exhausting, and as a soldier of war, he’s unable to fully relax or make small talk. Still, as he walks out into the quiet halls of the palace, he hopes you’ll follow him. He doesn’t need someone to check up on him, but your worry warms his heart and he adores it when you fuss over him despite his status and rank. As you approach him in the halls, he’ll tell you he needs some air, and when you hesitantly turn to give him space, he’ll call out your name, holding his arm out for you to take — asking if you’d want to join him on a walk before returning to the ongoing banquet.

The banquet would be incomplete without DOTTORE causing a commotion. Whether it's arousing a heated argument between others or spiking the drinks with god-knows-what, he's up to something and you're forced to keep an eye on him unless you want to be his next ‘experiment’ at the event. There is no way you'll talk him out of it either. But if you decide to cover for him, keeping still as he throws a strange liquid into the drink closest to him, he might let you in on his unconventional ideas of fun, if you can handle it, of course.

While most of the Harbingers try to stir up trouble, SCARAMOUCHE thrives on creating pure chaos and watching the place burn down. He constantly gets into arguments, finding the whole ordeal unpleasant, and yet you see him present during every event you’re invited to. And while the Doctor schemes and gets away with the many pranks he pulls, the Balladeer finds amusement in the anger of others, uncaring of the consequences and keeping things unpredictable as people yell at him for the ninth time that night. Ask why he's never attacked you and he'll tell you that your reactions aren't worth it. But is that truly all? Perhaps the fleeting glances are a sign of something more.

COLUMBINA will go unbothered by the chaos around her. Even as food flies around the room, she remains unfazed. Her serene and enchanting presence seems to be an anomaly amongst the others, but don't be fooled, she has you right where she wants. During the banquet, she'll capture your attention and successfully steal you away from any other conversations. She'll find ways to hold your hand and somewhat sneakily steal food from your plate. You're not sure when the night ended either, time seems to flow weirdly when you're around her. 

PIERRO sits at the head of the table, chatting with the more quiet people that sit next to him as he calmly observes the others in the room. The demands of being the director of the Harbingers have left him feeling drained, making him too exhausted to actively participate in the lively atmosphere during events. Instead, he seeks solace in the quiet moments.  If you're able to slow things down with him, you'll find yourself a permanent seat beside him.  And as you’re able to get to know him better, he starts engaging in more conversations with you. For once, it appears that he might genuinely be enjoying himself.

©intothegenshinworld. Do not copy, repost, translate, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thanks for reading.

[purple-babygirl]

fallen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x guardian angel!f!reader

Word count: 1,395

Summary: Steve thought Bucky falling out of that freight train was partially his fault. What if there was another unseen side to the story?

Warnings: angst, crying, mentions of violence including being captured by the war enemy, torture, blood, angel wings snapping, imprisonment, cryo freezing, suffering and nightmares.

A/N: i don't know what i'm doing. I'm sad. i don't even know how I'm gonna continue this story. i have nothing prepared for it. again, I'm just sad. i love you tho.

~

Guardian angels, beings as old as time. They exist and protect without getting bored or fed up. They are there even if people have created too many wars until they have stopped believing in them and in gods altogether.

She was the same, and although she wouldn’t know, she was a piece of art. Lilac hair and eyes, skin softer than silk and a voice so sweet it could melt mountains.

She had no name or age. She had a number. Angel number 11 was who she was. She had no family or friends.

But she had a human.

He was assigned to her and she was made for him. Her only purpose as a creature of the light was to look out for him and keep him safe.

What she wasn’t supposed to do though, was fall in love with him.

Unlike her, he had a name. He was James Buchanan Barnes. This handsome, brave, young man who got enlisted and was about to go fight for his country. He was so kind, so charming and so so far away.

She was very worried, her angelic heart only ever knowing these feelings for him, yet confident in her powers. She would never let anything bad happen to James, or Bucky as he liked to be called.

War or not, she had his back. He could walk through fire and she would get him out of there unharmed.

A

Sadly, all of her planning was burnt to ashes when her ‘superiors’ found out about her latent feelings for the human she was assigned to guard since birth.

It has never happened before. Or at least that was what they had said.

It was all the same with each and every one of them. They get assigned to a baby human, be it male or female, they look after the human all their life until they no longer have one and then they move on to another human.

No angel has ever broken the rules, let alone to this extent.

Why did she think she was going to get away with this? Why did she think she was any different? Who did she think she was trying to carelessly cross the clear boundaries?

The night they were sure she had those forbidden feelings for a lesser being, she was chained and temporarily deprived of her powers, and Bucky was captured by the enemy.

They left her alone to wallow in the dark and cry in worry about her beloved, wishing she was strong enough to get out of her shackles and go be with him in this time of war; in his time of need.

When they kept her there for days to give her a chance to have a ‘change of heart’, Bucky was experimented on and tortured by Hydra.

And when she begged, swearing on all things holy that she was past her silly feelings for him and was ready to go back to serving her part and her part alone, Steve had found Bucky and brought him back with him.

She saw the bruises on his face, the dried blood down his ears and she cried and cried until her eyes were out of diamonds.

She blamed herself for being sloppy with her feelings. She had to be careful if she wanted to stay by Bucky’s side. She had to step on her heart and suppress her emotions if she wanted to keep protecting the man she was in love with.

The way she was unknowingly being monitored, however, ruined everything for her and ended her life as she once knew it forever.

Bucky was being the good friend that he was, going with Steve to fight again, looking more courageous and more handsome than any human ever has.

She was so proud of him and her smile wasn’t missable.

They noticed the focus on her face as she made sure the rope Bucky used to descend on the back of the train held up. They noticed her angel heart and how its beats accelerated with every bullet she dodged for him.

They noticed and they had to stop it.

“You lied,” they said, coming prepared with stronger chains to lock her in.

“He needs me. Please let me be with him,” she begged instead of  finding a way to defend herself.

They didn’t care, hands already on her wings and others on her neck.

“It’s over. He’s on his own from now on and it’s your fault.”

They were punishing Bucky for her mistake. He was going to get hurt and it was all because of her stupidity.

“Please, no!”

They didn’t hear her pleas or her cries, or pity her heart-wrenching screams as they snapped both of her wings off her back at once.

The second she fell to her knees, bloodied and broken, Bucky fell off the train, her last sight of him being him trying to reach for Steve’s hand and failing.

“You’re gonna be in there for at least 80 years, better try to forget because when you’re out, he might be gone.” They advised with little sympathy as they threw her inside the dark cave-like cell.

If this was heaven, what was hell supposed to be like? She can’t be feeling her heart get crushed over and over like that in the one place that was supposed to be void of such bitter feelings, could she?

She cried and cried, day and night. The bright lilac of her pupils turning dim and dull.

Has she just caused Bucky’s death? Did she just kill the one man she was created to protect? The one man that had gotten her heart to beat?

Screaming until she couldn’t breathe, she mourned the man she has known and loved all her life.

Nothing mattered anymore. Not her wings or her imprisonment. Nothing made sense without Bucky. Her life didn’t make sense without Bucky’s.

They let him die. They let her watch him die. Her heart ached with the memory for nights on end even though she could still feel their bond as if Bucky was still there. It was weaker, but it was present.

She became quieter as the years passed, no longer singing or screaming or even talking. The heavens didn’t miss her though, but James sure did. They had too many of her kind, but James only had her. Such thoughts would attack her every night year after year until she would cry herself to exhaustion every night, eventually losing sense of time.

20 years later, she started having nightmares. Terrible, horrendous dreams of her long-missed beloved hurting others.

Her once gentlemanly, well-mannered, kind man was now ending lives in cold blood in her nightmares.

James looked different. His hair was longer, his face grimmer, his eyes darker and his left arm shinier. His warm gaze was replaced by a dead one she never knew.

Had she not known him with her heart before her eyes, she might have not recognized him.

She knew it was her James. She could feel him. She could never forget him even if she wanted to.

Their bond felt strained, weighed down and suffocated. She had no idea what that meant. She thought she was turning crazy, her mind conjuring up an evil version of James to make her fear him or hatr him or leave her memories of him behind for good.

But she would never. Let her turn crazy, she was still going to be in love with James until her last breath no matter what.

Another 50 years and her nightmares have been recurring visions that she was used to, and even waited for.

Any glimpse of James was welcome even if he was acting nothing like the James she had known and loved.

The hardest visions where the ones where she saw him get hurt, his pained screams pulling her heart out and shattering it.

It all felt so real and that made her hate it all more.

It took her a while but she eventually figured out that James was still alive. She didn’t understand how he didn’t age until the cryo-chamber visions came on. Her heart ached for him, bled and sobbed inside her chest for the man who was suffering because she couldn’t be there to protect him; because she let both herself and him fall.

~

Tag list:

@harrysthiccthighss @tinystudentfirepurse @lavendercitizen @tumblin-theworldaway @pretty-pop-princess-hs @lilymurphy03 @idontwannagomrstarkk @glxwingrxse @littlelioncub43 @mathletemadison @canned-rootbear @pandaxnienke @loveisallyouneed1125 @floral-recs @littlemoonkiller @hallecarey1 @vespasianphantom @vicmc624 @winters1917 @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @blkmystery @millercontracting @trappedwriter @am-3-thyst @obsessedwithquinn @sydnielauryn @alittlerayof-pitchblack @olipiaa @peterparkersgirl-blog @buckybarnessweetheart @thealyrs @colorfulbluebirdpainter @stuckysgirl27 @ihavetwoholesforareason @princess-bee0 @pastel-noah168 @steeph-aniie @buckitostan @onthr-dream @123iloveyou456 @ciaqui @lindasweetie @justherefortheficandsmut @xxdiaqiaoxx @morgthemagpie @wintrsoldrluvr @goldylions @serendipitouslife90 @sebastians-love @leelee1234love @tiedyedghoulette @saint-marvel @helenaellie @onceithough @raynelbabe @a-very-fictional-girl @justabeluga @lindababe69 @sapphirebarnes

[shana-silver-fox]

TBOC 2.03 L'Invisible

The title was clearly a callback to Rick and Carol's conversation at how good she is playing undercover detective. She gets it done in this episode.

Lots found this one boring, but for someone like me who likes to over analyze every little bit it was packed with lots of goodies.

Ces Douleurs

Genet: These pains we carry, we women need to learn to let them go. Men seem to have no problem doing that.

Carol: They certainly do not.

Damn. I FELT THAT hard!

we open with Genet's back story and what will be a parallel later to Tinkyl

The purposeful comparison of Carol to the Mona Lisa is just *chefs kiss.

The most famous painting in the world. The most famous lady of The Walking Dead. Both with that hidden secret behind their smile.

This quickly turns into Genet displaying a show of power over a much bigger man by making him eat food off the floor like a dog. There is another scene in the next episode that is very similiar. Would like to hear ya'lls thoughts on the point of this.

The man she humiliates has disrespected the lady who is serving them food. I lost count of the times haters have tried to diminish and disrespect Carol for "just being the cook". Wonder if this was a Melissa note? Genet tells Carol she has no tolerance for bullies, and no one has been bigger bullies in this fandom than the Carol haters.

Loved this. We know Carol wants Daryl in the kitchen with her.

Experiments. Yes we heard about Daryl’s “experiment” from Norman. Just as gruesome. No thanks.

Cordron: I had him and I let him go.

Carol knows what that’s like. Cordron also thinks Carol’s last name is Dixon now.

More talk about coincidences and signs. Look for the signs. 🪧

Remmy let us down, but his line saying Carol would have done the same for HER DARYL is so true.

The symbolism of Carol riding to the rescue on a white horse through a tunnel was beautiful. She was just cut off, unfortunately. So much tunnel symbolism connected to Caryl I could do a seperate post. Even Losang talks about light at the end of the tunnel. “you make the light” “follow my light”

I do love Carol’s reaction to hearing Daryl has aligned himself with a religious group. “REALLY?” Like the fandom’s reaction to this version of Daryl so far 😂

Carol: the war to end all wars? I’ve heard that before.

Shade at Rick?

Calling Daryl Carol’s raison d’être is spot on. It translates to “reason to live”

Tick tock time for the fairytale to end

Conveniently Sylvia dies so Isabelle doesn’t have to confess to executing Emile.

Why did Izzy just stand there and wait for Daryl to shoot walker Sylvie? Was she gonna let it happen? 🤨

I was impressed with Daryl’s action scene. Norman’s stunt double actually got a bit of a break. He made sure to get his Carol knife back!

Losang’s break down of Daryl is amazing….

losang :Simply reacting. A man alone. It’s a sad state. He’s right. Daryl has been just reacting not feeling since he got to France. and he feels totally alone

Only by risking everything can we be sure. Daryl’s so scared to risk everything with Carol

Daryl: What happens if you’re wrong?

Losang: If I’m wrong there would be no point in going on There’s Daryl’s greatest fear. If he risks it all to tell Carol how he feels and ends up being wrong and she doesn’t feel the same way, then loses her friendship, he will think he doesn’t have a reason to go on.

Laurent and Daryl’s cave couldn’t be more Lost Boys coded.

Laurent: Not Daryl. He never believed.

Yes toodles, & that’s why Tinkerbelle dies.

The Leah parallel is just too much

When Isabelle figures out she’s Tinkerbelle 😥

Ok did everyone hear that distinct change in music tone after Tink says ILY? It was fraught, not happy. Along with Daryl’s expression.

Lasong to Daryl :Isabelle has always had an open mind and heart. You sadly are beyond hope

Daryl’s heart has been closed off and he thinks he’s beyond hope 😭😭😭 but hope is coming to open it!

Hope in the form of a tiny woman from Georgia is on her way to save you. Hope is not lost Daryl, she has a map!

The perfect bookend to this episode was Isabelle’s Douleurs Exquise . It’s a very common French phrase that means the pain of unrequited love. Poor Izzy. Getting silence and no return on that ILY was rough. 🥶

From Ces Douleurs , to Douleurs Exquise

Fin

[cherryeol04]

Untouched (M)

➻ Pairings: Minho x Hyunjin x Changbin

➻ Genre: Established Relationship, Romance, Smut

➻ Additional: Fantasy AU, cucking, threesome

➻ Word Count: 915

➻ Warnings:

 ➻ Author’s notes: Fae Hyunjin is at the mercy of Sea Serpent Minho, forced to please the other man while his husband, human Changbin, watches. While being degraded and told how worthless his cock is, Hyunjin is also forced to admit how much better Minho is at fucking him - how good Minho makes him feel. This story is cross posted on multiple sites under the same username!

“Fucking worthless.” Minho hissed into Changbin’s ear at the same time as he slapped his weeping cock, pulling a strangled cry from the human. He had been hard for so long now, time lost within the confines of the bedroom. It had all been his idea - he had practically pleaded with Hyunjin. He never thought it would turn out to be this good. “Pay attention, stupid human.” There was no venom to the words, but they served their purpose nonetheless - another moan falling from Changbin’s lips as he tried to focus his gaze on the other male, vision slightly obscured by his tears.

“Mmm, that’s better.” Minho hummed, his slitted yellow eyes raking over Changbin’s naked form. He gave another slight appreciative hu, but just as quickly as the attention had turned to Changbin, it was gone. Minho’s strong, broad back was turned to him - pale skin glinting a greenish hue as the light reflected on the near translucent scale patches. Human form or natural form, the sea serpent was gorgeous. A perfect balance of neutrality and Changbin’s first and only pick for this game.

The older male made his way back to the bed where Changbin’s equally gorgeous husband, Hyunjin, was laid out for them, cock hard and achingly red, twitching every few seconds with need. Changbin’s eyes moved to Hyunjin’s hole, currently stuffed full with a vibrator. “Look at you.” Minho swatted at the toy, watching it wiggle from side to side as Hyunjin squirmed, back arching as a broken cry filled the room. “Feel good, baby?”

“Y-yes.” Hyunjin panted out, fingers curling tightly in the sheets underneath him.

“Better than what your husband’s pathetic excuse for a dick can make you feel?”

Changbin shifted in his chair, a needy moan leaving him as Minho’s words went straight to his cock. Hyunjin lifted his head towards him, eyes searching and all Chafngbin could do was nod in reassurance. He wanted this - so fucking bad did he want this. Given the green light, Hyunjin’s head fell back on the bed as he nodded.

“Words.” Minho warned, smacking the toy again, and again Hyunjin cried out with a squirm.

“Yes!  ‘S so good.” he whined and as if to prove his point, precum oozed from the tip, slowly sliding down the underside of his cock. “Minho, please.” he begged.

“Please what, darling?”

“Fuck me. Want to cum.” Hyunjin whimpered.

“Aw, poor baby wants to cum. Should let you husband fuck you.” Minho blinked a few times as he stared down at Hyunjin before sneering. “I’m sure he wouldn’t know what to do ith his dick if he was given the chance.” Slender fingers wrapped around the base of the vibrator and Minho began fucking Hyunjin with it. The beautiful fae thrashed on the bed, desperate cries falling from pretty pink lips as more precum leaked from his tip. The sight was intoxicating and it took all of Changbin’s willpower to not touch himself. 

“Look at this, Binnie.” Changbin jumped when the attention was back on him. Minho’s eyes were boring holes into his soul and he felt like prey to a hungry predator. And he was. Minho was a dangerous predator, but Changbin trusted him. “This toy can fuck him better than you ever could.” 

Changbin squirmed, a needy whine escaping him as his muscles flexed with restraint. His cock twitched nearly uncontrollably as it leaked copious amounts of precum. The head was an angry red and Changbin felt like he was at the edge, barely hanging on. “I-I-” changbin started, but the pointed glare Minho shot him shut him up instantly.

“Oh fuck! Oh god!” Hyunjin’s cries of pleasure went straight to Changbin’s dick, eyes locked on the way Minho rotated and grinded the vibrator inside of Hyunjin. Hyunjin’s breathing became shallow and rapid, toes curling as his body arched and jerked. “Minho!” Hyunjin’s body shook as the pleasure reached its breaking point. With one last cry, Hyunjin painted his stomach white with long sticky ropes of cum.

Changbin’s own orgasm took him by surprise, cock throbbing as he came all over his stomach. The rush was hot - breathtaking. His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as he drowned in the ecstasy of his release. Changbin was left a shaking mess as he slowly started coming down from his high, reality slowly coming back to him. As soon as he had enough wits about him, he realized Minho was by his side, stroking his hair gently and his lap was filled with his glowing, needy husband. He dragged his arms forwards, wrapping them around Hyunjin’s waist. The fae nuzzled into his neck, and Changbin smiled lightly, pressing a kiss to his Hyunjin’s head.

“You did so good, baby.” Changbin whispered, and Hyunjin tilted his head up to stare at the other. 

“Really?” 

“Really. So perfect.” Hyunjin beamed at the praise, snuggling himself closer to the other.

“And you did so well for us.” Minho praised, taking Changbin by surprise. His cheeks flushed a light pink, but he tried to ignore it. “Was it to your liking?”

“It was more than I could have asked for. It was amazing.” Changbin turned his head to look back at the other. “You were amazing. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Minho hummed softly as he watched the two. “Call me anytime you want to do this again,” he offered.

“How about next week?” Hyunjin asked with a grin, giggling when Changbin choked on his own spit.

“It’s a date.”

Tags:  @jisungsjheekies@luminouskalopsia@sauceracha@hanjisungismybaby@kiwibaekie@imbonibi@jiwlys@army-of-carats@peachmilkcloud@letterstoskz@lauraneuuh@babyskz@slinekyu@feedthefandoms995@rejemi@halotopicecream @skzmonster @jumunnaa @serendipityryn @eastleighsblog@hydrawaterdragon@3rachasninja@haileybugulug@luvyev

( If you want to join the list, you can find the info here! Also I’m sorry for those listed in the tags but not getting tagged. For some reason tumblr can’t find your blog to tag. I’m hoping it figures it out soon like it did for others.)

[thomastanker02]

When reading the Bible, it may seem tempting to skip parts of the narrative that seem boring, and out of date.

“Why do I need to know all of the traditions of ancient Israel when Jesus has already fulfilled the law and the prophecies?”

“Jesus already gave us his new commandments in the Gospels, why do I need to read through Leviticus?”

“I don’t need to read through David’s portion of the book of Chronicles, I already read through his life in 1 and 2 Samuel”.

Questions and mindsets like these are not only harmful, and lies from the enemy, but they miss the point of reading the Bible in the first place.

The entire point of reading the word of God is to get to know its author. God wrote us this book over the course of centuries in order for us to get to know him.

It’s by reading and studying his word that we become more aware of who he is, his character, what he loves and hates, and his overall goal for human history.

His word is where God speaks to us the most, and he can’t do that effectively if we skip parts of it because it’s “boring”.

“But how can God speak to me through outdated traditions and books about this that we have already read about?”

Do we really limit the power of God to what we can understand?

How can God be God if he can fit into what our human minds can comprehend about him?

Our God is a surprising God. He almost never delivers what we were expecting him to do. No. He gives us what he knows that we need, and the result is even better than what we asked for.

The ancient Israelites were expecting the messiah to be a powerful military leader, who would defeat Rome. But what they received was a poor carpenter, and who never raised a fist in violence towards anyone.

And yet, Jesus was the greatest gift that this world has ever seen.

The same goes for his word.

His word may not be what we want to hear, or feel like reading, but it’s exactly what we need, even if we don’t see how just yet.

God does not speaking idly. Every word he says has a purpose behind, and his word never comes back empty handed. As such, every part of his book serves a purpose. There is no such thing as filler in the Bible.

If you are tempted to skip over portions of the Lord’s word, then it’s most likely what you need to hear the most.

God does not intend for us to experience only portions of the Biblical story, but the entire narrative. The Bible isn’t just a book with God as its author, it’s our story too. We are living it right now!

Shouldn’t we be knowledgeable about the very story that we are living in?

If we really are Christ’s followers, shouldn’t want to hear all that he has to say?

Shouldn’t we listen to our Father all of the time, instead just when it’s interesting?

So let’s get into his word, and wait expectantly for how he’s guides us through it.

God bless, Jesus loves you ✝️❤️

[springtrappd]

Thoughts on the popular ‘vanny and ggy are viruses possessing Vanessa and Gregory’ theory?

but for real: it's not something that i necessarily i think won't happen, but one i hope doesn't happen. it perpetuates the exact kind of pop culture bullshit around identity (as a concept) that drives me up the wall & encourages some of the absolute worst, most boring takes on the characters and their situation possible. it has the exact same problem that i have with the vanny virus narrative as a whole, which is that it denies the characters agency & provides an easy fix for conflict. it wasn't them, the virus did it! they aren't complicated people, the virus did it! there's no need to be afraid because the virus did it! there are times when stories are like that are appropriate but this ain't exactly one of them.

(and note that even in the core 6 games, the animatronics -- despite being possessed by children -- are not portrayed as Secretly Good in that if you flip a magic switch they'll be safe to be around; they're children, yeah, but they're not kind children. you get their happy ending by treating them as such, but choosing to do so is a risk... and their happy ending isn't them being 'fixed' -- because what happened to them cannot be undone; rather, it's them having the chance to be happy. what purpose does having the glamrocks be infected with evilitis every time we see them serve, narratively? what would 'curing' them accomplish, if they're still trapped within the same dehumanising system?)

like. which is more abjectly horrifying: an inescapable spectre of the past recreating your childhood trauma by positioning itself as your abuser and manipulating you into committing horrible acts, the kind that leave you questioning who you are and the lengths you are willing to go to survive -- and if your survival is even worth anything at all, if it means inflicting similar suffering on others... or the Evil You being Evil. i know which one i'm interested in!

and like. it's not like the series has never grappled with anything similarly mature in the past; for all i hate tfc, the one thing about it that isn't incoherent is what it has to say about circus baby and charlie. you cannot hide behind "well it's for kids" or "well you can't expect that kind of thing from the series" when the shit explicitly meant for people who can't handle horror games Went There so hard it gave up on having a coherent plot for the sake of it.

really the only way i would accept something like that is if vanny was some kind of traumademon manifesting from, well, the trauma inflicted by the events of that story up until that point. the problem with that is that unless it all resolves with vanessa accepting her/purifying her/etc, externalising her like that just serves as another excuse to toss vanessa's relevancy out the window... and, yknow, the structure they've set up for themselves doesn't really allow for stories like that. you can't exactly do something deeply personal when you're dedicated to making everything as vague as possible -- for fear of ever actually saying something.

and ggy is dumb and stupid and i hate it because all it does is yoink vanessa's entire shtick without the pathos (vanessa is recreating the horrors of her own past by recreating the horrors of fazbears! what is gregory doing? being sad??) for absolutely zero reason. "gregory is possessed by Evil™️" is a lot less fun (and a lot less interesting in terms of his relationship to vanessa) than "gregory is a kid in a bad situation willing to make whatever choices he has to to survive". like. i usually see ggy brought up as a rebuttal to arguments abt him being fucked up for doing All That Shit to the glamrocks, but...... he isn't possessed? in sb?? that is the point??? if it's meant to be someone else why would his behaviour be the exact same???? if the virus is meant to make him act like the opposite of himself why is his opposite of "yes murder!" attempted murder????? what SIGNS even ARE THERE for ANY OF THIS I HATE ALL OF YOUUUUUUU

[anonymous-dentist]

i'm not sure if this is an unpopular opinion but omg i love that eggs die and feds don't keep them alive all the time, from meta standpoint. like yeah they're cute and everybody gets attached and they have cool personalities and canonically they could bring every one back but. it would get sooo insanely boring after a while. every time an egg gets killed i see viewers complaining about them being "forced" to stay in the fight (i've seen somebody on twt suggesting that empanada was forcefully teleported back to the fight by other admin or something?? what 😭) like it's fully against their will but come on. they're all admins, they play a character and they talk it out between themselves, if they really wanted to stay alive and safe these risks just wouldn't happen in the first place. they can't really kill off players in the same way so they need something else and eggs fill that niche perfectly. it adds tension, it motivates islanders so much, moves entire arcs forward, brings out the best roleplay. when something happens to kids you see their parents and other islanders still referring to it months later and it's shaping their lore so much. and islanders' reactions?? pure cinema, as a fanartist i cherish these moments, they live in my head rent free

Like it sucks every time- I had to get up from the dinner table when everybody had to say goodbye to Bobby (it was sooooo embarrassing for me lol)- but it serves a purpose

In every narrative, there has to be stakes. In the QSMP’s story, the players (usually) can’t die, and that’s important! With no actual threat to their lives, there has to be something else that can be used to pressure them. Enter, Eggs

A lot of people also just either weren’t there for or don’t remember the Code Attacks from April/May because those were BAD. Eggs couldn’t teleport, hence why NINHO had stasis pearls built in. Pomme somehow got like mind controlled to follow a butterfly right into the Code’s grasp during her Very Bad Day.

Yesterday was just like the day Tallulah lost a life to the Codes/Philza. Tbh we should just be happy Bagi didn’t end up accidentally killing her own kid like Phil did that day, that SUCKED

[schafpudel]

Epidemiology of the Raven's Blood

Part 0: Prologue

Realistically, the blood does things because it's convenient to the plot of the anime, and no deeper thought needs to be put in than that. However, while it does explain inconsistencies in its writing, it's boring and not fun to my pattern-seeking brain. I like to piece together coherent internal logic to stuff in fiction, even if I know the authors themselves didn't think that hard about it. It's fun to me!

At the same time, Princess Tutu's meta-fictional conceit does give us some wiggle room to borrow the Doylist understanding and smuggle it back into a Watsonian explanation. So...

In-universe, I think, the purpose of the Raven’s Blood can be understood as a plot device to easily convert a separate “character” and their body into a narrative extension of the Raven; that this is why Drosselmeyer would write it into the logic of his story. Bored of a character you introduced previously and want to heighten the stakes? They're a toadie of the Raven now. And when we go a level down in fictionality...

To the Raven, other living things exist to be exploited. The only use you can have, beyond being a meal, is being a pawn who can get it what it wants – and what it wants is to consume. Like some ancient castle-bound vampire or wicked dragon, its power and intelligence are ultimately in service of a simple predatory desire. If you are neither edible nor manipulable, you are simply a nuisance.

Diseases and parasites will manipulate pain and pleasure, fear and love, the body and the brain. But while a real disease or parasite’s goal in psychological and physiological manipulation is to reproduce, to turn the infected into a means by which to spread itself to new hosts... the Raven's curse is uninterested in this. What matters, to the Raven, is that the cursed becomes a minion and a pawn, who can bring its prey closer to its own mouth.

Part 1: Lay All Your Love On Me

Part 2: Serving Your Heart On A Platter

I’m sure you’ve heard of a sickness that feeds predators their prey. Toxoplasmosis, for example makes male rats as horny and lovesick over the smell of cat urine as they are at the scent of female rats, switching the pathways of fear and desire, to lure them into being devoured. The pathways between the two run parallel, you see. For the infected, every cat becomes a succubus, a siren, a beautiful creature calling its prey to their willing doom. And, if the parasite gets what it wants, this is how the rat dies.

       Why am I talking about this? Because Mytho starts talking about feeding himself to birds literally the day that his symptoms start presenting, in episode 14.

It’s true he’s saying this while antagonizing Fakir, so one could also brush it off as him just Saying Shit to make his roommate as uncomfortable as possible. But also – we know what the Raven wants, in the end.

For most of season 2, however, Raven!Mytho doesn’t continue to talk about feeding himself to crows. He’s mostly focused on seducing sacrifices, manipulating public opinion, having meltdowns about not being loved enough, and being petty to Fakir and Kraehe. His sense of self-preservation (in as much as Mytho has ever had one, cough) seems genuinely intact for episodes 15 through 21. If Mytho is feeling weirdly giggly about getting eaten during that timespan, he’s doing an awfully good job of hiding it.

And then Mytho starts molting into a crow monster at the end of episode 21, and the rat toxoplasmosis symptoms kicks back in.

(We're not told what he's smiling about here in episode 22, but the next episode, episode 23, makes it obvious:)

This does seem likely to be a Mytho-specific symptom; Rue shows no sign of this. The Raven has been particularly invested in eating Mytho’s heart for a long time, after all; Mytho’s job as the Raven’s doordash delivery guy was always going to be temporary even if he hadn’t beeninterrupted every time. It’s entirely possible that other people could end up with this “symptom” too, but we never see it.

The fact that Raven!Mytho proceeds to acts so strangely cuddly after telling Kraehe she’s an ugly fuck (but also that he needs her love) feels somehow related to this enthusiasm for getting eaten by crows. His voice delivery in the Japanese audio for the heart/lips/blood line sounds…  …I hate to say this.

It sounds like he thinks a crow girl ripping out his heart and touching it onto her mouth is really hot.

(Yea, of course she's shaped like an uggo human (and he's in the process of moulting into a majestic raven and he's sosososo excited for that) - but hey, she's technically a crow as far as he knows, and she has black feathers....)

(And while regular!Mytho seems negative to neutral about that in season 1, Raven!Mytho only ever complimented Kraehe for having crow-like qualities.)

Anyways! In Mytho's final state under the Raven's Blood, he immediately obeys the Raven's orders to be devoured, completely ignoring Rue and Tutu's pleas.

...You know, until the Fairytale Confession of Love, because this is a magical curse and it is a fairytale.

Part 3 and Part 4 are not ready yet but are in the works. See you soon.

[viletty]

Previous Next

Chapter 5 Part 2: The Illusion of Choice

Reiner had been bored before she arrived. Everyone bent too easily. Everyone cracked too soon. But Aurora was different. She didn’t scream, didn’t flinch, didn’t even break pace when the doors slammed behind her.

And that thrilled him. Every time she stared him down, his interest sharpened. Every time she resisted, he smiled like he’d just discovered a new game.

He started asking more of her—not as demands, but as invitations.

“I thought you might want to oversee tonight’s menu,” he’d say casually, setting a stack of order slips on her desk.

She ignored them. So the kitchen received no supplies the next day. Everyone ate stale bread. Reiner said nothing. But she noticed the glint in his eye.

He spoke to her with the same disarming softness every time. Asked her to oversee table settings. Urged her to start “running the household”—as a proper wife would. When she refused, the kitchen guard went missing for a week. The dishes were served late. And she was blamed.

“It’s your responsibility now,” his voice like syrup laced with glass. “I’ve given you power. Don’t you want it? You could make this place run like clockwork.”

She almost rolled her eyes—until his hand met her cheek.

Soft. Sudden. Calculated. Delivered mid-sentence after she questioned an order. One of the guards stationed at the door tensed, but didn’t move. His jaw clenched. He exhaled through his nose, slow and shallow, and stared at the floor.

She blinked. Didn’t speak.

He leaned in close. “There it is,” he thought, like he was greeting a long-lost friend.

He never apologized. And never hid the satisfaction.

No one told her what punishment he gave the kitchen guard, but the screams echoed through the walls that night.

She didn’t eat for four days. Not out of rebellion. Out of nausea.

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

Aurora had always believed her father was a psychopath. Two months in the Braun estate taught her she’d been wrong.

Reiner wasn’t a man who lacked empathy—he understood it perfectly. He simply weaponized it. A surgeon of cruelty. A strategist of fear. He didn’t need to raise his voice or slam fists into walls.

He just needed to look at her a second too long.

In her mind, she keep blueprints. Timed guard rotations. Watched for changes in schedule. She drifted to lessons with her father—cold voice counting down as she scaled fences and memorized terrain. The way he’d taught her to pick locks, the way he made her memorize every tool in a shed by weight and smell.

Her first escape attempt on day fifty-eight was clumsy. Slipping past the kitchen guard during a changeover. Too early. Too desperate.

She made it three corridors and one turn before the hallway locked down. A tile sank beneath her foot, and metal gates dropped with a thunderous finality.

Sighing, her eyes closed—then the floor disappeared beneath her. A trap tile, reset each day. She hit her head at the bottom and woke up in Reiner’s office with a glass of wine pressed to her lips.

“Ambitious, I do admire that,” he murmured, wiping blood from her cheek. “I should have warned you, some doors are just illusions.”

She spat the wine in his face.

They brought her to a new room.

The two guards escorting her wouldn’t meet her eyes. One of them unlocked the door with shaking hands. The other took a single step back once they were inside—like he didn’t want to be in the room any longer than necessary.

It smelled like bleach and metal. Stark walls, a single chair bolted to the floor, faint outlines on the tiles that told a story she didn’t want to know.

Reiner walked in behind her and smiled. “We’ll call this your reflection room. A place to… think.”

She refused to sit. He didn’t force her. Not yet.

But she noticed the hooks in the walls. The drains in the floor. A chain hung from the ceiling — not a threat, a promise.

She didn’t scream, just stood there silently hating herself for missing her fathers cruelty. Because at least with him, pain had purpose.

Reiner? He just liked the taste.

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

Choice, always that word. The illusion of choice was his favorite tool. Two dresses. Two meal options. Two paths through the garden—one real, one locked. She began choosing just to twist the knife.

Picking the black dress. Then smearing ink across the bodice.

The lamb roast was dumped, untouched, into the fireplace.

She re-assigned the cleaning crews to rooms that didn’t exist.

By morning, the house was in mild chaos.

A young kitchen boy apologized in a shaking voice for the wrong meals. His eyes darted like he expected to be struck. Aurora didn’t miss the way the head chef stood stiffly behind him, silent and pale.

Reiner didn’t scold her. He laughed.

“Sabotage wrapped in silk,” he said fondly. “You really are a treat.”

There were days in the beginning where she almost convinced herself the staff were neutral—silent, ghost-like attendants who had no choice. But those days had long passed. Half were terrified of Reiner, yes—but the other half?

They adapted quickly to his methods. Learned the choreography of cruelty with elegance.

They thrived under him.

A maid she remembered from her first week now tugged her corsets too tight. A butler “forgot” to light the fire in her room before nightfall. A guard handed her damp towels with a pleasant smile. One of the younger servers spat in her tea and watched her reaction.

She drank it without flinching. It was never loud—but it was relentless.

It was a house built on obedience and gleeful cruelty. Reiner had merely curated it.

Sometimes, she did what was asked. Instructing the gardeners, correcting the maids, reviewed the menus. But never without venom.

Her voice dripped disdain. Orders were twisted to inconvenience. Flowers placed in the wrong rooms. Schedules shuffled just enough to confuse the kitchen.

She played the part. But she never became it. And that infuriated the house.

One night, she woke up groggy. Something in her tea. Her balance was off for hours. Another night, the window in her room wouldn’t open—and the air grew suffocatingly still.

The bruises came slowly. A grabbed wrist. A shove that left her stumbling. Nothing dramatic. But she felt them. Traced them.

At night she spiraled—clawing the mattress, carving mantras into wood with a stolen hairpin. Her mother’s mantras twisted into prayers.

"Don’t thank the devil for mercy."

"Even a pretty cage can burn."

"Keep your name. Keep your fire."

Sometimes she’d rip at the curtains. Snap things in small, satisfying ways. Just to feel like something in the house could break.

They were wearing her down. But she wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

Still, she never showed him what he wanted. No fear. No begging. No cracks. “You’re exhausting,” he said once, pacing in front of her with a kind of delighted frustration. “Do you ever stop fighting? Even for a moment?”

“Do you?”

“I could make you love me, you know. Some people break gently.”

She looked him in the eye, “You mistake silence for softness.”

His slap was quick. Precise. Expected. It didn’t even sting. She just stared at him while he left the room.

She wore bruises like fine jewels now. They bloomed on her wrists and neck. A language Reiner was writing on her. But she didn’t let him see the pain.

Not once.

That was her power.

That was the game she could win.

[aaluminiumas]

Lyric On His Tongue

This is Chapter 1 of 2. You can find the entire fanfic here.

Astarion was jaded to the core. 

He was so infernally bored that his daily—or, was nighttime a better word?—routine seemed a senseless undertaking he wanted to avoid at all costs. It was all the same, the risible performance of lust, predictability, and humdrum. Gaudily dressed people trying to attain their preposterous goals. Artificial conviviality slithering between the tables. Hideous music thundering in the ears—

Had he been alive, he would’ve called in sick, feigning the worst case of pneumonia known to humanity and staging the ensuing miracle of recovery. Had he been alive, he would’ve concocted a lovely, not-quite-believable story where he saved a cat, a child, or a wizard in distress from an unnamed threat, and the entire city would've fallen for it. Had he been alive, he would’ve said he had his reasons, and no one would incriminate his actions. After all, he was a magistrate. A very respectable magistrate, revered by all citizens of Baldur’s Gate. Well, maybe the Gur were an unlucky exception, but really, who would’ve listened to a bunch of crazy folks who did nothing but deceive the kind denizens of the city by foisting their fortune-telling bogus! He was still better than them. 

Or, rather, had been. 

Astarion huffed and reclined on the counter, gazing into a glass of wine. He had ordered the drink a few hours ago and pretended to sip the Ithbank every now and then, but the crimson liquid didn’t ebb. Gods, how did he want to slough off this rotten task, hightail from this hellish shithole of a tavern, and recede into the gloom, feigning defeat!..

Unfortunately, the news about his smashing defeat did not sound even remotely plausible. None of his carefully cherry-picked pick-up lines was ever nugatory. None of his tantalizing gestures was ever accidental. None of the unctuous notes in the dulcet voice with a penchant for taking a seductive edge was ever misplaced. In short, Astarion was aware of his bedazzling looks, and he didn’t miss a chance to put his charms to good use. 

So, even the dumbest spawn of the lot, Pale Petras, wouldn’t buy it.

Swerving his ruby eyes to the diverse crowd, Astarion idly scanned the throng of people teeming in the tavern, eyeing each visitor with ill-concealed contempt. They all came here to get a harlot. Their intentions were crystal clear. Those who missed Sharess’ Caress on the way to Baldur’s Gate always sought a sufficiently respectable establishment to tend to their physical needs and caprices. Taverns like this didn’t scream brothel, but they very well could be one—such inns only pretended to specialize in food and drinks. If you wanted additional entertainment to go with a bottle of Ithbank, you needn’t even get up to ask for assistance. Maybe all places in Baldur’s Gate were the same. Call it a hallmark, if you wish. Whatever. 

Ah, how he loathed it. Endless strings of people, loudmouthed whores, artificial smiles, whistles emitted by an invigorated lumper, and hackneyed advances of a lame artist. Oddly enough, one of them had managed to captivate Lady Jannath. What did she find in this pathetic idiot? His pitiful attempts at courtship didn’t even look ludicrous—they were outright deplorable. Surely, some women had no taste, and appreciation of art played little role in personal proclivities and preferences. 

Astarion examined the visitors again, this time with a modicum of curiosity. Harlots, wantons, rummies, and lost travelers looking for a place to stay over the night didn’t deserve a mere scrap of his attention; they all seemed so unbearably dull they wouldn’t even serve their only purpose: to be a decent banquet for a true connoisseur. 

Astarion’s lanky fingers circled the edge of the glass brimmed with gold. To hells with it. Cazador had no illusions regarding the spawns’ attitude: if he ever had a good trait of character, it was his relative sobriety. For all his intimidating bluster, he never deluded himself into believing that any of the spawn truly admired him or his teaching methods. He could do nothing about that. He could imagine the most ferocious tortures, contrive the most vicious trials, devise the most ruthless and savage ordeals, but no torment could change Astarion’s or, for that matter, Petras’ mind: Cazador was detested by his own very spawn. He could not be vanquished, true, but he would never be venerated either.

The sad thing was that this fact didn’t afflict him or undermine the current status quo: you couldn’t just inveigle a goblin and offer this lovely specimen on a plate. 

Especially, if you had his looks. Petras might just be the perfect fit for goblins and the like, but Astarion, on the contrary, was too well-groomed, too cultured to attract such foul prey. His victim might not be immaculate, but it had to be good. After all, this victim must please the perverse and exquisite taste of the abhorrent tyrant who always reveled in torturing others. In torturing his own very spawn. 

On a side note, if his today’s target turned out better than acceptable, he might be spared. Maybe even rewarded. Ah, to see Petras’ disgusting muzzle contorted by jealousy and hunger when Master tossed a scant commendation Astarion’s way. What a sight, really. Truly remarkable. One of the few genuinely fascinating things in this moldy, decaying, dismal, and grim castle that needed a monumental revamp ten centuries ago.  

Maybe Cazador would even go as far as offering him a handful of human blood he could savor for days to come, highlighting the peculiar, ever-changing aftertaste sticking to the palate—

Hells. This was unnecessary.

Irked by his wild imagination, Astarion felt the tang dissipating on the tongue, dispersing and morphing into the feeling of egregious thirst he was too familiar with. The mere inkling of the scene he had started to envision was too much for him to bear. 

Luckily, his train of thought was interrupted by a faint squeak of the double doors. A mere mortal wouldn’t have noticed that, and the screech of the old hinges would’ve drowned in the raucous tumult of the tavern, but as someone with a preternaturally acute sense of hearing, this indiscernible sound became a cue—a new visitor. 

A new potential victim. 

Reacting to the creak, Astarion jerked his head to see who was coming. 

He expected another run-of-the-mill drunkard, another adventurer, perhaps, but his eyes stumbled over a particularly unusual sight, practically extinct in notorious Baldur’s Gate, the city of the depraved. The man, faltering at the threshold of the tavern, made a strong contrast to the local vermin. 

The unwritten rule of Cazador’s—never hunt the rich—shaped up in Astarion’s head. Not that the miserable vampire lord cared about the benefits they could bring to the city. The reason was so quotidian it shouldn’t be explained: he didn’t want to leap directly into a predicament. The well-to-do would get alarmed immediately if one of their ilk vanished without a trace. One thing might lead to another, and inadvertently, his vampire lair might be exposed to the public, which would eventually entail a spectacular execution of all seven spawns and their lord at the helm. Therefore, most of the time the spawns were bound to choose the safest option of the unsafe: stray travelers, opulent merchants from overseas, prominent guests visiting local galleries, foreigners, loners with means... In a nutshell, everyone who looked presentable enough and whose absence would not be noticed. Evidently, the young man didn’t fall into the category, but something in his demeanor betrayed a novice. Inert, palsied by the picture unfurling before his eyes, he looked utterly vulnerable, as if he never belonged to the city in the first place. Maybe he was a foreigner, after all. Well, he had bumped into this lovely little nest, so he was either desperate or looking for a crepuscular adventure. 

Either would do.

Consummate seducer, Astarion swept his eyes over the tall, slender figure, dressed in an embroidered doublet. Clearly, an aristocrat; but for someone with his ancestry, the man struck with his baffling innocence. Where the hells was he hiding while the entire city indulged in vices, flaunting them all the way, spurning church and succumbing to repudiation of decency? Was he enchained deep under the dragon’s den waiting for his eighteenth birthday? This outstanding display of chastity looked almost unnerving: magistrate in the past, Astarion dealt with venality and corruption on a regular basis, not always on the side of justice. And for his entire career, he had never faced virtue as a concept. 

Not that he broke a sweat trying to find one, though. Now, Madame Virtue seemed to have found its way into this man’s body and blindsided Her erstwhile servant. The red eyes transfixed on the visitor in a most unsettling way. 

If you liked the extract, please feel free to check out the whole Chapter here:

[daybreakrising]

HEADCANONS - B.EIDOU'S EYEPATCH

i've wanted to make this hc post for ages and just. kept forgetting. so, at last, here it is-

THE RUMOURS

there are probably many different rumours and stories about why captain b.eidou wears an eyepatch. most of them, as you might expect, involve daring battles in which the fearless and mighty captain clashed with a great beast and, in the process, lost her eye. others may suggest something far simpler: an accident on the seas, perhaps, as often happens.

the captain herself does nothing to confirm or deny any of these stories. if an adult were to ask her directly, she would merely give them a daring grin and answer: and where's the mystery in that? even the members of her crew are tight-lipped on the subject, and no amount of free drinks can drag the truth from any one of them.

she finds every story (even the 'boring' ones) highly amusing. she even keeps a record of each new tale she hears, marking down the mighty beasts she's said to have faced - and it is these stories in particular that she tells to the children who enquire about her 'missing eye'. who is she to deny them the wonder and awe of these fabrications? did she not seek her destiny upon the sea after hearing similar tales?

THE TRUTH

the real story behind it is, however, rather different. there's no daring tale of battle, no tragic accident. the truth is, the captain has two fully functioning eyes. so why then, you ask, does she keep one covered? is it to maintain an air of mystery, to provoke these whispers and tales? is it a part of her image, an iconic feature of the brave captain?

no. it is entirely for practical purposes.

quick disclaimer: whilst this theory behind pirates (in particular) & eyepatches has been widely debunked and lacks any historical evidence to support it (and indeed has a fair few disadvantages to it), i like the concept & there is a slight advantage / truth to the science of it, so i'm running with it-

she wears a covering over her eye to maintain vision when she switches from above decks to below decks. with one eye near-permanently covered and therefore used to dimmer conditions, it doesn't take as long for her vision to adjust to the transition, allowing her a small, but often very crucial, advantage when it matters.

whilst on an average day there is little need for this advantage, she swears that it has made a difference during various dangers the ship has faced in the past. therefore, there are very few situations where the covering is fully removed (she has even been known to sleep with it on).

her crew obviously know that this is the real reason behind the covering. some of them even follow the same practice (though some have also genuinely lost eyes in battles), though the captain herself doesn't prompt them to do so - after all, keen depth perception is also crucial out on the seas, and the need for a quicker transition from light to dark is not so high as to require multiple crew members to follow this practice (the captain herself has trained hard for years to make up for the loss of vision & depth perception).

due to the rarity of situations where this slight advantage is required, many of the crew have never seen their captain's other eye. it is also considered a ritual for new crew members to correctly guess the reason for the covering - usually via a series of clues that can be gleaned from the longest serving members by asking the right questions. very few have ever achieved the correct answer and typically learn the truth after they have proven themselves loyal to the captain and the fleet.

THE AESTHETIC

and, of course, why wouldn't she also indulge in something that is so iconically linked to tales of pirates? whilst her reason for the eyepatch was always for a quicker transition between light levels, the fact that it leaned into the pirate aesthetic was definitely an added bonus.

[drew-mga2022mi6021]

Screenwriting | "Good" Dialogue

An Example of Bad Writing - Gyro Zepelli, JJBA: Steel Ball Run

One thing that I feel that my film is lacking is realistic dialogue in my scenes. As of now, when I say it out loud, everything sounds clunky and awkward. To rectify this, I did some research on writing dialogue for animation. Surprisingly, not all realistic dialogue is good, and not all good dialogue is realistic. Take for example Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction. He says many raucous, iconic lines that are quoted to this day, but are they necessarily lines that someone would say in real life? No. But it is still good dialogue. Why is that?

In my research, I found a few key principles that good dialogue adheres to. One thing to keep in mind is the purpose of the dialogue. What does this person want in this scene? How would their wording reflect their wants? If everyone sounded the same on a screenplay, there would be no unique auditory identity to these characters. Thus, one must create this based on several factors such as culture, personality, upbringing, and so on. An important aspect of this is a "filter". For example, if a generally happy character feels depressed, they are not going to outright say what they are feeling. Instead, they would continue speaking the way that they would normally, but other cues would give away the fact that they aren't good (body language, cynicism, etc).

This is why the infamously terrible dialogue in Star Wars: The Attack of the Clones is so bad. Anakin constantly just outright states how he is feeling, in an incredibly wooden and unnatural way. In this movie, information is exposited to the audience heavily through dialogue, and it doesn't work because it simply doesn't sound like the characters are actually talking to each other. Instead, it feels as though the characters are talking to the audience, which breaks the suspension of disbelief. Good dialogue fits information into the scene naturally. For example, take Marty and Jennifer's first interaction in Back to the Future. In very few lines, we get a sense for both of their personalities, their relationship with one another, and what is going to follow in the next scene. Good dialogue is always multifaceted, which is to say it serves many purposes in a given scene and the grander story.

On the topic of exposition, a franchise that does this right is John Wick. In the movie, Viggo educates his son as to who John Wick is, and thus opens the door for exposition. This scene works because we see aspects of Viggo's personality come through, and because he is educating his son about this person named John Wick. Both the audience and the characters are learning new and useful information. This also subverts the pitfall of boring dialogue. If Viggo was just telling this to any other character who knew who John Wick was, the scene would be less impactful, but it is because the dialogue here collides with the plot that it works.

A principle that is practiced in improv acting that works for creating good dialogue is the "yes, and..." framework. This dictates that good dialogue should seldom reveal just one piece of information. The "and..." part of the framework makes audiences more engaged as bits of information are revealed over time. This is not to say that every sentence in one's film needs to drop a large bombshell that changes everything, more so that sentences that serve more than one purpose are generally more effective than straight, direct interactions.

Cycling back to Pulp Fiction, one key element of the dialogue in this film is its interesting and unexpected nature. In real life, no one would quote the bible right as they brandished their weapons and shot a person in the head. However, it works in this film because it is not something typical. This also does not come out of nowhere. By this point, audiences are conditioned to expect this kind of behaviour from Jackson's character. Another great example of this is the seemingly random tangent about rats in the opening scene of Inglorious Bastards, which soon comes full circle as the audience realises that the Jews of World War II are being likened to rats.

While this works in some cases, overuse of this principle is detrimental to others. Once again, a film guilty of this is Attack of the Clones. Anakin Skywalker often says things that are far too flowery and poetic than they have any right to be. While the lines sound nice on paper, the audience can never buy that Anakin is saying these things. These long monologues actively hurt the characterisation of the character and thus, leave audiences less engaged.

Finally, one of the last ingredients that I found to writing good dialogue is surprisingly one that is not practiced very often. In the Pirates of the Caribbean series, there are several lines that are deemed iconic by fans of the series, most of all the infamous "Why is the rum gone?" and "You will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow" lines. But why? These bits of dialogue aren't particularly special or unique, but they are instantly quotable.

Surprisingly, it is because the characters in the movie treat these lines as quotes themselves. These come in short bursts, often within scenes of each other. The line is said in one scene, a short while later it is requoted in another scene in another context and a little later that is varied upon in another scene in another context.

eg;- "You will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow" -> "You will always remember this as the day that Captain Jack Sparrow almost escaped."

This helps the lines stay in the minds of the audience just a touch longer, due to the nature of it being repeated. Another film that does this well is Terminator 2, with the iconic "Hasta la vista, baby." line being used twice in the film in wildly different circumstances. There are many other principles of good dialogue, but these were some of the more applicable ones to my animation that I managed to extrapolate from other films.

[slapegg]

Some Thoughts About... SteamWorld Heist 2

Heist 1 was a fantastic game and I’m pretty sure I’ve already talked about it on this site, so track that down if you’d like. But because of how good Heist 1 was, I was coming to 2 with high expectations. But I also thought Dig 1 was a fantastic game and was super disappointed by Dig 2. Can SteamWorld beat the curse of sequels?

Heist 2 makes a bad first impression. The main character is really unlikable and you can’t even use him in battle. Compared to 1 where Piper is immediately cool and has a great class/weapon from the get-go.

One of your partners is interesting because she has a wide-eyed interest in what’s going on, but she’s stuck as a class that has spend a turn to reload after every shot, so she’s useless every other round. The other starting partner and most of those you pick up are very dry or uninteresting, don’t really have have stories beyond some extremely basic “I started as personality X and now I’ve grown”, or are just less interesting rehashes of characters from Heist 1.

The new explorable world map offers nothing and searching around it for something to do is slow and tedious. It almost instantly made me miss the first game’s map that was just a glorified menu. Why overcomplicate things, especially when they worked fine before? I eventually just bookmarked a map from a walkthrough so I didn’t have to aimlessly sail around. Which just extra defeated the purpose of an already bad feature. And as the map kept getting larger and larger, I kept telling myself that surely now was when they would introduce the fast travel mechanic. But it never came. Just so much time wasted sailing through the same empty spaces that are far too large to be interesting.

You can only use a character in a single fight before you have to return to a pub and “rest” for the night. This is a bafflingly bad choice because it just forces you to sail back and forth to the rest stops. It’s just tedium. I’m sure somebody chose this to force you to use all the characters instead of sticking to one loadout, but if I like my one loadout, why are you punishing me? And just story-wise, why would a robot need to rest at an inn to recover? Your ship has furniture, why can’t they rest there? Or make it so characters automatically rest after one fight. That way, you can’t use the same characters in every battle, but you’re also not forced to keep trudging back to a pub and back again.

This leads to encouraging a really bad game loop. Salvage and enemy overworld units respawn every day and they’re a reliable source of currency. Since everything in the game is weirdly expensive, you’re encouraged to sail across the entire map every single day to collect all the currency you can. It’s extremely boring but it’s the only way to afford items early on when you have to buy so many items and accessories for multiple crew members and upgrade your ship. You’re not even allowed to swap equipment after using a character to cut down on having to buy items for multiple teams of multiple characters. Once you use a character that day, you’re not even allowed to add to or remove any of their items. By the end game where you’re sending in 4 or 5 crew per mission, it’s such a grind to max out the full roster that I just stuck to one team of five characters and would rest after every mission. So their whole rest system combined with bad balancing made this grand new feature utterly pointless.

There’s a bounty system in the game that ties into the rest feature, but it feels really forced. By fighting specific enemies on the map and completing missions, you earn bounty coins. You lose the coins when you rest so you have to spend all of them on rewards in a single day. It really only serves to punish you for not sailing around the entire map every day and for resting after each mission, so it really feels like the developers knew the new systems weren’t great but had to make a way to force you to engage with them because you wouldn’t want to naturally do that. It feels like the bounty coins would be a lot better and user-friendly if they were just rebalanced to be a one and done thing. You get coins for beating stages the first time and you get coins for beating the harder enemies on the map but they don’t respawn every day. That still encourages the player to beat every stage and fight every overworld enemy without forcing you to sail the whole map every day to suck up as many coins as you can.

The core gameplay of Heist is good, but they mucked it up with bad level design so you can’t appreciate it. So many stages have alarms and countdowns that trigger new enemies to spawn every turn. Strategy really goes out the window when an infinite number of enemies are only getting more upgrades over time. And the snipers become even more useless because they can’t move and shoot each turn due to needing to reload. So many missions just devolve into judging how much damage you can tank as you dash around the map, using up all your actions each turn only on movement to finish things faster. In one stage, you’re facing enemies that can spawn grunts on a map with multiple hazards that can each spawn grunts, racing against a timer that once it expires, will cause strong grunts to start spawning. It’s overkill, devalues assembling a diverse team, and isn’t fun to participate in or execute a successful run. Heist 1 felt like a tactical game where good strategy rewarded you by letting you get all the loot on the map. This one just feels like a bad smash and grab and really makes you question if the developers even understood what made the first game so good.

The music is... passable? The new Steampunk Giraffe songs are frequently slow or plaintive and the new theme is actually just kind of boring. Compare that to Heist 1 where just the music on the title screen got you jazzed up and excited. It was filled with bangers and I bought the album after beating the game. Here, I never stuck around the pubs to hear the band play and there isn’t a song I’d want to listen to outside of the game. It’s kind of sad but the highlight of the soundtrack is when you visit one pub and it just plays music from the first game instead.

They try to do moments like in Heist 1 where after beating a boss, a new song kicks in, but the song in this one isn’t good and it doesn’t really fit the boss, moment, or environment you’re in. In Heist 1, the song cheering the end of monarchy plays when you beat the Queen, and then it’s such a gut punch after beating the final boss to have that morose song kick in but it’s thematically perfect. And even divorced from the game moments, both those song are great on their own. Everything here in Heist 2 just feels forgettable.

Every character can be every class by equipping a different weapon, which sounds interesting in theory, but changing class requires you to redo your equipment and a good chunk of your selected upgrades every time. Also, all characters have personal skills mostly suited to a specific class. Also ALSO, you gain experience really slowly in this game. And bizarrely, later missions are barely worth any more experience than early ones so your leveling doesn’t speed up as you get deeper in the game (and since early missions are less risky, you’re incentivized to replay the early missions that are now brain dead easy for you). In the end, it pays to mostly just stick with the class the characters start as and once you hit max class level, bank all your experience until you have enough to max out another class, swap to a new class, fight an easy battle as the new class, and use your reserves to max it out. Then just repeat that over and over because the stat boosts and certain upgrades you unlock are pretty crucial to the end game. I think I spent about 50 in-game days just grinding out stages with my core team and even that wasn’t enough to max them out.

Not to harp on this, but the whole system is unnecessary because you can already customize your characters with the three equipment slots. One of the classes is vastly superior to others due to the constant respawning enemies, so most of your team is going to be made of Reapers. Their inherent skill is that if you kill an enemy, you get to take a second action, so unless your characters has a super class-specific personal skill, they’ll probably work as a Reaper and that lets you maximize your kills per turn when enemies are constantly spawning in. You want a sniper, equip your Reaper with extra scopes so that they get a full aim line and now you have a “sniper” that can fire every turn and can kill two people per turn. You want a brawler, equip your Reaper with melee boosts and now you have a “brawler” that’s strong up close and can still shoot while running away.

I do have to give the game credit for some good difficulty settings. You can individually influence enemy health and damage, but also things like their accuracy, enemy spawns in missions, and more. It helps get rid of some of the grind because you can lower the bounty costs to reduce how many missions you have to do every day and you can raise the number of enemies on the overworld but lower their attack to get more currency. I mean, I’d much rather the game not be grindy in the first place, but it’s something.

And finally for the story, Vectron isn’t the villain! That’s not even a spoiler, Vectron is only mentioned in passing and after the franchise has been driving it into the ground, Vectron finally just doesn’t show up. There’s a new faction, and while they have a lousy design and awful motivations, at least there’s a different villain!

There’s a short scene where you meet the main character’s mother, and man, in just those few minutes, I totally wanted the game to be about her! She has an amazing look and design and in just a few sentences, they give her a far more interesting backstory, some serious pathos about the nature of legacy, and her current adventures are exciting. Then you go back to playing as the loser character we get and she disappears...

For as disappointing as the game was, I was ready to do it again with a second loop, but there is no New Game Plus feature. Now that I’ve maxed out a team and done all the grinding and farmed all the bounties and upgraded my sub, it would be nice to actually put that stuff to use. I want to try things at a higher difficulty, experiment with a different team, try different items, and see how quickly I can get through the game. Your reward for getting the maximum rank on stages in last chapter is to double the characters’ experience gain... but that means you’ve basically already done everything in the game (or could easily go back and beat early stages since you’re strong enough to beat the last chapter) so what’s there to use that upgrade for. The item is all but useless because by the time you earn it, you don’t need it.

SteamWorld Dig 1 and Heist 1 are such great games but now it feels like all the talent has vanished from the studio. Dig 2 and Heist 2 are passable at best and I have almost no interest in Quest (the card game) or Build (the town builder) outside of them taking place in this world of games. What happened when the studios merged?! Seeing Image & Form’s name mentioned made me perk up before, but now that they’re the Thunderful Group, I think I’m done giving them chances.

[biosblades]

@ everyone in the notes saying “why is this m/m fans’ problem, if you want more f/f you write it”

I’m a fic writer that writes both, and I genuinely cannot even begin to express how ignored my f/f work is. Readers literally don’t even open a fic if there’s not a m/m ship in the tags. I actually personally prefer f/f but I don’t write it as much because literally nobody reads it if I do. It’s discouraging and feels like I’m doing it for no reason. I literally wrote an f/f fic from what I thought was a pretty popular pairing from a not unpopular show that literally had like 50 views, 0 kudos, 0 comments. I’m being so serious, why would I publish another work of that pairing when nobody’s reading or enjoying it?? If I’m the only one engaging I can just make scenarios in my head, no need to actually write them out

Now, let’s say there is another person who actually does like that pairing. If they were to search for works with it, they’d get like <10 results. If they took the L and decided to search for a m/m pairing in that same fandom, they’d get thousands of fics to choose from. By virtue of there being thousands, some of those are (statistically) probably a lot better than the three works that have to represent the f/f ship all on their own. So they pick the m/m ship, they find a community of a bunch of other people who are at least interested in their same fandom, they read some profound works that get them personally invested in that ship. Here’s this person who wanted to read f/f but due to the environment created on ao3 now reads mostly m/m

THAT’S what we’re upset about. Individual m/m readers make sense, that’s all there is to read on there. But we’re pointing out that it was misogyny combined with fetishization of gay men by straight women that CREATED that reality. Female characters are swept to the side, even in works where they could serve the same narrative purpose as their male counterparts because writers either personally think girls are boring or think their readers feel that way. And when huge fandoms obsess over male side characters instead of the female mains (even if those female mains are objectively the way more interesting character), it perpetuates that issue. People write what’s being well received (and that’s also all they get prompts/requests for)

This isn’t like a slight disparity either this is barely one million f/f works to over FIVE MILLION m/m (last I heard). F/f works are literally being drowned out by the mass numbers of m/m. Every writer helps, but who’s really gonna make a dent in an over four million (and the gap is only widening) fic difference?? All while your work is passed up in favor of yet another way more popular m/m pairing??

Y’all need to stfu about this not being a wider issue. This is a whole community issue. Genuinely, when reading fics centering men, think to yourself, could this same exact storyline have been just as good (if not better) with women?? Then think to yourself why the author chose a male character. Is it actually the best choice or even a choice they can somehow justify, or did they do it just because that’s what everyone else is doing? Are readers and authors even questioning their automatic lean toward male characters or is it so ingrained that it’s just the total default with absolutely no thought required??

And I don’t wanna hear “iTs CaUsE wE wAnT pEnIs PoRn” No, it’s not actually. Because y’all made up fantasy genre’s in which men can take the sexual role that women fill IN REAL LIFE. You literally created fantasy species so men could experience sexism and pregnancy for the plot rather than just putting women in your story. And be so for real, how many m/m fics are there where the genitals do not match anything seen in any human sex?? You could just as easily put either real, silicone, or fantasy-based dicks on your female characters if that’s really the issue. Your fantasy female characters could use fantasy science to impregnate other female characters if that’s what people really wanted. But it’s not, because there’s a hell of a lot of content on ao3 that isn’t sexual at all, and those works still lean m/m

It’s misogyny.

It’s fetishization.

It’s men being positioned as the default over women in every possible situation.

And we need to talk about it.

And honestly if you’re feeling personally attacked, it’s probably because you read m/m for the above reasons rather than for lack of other options. Because the people who just read m/m because it’s there can acknowledge and talk about the problem. They want to change the culture. It’s the misogynists and fetishizers who are all up in the notes defending their right to be misogynistic fetishizers 👀

Hey guys remind me how many properties there are on ao3 where m/m outnumbers f/f for no good reason