#but that gives an entirely different tone to the metaphor

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff part 2

Part 1

Again, just suggestions that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice, as I sit here doing my own edits for a WIP.

1. Crutch words

Specifically when you have your narrator taking an action instead of just… writing that action. Examples:

Character wonders/imagines/thinks/realizes

Character sees/smells/feels

Now not all of these need to be cut. There’s a difference between:

Elias stops. He realizes they’re going in the wrong direction.

And

Elias takes far too long to realize that it’s not horribly dark wherever they are

Crutch words are words that don’t add anything to the sentence and the sentence can carry on with the exact same meaning even if you delete it. Thus:

Elias stops. They’re going in the wrong direction.

I need a word in the second example, whether it’s realizes, understands, or notices, unless I rework the entire sentence. The “realization” is implied by the hard cut to the next sentence in the first example.

2. Creating your own “author voice”

Unless the tone of the scene demands otherwise, my writing style is very conversational. I have a lot of sentence fragments to reflect my characters’ scatterbrained thoughts. I let them be sarcastic and sassy within the narration. I leave in instances of “just” (another crutch word) when I think it helps the sentence. Example:

…but it’s just another cave to Elias.

Deleting the “just” wouldn’t hit as hard or read as dismissive and resigned.

I may be writing in 3rd person limited, but I still let the personalities of my characters flavor everything from the syntax to metaphor choices. It’s up to you how you want to write your “voice”.

I’ll let dialogue cut off narration, like:

Not that he wouldn’t. However, “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Sure it’s ~grammatically incorrect~ but you get more leeway in fiction. This isn’t an essay written in MLA or APA format. It’s okay to break a few rules, they’re more like guidelines anyway.

3. Metaphor, allegory, and simile

There is a time and a place to abandon this and shoot straight because oftentimes you might not realize you’re using these at all. It’s the difference between:

Blinding sunlight reflects off the window sill

And

Sunlight bounces like high-beams off the window sill

It’s up to you and what best fits the scene.

Sometimes there’s more power in not being poetic, just bluntly explicit. Situations like describing a character’s battle wounds (whatever kind of battle they might be from, whether it be war or abuse) don’t need flowery prose and if your manuscript is metaphor-heavy, suddenly dropping them in a serious situation will help with the mood and tonal shift, even if your readers can’t quite pick up on why immediately.

Whatever the case is, pick a metaphor that fits the narrator. If my narrator is comparing a shade of red to something, pick a comparison that makes sense.

Red like the clouds at sunset might make sense for a character that would appreciate sunsets. It’s romantic but not sensual, it’s warm and comforting.

Red like lipstick stains on a wine glass hints at a very different image and tone.

Metaphor can also either water down the impact of something, or make it so much worse so pay attention to what you want your reader to feel when they read it. Are you trying to shield them from the horror or dig it in deep?

4. Paragraph formatting

Nothing sticks out on a page quite like a line of narrative all by itself. Abusing this tactic will lessen its effect so save single sentence paragraphs for lines you want to hammer your audiences with. Lines like romantic revelations, or shocking twists, or characters giving up, giving in. Or just a badass line that deserves a whole paragraph to itself.

I do it all the time just like this.

Your writing style might not feature a bunch of chunky paragraphs to emphasize smaller lines of text (or if you’re writing a fic on A03, the size of the screen makes many paragraphs one line), but if yours does, slapping a zinger between two beefy paragraphs helps with immersion.

5. Polysyndeton and Asyndeton

Not gibberish! These, like single-sentence paragraphs, mix up the usual flow of the narrative that are lists of concepts with or without conjunctions.

Asyndeton: We came. We saw. We conquered. It was cold, grey, lifeless.

Polysyndeton: And the birds are out and the sun is shining and it might rain later but right now I am going to enjoy the blue sky and the puffy white clouds like cotton balls. They stand and they clap and they sing.

Both are for emphasis. Asyndeton tends to be "colder" and more blunt, because the sentence is blunt. Polysyntedon tends to be more exciting, overwhelming.

We came and we saw and we conquered.

The original is rather grim. This version is almost uplifting, like it's celebrating as opposed to taunting, depending on how you look at it.

—

All of these are highly situational, but if you’re stuck, maybe try some out and see what happens.

*italicized quotes are from ENNS, the rest I made up on the spot save for the Veni Vidi Vici.

[plasticferal]

hey queen! can you pls do an angst story with chris. where they get into an argument and chris said things he never meant. then he apologizes to her afterwards. ( basically angst to fluff)

damsel in distress | chris sturniolo.

i added my own twist to this ask. it's my favourite prompt so thank you! 18+ protective!ex-boyfriend chris x fem!reader. fighting, touches on themes of unwanted attention, mentions of alcohol, explicit language. reader discretion is advised. p.s inspired by the unreleased olivia rodrigo song 'prison for life'.

the house is filled with familiar faces and strangers. a small gathering turned into a full blown house party from the moment the word got out. where the sturniolo triplets are, a flock follows. you sigh, pushing and shoving your way through the unwanted crowd.

all you want is to make it into the kitchen, miraculously being the only place no one wants to linger. the last person you need to see right now is your ex lover. chris is standing ahead of you, leaning on the kitchen counter, alone in the room. you shut the doors behind you, needing to escape. even if it means with him.

“if you wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked." he speaks smug, before taking a sip from his red solo cup.

“i'm not in the mood,” you dismiss. you open the fridge, eyes scanning the shelves but nothing calling your name.

you know you're not actually looking for anything, you just don't want to look at him. the entire night has you shaking with anger. from the mess in your home, the lack of care everyone is taking, the noise complaint you know you'll be getting later, and worst of all, that one guy who won't leave you alone.

you've never seen him before tonight, you don't even know his name, but all he's done is make you uncomfortable. try to dance with you, try to give you drinks. he brushes your waist every time he walks past.

all of your friends have been encouraging you to go for it, to get over chris. and honestly, you consider it for a moment. just to finally move on, but you can't bring yourself to. at least not with some random creep.

the break up is still raw. he tells everyone it was 'mutual' but it was a part on your request. he'd never throw you under the bus like that. he knows why you made your decision, he's never questioned it.

chris feels like it's unrequited love. although, you haven't lost any love for him, no matter how much you try to push him away. he has every right to despise you, but he doesn't.

every time you close a chapter with him, you find yourself in a sequel. it's like you're re-reading different stories, but the ending stays the same. your heart wants him, your brain wants to hate him.

"what's wrong?" he asks, sensing you're genuine in your frustration.

"nothing." you refuse to let him know what's happing in your world, let alone your mind. you don't need to let in him anymore, even though you want to let it out. he's the one person who could just sit and listen to you for hours on end.

"alright, just askin" his words trail off into a hush. he switches the tone, not wanting the conversation to stop.

“your friends are nice” he speaks in a sickeningly sweet tone, because if anyone knows how to kick you while you're down, it's him.

"you would think that" you scoff, implying that you've seen them throw themselves at him all night. him pouring them drinks, smiling and frothing over the attention he's receiving.

"the fuck is that supposed to mean?" his temperamental side seeps out, and you grow only more irritated.

"chris, can you get out please?" you huff, hands crossing over your chest. an unintentional way to seperate yourself from him, a metaphorical wall being put up.

"such a party pooper. you really gotta let loose, relax a bit." his words come out a lot more nasty that you hope he meant them, and it makes your face hot.

you give him the benefit of the doubt and think he's speaking with resilience, at the fact you keep shutting him down.

"i wonder why we ever broke up." you reply sarcastically, a fake smile on your face. he rolls his eyes, finishing off his drink and letting out an audible "ah," like a child finishing a juice box.

"i haven't seen you all night, y/n" his voice softens, and it becomes clear he's speaking for the sake of talking to you. he always wants to talk to you.

looking at the counter quickly to place his cup down, he looks back at you, tilting his head to the side slightly. he's not being horrible to you, he never has been. he's still in your life whether you like it or not, despite your hostility.

"sorry. i'm just tired." you lie. he knows it.

"your poker face isn't very good. i learnt that the hard way," he bounces his eyebrows, biting the tip of his tongue, eyes a bit wider as he stares at the ground and you can tell he's having a flashback.

you chuckle at the reference. the one time he caught you faking an orgasm didn't end very well, and he's been able to catch you out ever since. he's never been afraid to pull you up on your own fibs.

"sorry, again." you hug your body tighter, avoiding his eyes. he pushes himself off the counter with a stretch like hum and walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"stop apologizing, you sound like matt," he rolls his eyes lightheartedly, and you let out a small laugh. that's always his intention, to make you smile.

"c'mon princess, let's get you a drink. seems like you need it." he nods toward to the door, rubbing your shoulder enthusiastically.

you let him try to fix your mood, because god knows you do actually need to stop stressing. you can't control what happens, just how you react. that's what chris always used to say when you were together.

feeling safe in his embrace, he security guard style moves you through the party. he hollers "excuse me!" and "coming through!" and everyone just listens, parting like the red sea. he's not the biggest guy in the room, but he sure is the most assertive. especially with you under his arm.

when you finally get to the drinks table, he makes you a vodka lemonade, saving the rest of the can for himself to finish off. it's not the most thrilling drink, but enough to keep you settled. ease the tension a bit. plus, it tastes good. no harm, no foul. as chris is mixing the liquids into cups, you feel an unwanted hand snake up around your hip.

"there you are. are you hiding from me?" your stomach drops at the voice of the mystery man towering over you, and you look ahead to watch chris's eyes snap up instantly.

chris lowers the cups, holding his eyes on the man behind you. you watch as he kinks his neck and his jaw tenses, taking a step closer. you shake your head at chris, holding a hand up subtly to tell him not to come any closer.

turning around, you stare up at the man. his breath reeks of liquor, and his shirt is drenched is sweat. it makes you sour your face and tense your entire body.

"i don't know what you want from me, but it's not gonna happen. i think you should leave." you speak sternly, trying not to let your voice shake with pure nerves. not even liquid confidence could help you right now.

"the party's just getting started," the man smiles, stumbling toward you in what you think is an attempt at a hug, but you begin pushing his body away from yours with a shove.

"dude, she doesn't want you. walk away." you hear chris's direct voice over your shoulder.

the last thing you want is negative attention on chris in a room full of people who would spread the news like wildfire. you never want that for him.

"it's okay, i got this." you dismiss chris in the nicest possible way, but you're being serious.

"come on, we'll have fun," the man hiccups through his words, mumbling them and tripping over toward you again.

"get the fuck away from her." chris's breath hits the back of your neck as he moves even closer to you.

"christopher, i'm serious. stop." you speak through grit teeth, so people can't read your lips, as he lingers next to you.

you try to be as inconspicuous as you can in your rejection to his advances, but he won't give up. the man appears more annoyed, and he grabs your wrist with a tight grip.

"let go of me." you grab the mans hand, trying to pry his grip without making it obvious.

you’re shaking at the thought of attention drawing. not for you, but for chris. eyes are already on you, being his ex. it's not what he ever wanted for you either. if he could make it all disappear, he would. it becomes more difficult when chris notices, and this time, has no intention of backing down.

"i'm not gonna repeat myself, back the fuck up." chris walks around your body, face to face with the guy who has a hold on you now.

"please, chris." you beg, voice quivering.

you know his temper can change in the blink of an eye. him and matt both have that in common.

"she doesn't need your help, pretty boy." the man splatters his words, a malicious smile on his face as he leans toward chris, almost nose to nose.

chris smiles criminally, flashing his teeth.

"you're right," chris puts his hands up in defence, a downward smile on his face as he chuckles darkly, taking a big step backward.

there's a feeling of relief, and intense fear as he actually does start to back away. but you know chris. unfortunately, it's unavoidable.

you try to catch his eyes, and speak through a begging stare without using words. he looks at you with sadness, and you mime the words, 'please don't'.

the moment the man tugs your wrist as if to leave with him, making you wince with the grip he holds. you regret your counteraction instantly, because chris reacts viscerally.

he flares his nostrils and squeezes his nails into his palm, balling up his hands by his hip. his knuckles are turning white.

before you can get pulled away, chris lunges forward with a tight fist, throwing a strong, perfectly aligned punch to the mans cheekbone. it throws the man to the ground in the blink of an eye, relieving the pressure on your skin. you stumble backwards, out of the line of fire.

chris steps heavily forward, shoving a foot into his ribcage before straddling his legs, completely overpowering him. the man projects forward to swing and hit chris's mouth. chris doesn't even flinch, like it was painless. you watch chris raise his arm up again to pummel down onto the now defenceless stranger.

the surrounding crowd gasps and yells, clearing the space that chris has created with his actions. iphone cameras flash, making you feel sick. the whispering and gossip you can already hear pounding in your head is overwhelming.

you feel so futile. chris is too in his own world to even realise the repercussions. you're not saying the guy didn't deserve it, you have no care in the world for him. you care about the aftermath.

in a fantasy world, a daydream, a fairytale even, this is attractive. a knight in shining armour, fighting for his lady. a world where there are no consequences, or social media, or fear. a reality chris has suddenly forgotten about.

he looks natural doing it, too. the veins in his arms so prominent, his tight mouth and huffed breaths as he gives it everything he's got.

you're frozen in shock, watching chris pelt another punch into the man, and you want to pull him off, you know you need to, but all your body can do is watch. watch the two men roughhousing and exchanging blows, chris taking every hit with pride.

you're numb to the feeling, screaming in your head.

appearing out of thin air, nick and matt are in your line of vision, hiding the chaos ahead of you. his brothers move into action before anyone else needs to.

they've obviously been summoned, but there's a part of you that believes they could just sense it. like they telepathically knew chris was getting himself into trouble by the lack of surprise they express.

nick grabs chris by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off. matt grabs his wrists, to stop him from using his fists. the fight comes undone, finally, but chris is disoriented. he spits onto the man as he's being escorted into the kitchen by his brothers.

your eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall, and matt sweeps your hand up, guiding you with them in a hurried manner. matt is trying to snap you back to reality, but it's just white noise.

chris hits his palm aggressively with frustration against the door frame of the kitchen as you all walk through, and you take a deep breath to compose yourself. your eyes are still welling as you choke back a sniffle, and you're not sure if it's shock, hurt, or anger anymore.

you're in a trance as you walk over to the freezer. your body is in autopilot, moving without you even knowing. you grab a frozen bag of vegetables out of the tray.

"so fucking stupid," you say nastily under your breath, slamming the door shut.

walking over to chris who's sat up on the ledge of the sink. you throw the packet at his chest, and he grabs it, questioning you for a second before matt walks over and shows him to place it on his bruised and red raw knuckles.

the room is filled with tension.

matt is biting his nails, you're leaning against the closed door, and nick finds himself squatting on the floor.

"what the actual fuck was that?" nick is too stunned to even yell, he just speaks aloud.

"i asked you not to, chris. i could have handled it myself." you shake your head, vision blurry as you stare vacantly ahead. you want to lash out at him, but for some reason you can't.

"yeah, it really looked like you had it under control." he crushes the frozen packet harshly against his hand.

"we'll leave you two alone." matt cuts through awkwardly, shooting nick a warning glare.

matt knows it's not his place to go off at chris right now. he'll do that later.

"but-" nick begins, and matt snaps toward the door. you hear nick sigh, knowing he would love nothing more than to stay and listen to you tear into chris. alas, they both leave promptly, matt flashing you a sympathetic smile on the way out.

you can hear from the other side of the door, both nick and matt are hustling trying to kick everyone out. it’s a weight lifted off your shoulders. the literal mess being left behind is the least of your worries now.

you're alone with chris in the kitchen again, the second time not being anymore pleasant than the first. you blame yourself fully for dropping your guard, even if for a second.

“i begged you not to, chris.” you repeat with a stern tone, laced with betrayal and genuine hurt.

he’s silent for a moment, staring at you from across the room with no emotion on his face. you know he feels terrible, he doesn’t have to show it. or tell you.

“did you think i was just gonna stand and watch?” he rebuttals.

“i would have preferred that, honestly.” you don’t understand how he can’t grasp the intensity of the situation.

"did you want him? go back out there then." he's bitter, pointing at the door. you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

"chris," you start. he keeps talking.

“because i’m sure he’s still laying on the floor. go ahead. he might have a hard time talking now, though.” chris shrugs, speaking in a provoking manner.

“you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges." you apprise.

“he should feel lucky i didn’t do worse.” he takes another step toward you, presumptuous in the way he carries himself.

"you've done a lot of stupid shit, chris. but that," you raise your hand as you speak, laughing in shock.

"that was unbelievable." you pinch the bridge of your nose, taking yet another deep breath.

"you know what's unbelievable is how you haven't even thanked me once" he ignores your words and bites back with irritation, face growing more twisted with upset.

"thank you?" you repeat, jaw dropping. you step toward him this time. you feel dejected trying to get him to understand.

"thank you for what? for causing a scene? for putting yourself in danger?" you step forward again, feeling like you could drive your heels into the ground beneath you.

"you're acting insane" he brings his hands to his head, tugging at his own hair with despair. his words sting, despite the back and forth arguing.

"you're the one that lashed out on that guy with no consideration for anyone else around you. that's insane" you speak with physical gestures unconsciously.

you're trying to reason with him, but with the state he's in, it's like trying to put a brain in a statue. you examine him, trying to search for his eyes but his body won't keep still, twisting and moving around.

"fuck, okay, i get it! i get it, y/n. you're not happy with me. you never fucking are apparently," his words trail off and he waves you away, turning his back to you. he sounds desperate for it to end.

you want to scream at him at the top of your lungs, and quite frankly, you could. your face burns and steam is about to shoot out of your ears.

"you don't need to protect me anymore, chris."

"i saved your ass out there." he speaks with his hand, four fingers direct to your chest. his words are like salt being rubbed into an open wound.

"saved me? that's a fucking stretch. your brothers saved your ass, because you don't think before you fucking act!"

"this is about YOU, y/n! what i did for you!" he slaps the back of right hand into the palm of his left.

"i'm not some damsel in distress that you need to sweep up and put in a tower, chris"

"yeah well at least in a tower you can't attract trouble." he speaks as if it's your fault, and of all the things he's just spit out, that's by far the worst. the most menacing and cut to the bone tone he's used.

"that was low, even for you." you huff, emotions at an all time high.

your breathing feels tight, but instead of reacting, you force yourself to seperate your emotions from the reality of the situation. you're both feeling very intensely, and expressing it the same way.

in hindsight, you could have redirected some of your emotions, but you also wish chris would take back some things he's said. there's no excuses.

chris re-collects himself and turns toward you again. he shrugs his shoulders, like he has nothing left to say. no fight left.

the closer chris is standing the more prominent his face is, and more specifically, his busted open lip.

you gasp in a mix of being upset, and shock. it feels like a piece of your heart is breaking off, seeing his delicate, pale skin so sore.

"your lip, chris." you exhale, stepping toward him.

he flinches when your hand raises to touch his face, and you know now that you've acknowledged it, it's hurting him. neither of you paid any attention to it amongst the turmoil.

"come here." you sigh, pulling his arm, bringing him over to where the paper towels are, in the corner of the sink.

tearing a white square into your hands, you rinse it under cold water lightly before squeezing the saturation out, leaving a damp cloth in your hand.

turning into chris's body, he looks down at you. he's still at last, and looks like he has no thoughts behind his now seemingly innocent eyes.

you cup his cheek gently, to turn his face downward. you bring the towel up to his lip, wiping his stained chin and mouth. he lets you, and doesn't even wince. he visibly gives into your touch. he's content.

"i need you to promise me you'll never do something like that again." you pull back, folding over a clean side and then wiping his lip softly, trying not to cause him pain.

"i can't promise that." he speaks in a whisper, as if he doesn't want you to hear his word.

with his lip no longer being red, you toss the damp and crumbling paper into sink, making it a problem for another time.

"why?" you look into his eyes, wiping your hands on your shirt.

his blue eyes are big but blameless, pupils dilated. holding his stare as your arm lowers.

"because if anyone lays a hand on you again, i'm going to prison for life." the piece of your heart that broke off earlier reattaches at his words alone.

chris's much shorter hair is spikey around his ears, and wet at the ends, turning dark brown from his sweat. you caress his messy curls, tucking it over the curves of his ears and taming the wispy strands. you hold his head in your hands, tiling him up and your mouths are inches apart.

"how hard did he hit your head?" you ask against his lips. he chuckles, genuinely.

he's an idiot, undeniably. but the gut wrenching, lawless love he has for you makes him that way. his low, smooth laughter, makes your heart skip a beat.

"i mean it, y/n."

"but i know, i know it was stupid." he admits.

"yeah, it was." you agree, shaking his head around slightly.

he grabs your hands with his own, engulfing them and holding them in his palms. he squeezes your hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

"i'm sorry." he speaks on your skin.

"like really fucking sorry." he strains his head back with remorse, making his adam's apple more prominent, and he swallows hard. like he's swallowing his guilt.

"i said some nasty things. i wish i could take them back, y/n. i really do."

"i know, chris."

"no, you don't. i'll apologise to you everyday for the rest of my life if i have to. i've been horrible tonight."

"chris, enough," you hush him, the calmness in your tone making him understand you hear him. loud and clear. you need some time to forgive, but you absorb his words.

"i don't know how you didn't smack me in the mouth." he jokes, and you giggle through your breath.

"there's still time," you joke back. and he knows it by your tone.

"i could never bring myself to do that. as much as you deserve it." your banter eases the pressure, and you feel chris squeeze your hands in his again.

you rub your thumbs over his knuckles, looking at the little purple marks forming. he notices your face drop with stress, and he slips his hands away, moving to your hips instead.

"hey, i'm fine. i don't care what happens to me, i just need you to be okay."

"i am okay," you reply. he drops his face with a look that expresses he doesn’t believe you. you give a light eyeroll, and small smile.

"i mean it, i swear.” you raise your pinkie finger to him, to keep your promise. knowing it’s the only way he’ll actually believe you.

chris smiles, weak with his bruised lip, and wraps up your pinkie with his own, wriggling your hands around.

"i'm always gonna want to protect you." he pulls you toward his body. he's so warm, and radiates a magnetic energy that makes you want to collapse into his arms.

you know you don't need him to, but deep down, you would like his protection. his unconditional love. selflessness.

"i'll be sure to send you love letters in jail" you grin up at him, and laughs from the chest.

his voice is like a scratched record, fatigue taking over his body. you swallow hard, all of your senses coming back. he feels so real standing in front of you all of a sudden, like it's not just a dream you're about to wake up from.

"stay the night." you speak mindlessly.

chris brushes your hair from your face, cupping the back of your neck lightly to pull your forehead to his lips, kissing just above your eyebrows gently. he rests his chin on the crown of your head, pulling you tight to his chest in an embrace.

"i'll stay forever if you ask me to."

this is the feeling he fights for. requited love.

[bzurk]

what gets dirtier the more it cleans?

series masterlist:

cw: DUBCON, oral (f recieving), coersion

thursday, week one:

Thursday, with its date circled in red on your calendar, almost nauseates you. Still, with your bank account dangerously close to overdrawing once your credit card bill hits, you have little choice but to return to the mansion.

You arrive at two o’clock and close the garage door behind you this time, and the space is empty. No cars, no occupants. Your heart just about leaps from your chest with relief.

You’re in the middle of mopping the floors when you hear the rumbling of the garage door open. You freeze, instantly tense, eyes darting to the laundry room just past the kitchen where the entryway to the garage threatens to come flying open at any moment. You hear a car door shut, your breath quickening, and you consider your options. Whoever is home knows you’re there; your car is parked outside, and it’s three o’clock on a Thursday. You could hide, but not for long, especially if the new arrival is who you dread it to be.

Left with little else to do, you force yourself to continue mopping. The gentle swings of it are like a second-hand, ticking away the moments before your entire day is ruined. Swish… swish… swish…

Footsteps make themselves known against the cold, hard marble tiles of the entryway, the sound amplified in your panicked state. Each step only hammers one more nail into your metaphorical coffin.

And just like that, he’s there, filling the doorframe to the kitchen.

Price.

Your stomach swoops and relief washed over you like a wave. Price. It’s just Price. He doesn’t even spare you a look as he kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the fridge, opening it and grabbing a beer from the top shelf. His nonchalance is refreshing, offering a nod and a smile before taking a drink.

Swish… swish… swish… You’ll finish as fast as possible, get out of his hair.

As you cleaned, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Price, marvelling at how different he seemed from the man you had met on Monday. The cold calculated gaze was still there, but it was tempered with a hint of weariness. You found yourself feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, despite your better judgment.

Price's presence, though imposing, is oddly comforting after the chaos of Monday. His calm demeanour and the way he simply goes about his business without making you feel like an inconvenience help to ease the knot of anxiety in your stomach. He leans against the counter, sipping his beer, and you notice the deep lines of fatigue etched into his face.

As you mop, you try to stay focused on your task, but curiosity gets the better of you. You steal glances at Price, noting the subtle differences in his demeanour. There's a weight to his movements, a heaviness that wasn't there before. He catches your eye once, and you quickly look away, pretending to concentrate on a particularly stubborn spot on the floor.

"You don’t have to look so scared," Price finally says, his voice breaking the silence. "I don’t bite."

You offer a nervous smile, unsure how to respond. "Just trying to get my work done, sir."

"John," he corrects, waving off the formality. "No need for all that 'sir' business."

"Okay, John," you say, testing the name on your tongue. It feels strange, but not entirely uncomfortable.

He takes another sip of his beer, studying you for a moment. "You did a good job on Tuesday. Never seen the place so shiny."

You pause, glancing up at him. "Thank you."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. "I’m impressed. This place can be a lot. I hope Simon didn’t give you any trouble.”

Simon, Simon, Simon. You nod, not trusting yourself to say more without your voice betraying your lingering nerves and fear. Price’s presence is a balm to the anxiety that had threatened to overwhelm you, but you can’t quite shake the memory of Simon’s smug face and the feel of his touch lingering on your skin, his taste on your tongue.

"Listen," Price says, his tone softening. "If you ever need anything, or if there’s a problem, don’t hesitate to come to me. Alright?"

"Alright," you reply, feeling a surprising surge of gratitude. It’s a small reassurance, but it means the world in a place that had so quickly become a source of stress and fear. “Alright… I might take you up on that, sir- John.”

He finishes his beer and sets the can on the counter, giving you a final nod before heading out of the kitchen. "I have some work to do first, so you finish up here and come find me, yeah?"

"Yes, John," you say, watching him go. As soon as he’s out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The relief is palpable, and you take a moment to collect yourself before returning to your task.

Swish… swish… swish…

The rhythmic motion of the mop is soothing, helping to ground you. You focus on the floor, on the task at hand, and let the stress of the last few days melt away with each pass of the mop. Price’s words echo in your mind, a small beacon of comfort in an otherwise tumultuous week.

He said to come to him if there’s a problem, he seemed so genuine, but can you really tell him about Simon? About his own housemate, ex-teammate? What if it makes things worse? What if Simon finds out you told? The mere thought of Simon's reaction sends a shiver down your spine. Let alone how John would react. Would he demand the money back? Blame you? Fire you?

You take a deep breath and try to focus on the task at hand, but it’s no use. The encounter with Simon on Tuesday haunts you, and you can’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you, his touch on your skin. Price’s reassurance was genuine, though. Maybe he really can help. You need this job.

As you finish mopping the floor, you glance towards the hallway where Price disappeared. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mixture of fear and determination. You’ve never been good at asking for help, but this situation is beyond what you can handle alone. Simon's presence is a dark cloud hanging over your every move, and you need to find a way to dispel it.

Swish… swish… swish…

You wring out the mop and set it aside, the decision solidifying in your mind. You need to talk to Price. You need to tell him about Simon, about the fear that grips you. With trembling hands, you tidy up the cleaning supplies and make your way to the hallway.

Each step feels like a monumental effort, but you push forward, driven by the hope that Price can help. You follow the the hallway to the office at the end of the hall. The door is ajar, and you can see him sitting at a desk, papers strewn about. He looks up as you approach, his expression softening when he sees you.

"Finished already?" he says, setting aside the documents and covering them under a manilla folder.

"Yes," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve, um, finished all of today’s tasks, so- so I can just leave, if you don’t have time."

Price’s brows furrow, concern etching into his features. He gestures for you to come in and sit down. You close the door behind you and take a seat, your heart racing. This is it. No turning back now.

He stands from behind his desk and comes around to the other chair in front of it, turning the heavy piece of furniture until it’s perpendicular to you. The sound of its legs scraping against the wooden floor fills the silence. He sits down, his presence commanding yet comforting. Up close, you notice the fine lines etched around his eyes, the subtle signs of weariness that weren’t as apparent before. His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a face that’s both stern and kind, a dichotomy that makes you feel both safe and slightly intimidated.

Price’s eyes, a piercing blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. There’s a depth to them, a lifetime of experiences and stories hidden behind that calm exterior. He’s dressed in a simple, yet elegant manner, dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The room is silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall, each second amplifying the weight of the moment. The atmosphere is dense, charged with the unspoken tension of what you’re about to reveal. You can feel the steady thump of your heart, each beat echoing in your ears as you try to steady your breath.

His palm lands on your knee and you jolt. His eyes narrow further, and his hand squeezes for a moment before backing off. He leans in further, elbows resting on his knees, and hunched over he’s eye-level with you, sympathetic, earnest.

“Look at me, love.”

You hadn’t even realised your eyes had screwed shut, your breathing rapid and your fingers curling against the armrests.

“Breathe, alright? Deep breaths f’me. Can you do that?” His voice is silky smooth, rumbling and deep, but it doesn’t carve into your chest like Simon’s does, whittling down your ribs. Price’s voice is soft, rounded, gentle, but it’s so confident and authoritative that you have no choice but to listen. His voice is an enveloping blanket, warm and disarming, but you know it has the potential to become suffocating. “It’s just you n’ me, love.”

You don’t know if that’s comforting or not.

You yelp loudly when you feel your chair move, grinding against the floorboards, and your eyes flash open to take in John’s hands around the armrests, easily turning your entire chair to face him, the display of sheer strength enough to force your brain to pause.

Gently, he guides your shaking hands into his, his skin warm and calloused, but it is a comforting heat, a reassuring touch. He slowly uncurls your fingers from the armrests when your breathing evens back out, his grip firm but not crushing.

“Now, what’s gotten you so spooked?” His voice is a low rumble in the quiet room, and you feel yourself open up under his touch, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over your knuckles.

Here goes nothing, you think, glancing away and back. You can’t find it in yourself to meet his eyes. “It’s... It’s about Simon.”

His thumb, stroking back and forth, doesn’t pause. A metronome, so calm and unfailing, a direct contrast to your heart that feels like it’s flailing about in your chest. He nods for you to continue and gives your hands a comforting squeeze.

“I would like it if he wasn’t in the house when I’m here.”

Price’s eyes narrow, his grip on your hands tensing ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence that follows is suffocating. You can practically hear your heart thudding in your ears, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and even the buzzing of a fly by the window seems to reverberate off the walls. He’s going to fire me, you think as dread sinks like lead in your stomach, replacing all other feelings.

“I-I mean, I just don’t feel... safe around him?” you blurt out, tone lilted up at the end like a question, and he raises an eyebrow at you. You’re digging a deeper hole for yourself - your grave, perhaps.

“Simon’s a big man, love, I know that he can seem intimidating, but I promise you he means no harm,” he finally speaks, and you begin to shake again, crossing and uncrossing your legs and nudging his in the process. You don’t want to explain why you’re afraid of him, you want to hope that he will just listen to your one request.

“No, I- he-”

“Want me to have a chat with him? You can come on another day if you’d like to, doesn’t have to be Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he’s home most days, love. Doesn’t like leaving the place.”

Tears are blurring your sight now, and you can’t stop the way you hunch in on yourself, palms slick and sweaty and he just holds onto you tighter. You don’t want to say it, to admit it, to confront what Simon had done to you, but the air is suffocating and Price is just staring at you, waiting for you to open up and you have no out.

“He paid me for a blowjob.” You blurt out frantically, and ice rushes through your veins.

The weight of your confession lingers, the fear you’ve been carrying now laid bare between you. The atmosphere is charged with an electric tension, a mix of dread and relief that leaves you feeling exposed and fragile. The rich scent of leather and aged paper fills your lungs, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling within you.

You can feel the warmth of Price’s hands, a steadying presence that cuts through the fear. The stillness of the room is profound, the kind of quiet that demands to be felt, not just heard. Every creak of the wooden floor, every distant sound from the outside world feels muted, insignificant compared to the gravity of this moment.

Price doesn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for you to catch your breath. His calm, composed demeanour is a balm to your frayed nerves, and you find yourself clinging to his presence like a lifeline. The soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock is the only thing filling the frozen silence, and five audible ticks pass before your brain restarts.

He’s calm. Why is he calm? Did he know already? Does he hate you, is he disgusted? No, no, he’s still holding onto you, tightly- why won’t he say something?

“Please, John,” you plead, the tears spilling over your cheeks, and you do not doubt that you look pathetic to him. “I need this job, please. I’m sorry I said anything-”

“Was it not enough?”

His words hang in the air like a sharp, unexpected knife, slicing through the momentary calm. The shock hits you first, a jolt that sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches in your throat, and the tears momentarily stop, your mind racing to make sense of his question.

The room seems to constrict around you, the walls pressing in with an oppressive weight. The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different, thick with a new kind of fear and unease.

Price’s face is unreadable, his expression of sympathy and care a mask that betrays nothing of his thoughts. The warmth of his hands no longer feels reassuring but instead adds to the confusion swirling within you, instilling a new fear, and they almost resemble shackles in your mind, chaining you to this moment.

You try to process his question, the implication behind his words twisting your gut with anxiety. Was what not enough? What did he mean? Did he think you were exaggerating? The uncertainty gnaws at you, leaving you adrift in a sea of doubt and fear.

The silence is excruciating, each passing moment stretching into an eternity. Your mind races, replaying the confession, trying to find where you might have gone wrong. The fear that you’ve made a terrible mistake claws at you, a suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.

Price’s steady gaze feels piercing now, as if he can see straight through you, past your defences and into the heart of your fear. You feel exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny, the fragility of your position starkly illuminated. The room feels colder, the rich scent of leather and paper now tinged with the acrid bite of panic.

You swallow hard, trying to muster the strength to speak, but the words fail you, your mouth opening and closing dumbly.

“What he paid you. Was it not enough?”

The world comes rushing back in and slams into you like a wave. The cogs of your mind become violently unstuck and your lungs are full of air again and the afternoon sunlight is too bright streaming across the polished wooden floor.

The security blanket that was Price’s presence is now tangled around your limbs, and you’re choking. The hypoxia is making you stupid, rendering you immobile.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” You blubber, the taste of tears salty on your lips.

“What’s the problem, love? What’d Simon do?” You can feel the bones and joints of your hands creak under his grip when he squeezes again. “He didn’t pay you enough? Was he too rough? Did he force you?” He hums, deep and rumbling in his throat, the growl of a predator before his brows jump and he sighs, “Bet he didn’t return the favour, did he? Selfish bastard.”

The disbelief of it all is enough to make your head spin. You can’t believe the twisted meaning he’s just given to your confession.

“N-No- That’s not-”

“Think I get it now,” he says as his back straightens and his arms reach out, wrapping around your forearms with a gentle but firm grip and tugging until you lurch forward, and he easily tugs you into his lap, his hands trailing down your torso to rest against your thighs. “You’re just pent up, aren’t you, love?” His actions only further muddle your thoughts, as he cradles you like a child against his chest, rocking you gently back and forth.

You try to pull away, the panic rising again but his grip tightens. The way his fingers dig into your thighs is possessive and tight and it stings but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes when you finally meet his stare again. There’s something feral there that you’ve never seen before and it makes your blood run cold enough for gooseflesh to break out on your skin.

“Don’t have to be so scared. You just say the word and I’ll let you leave, don’t have to come back again. But I know you talked earlier about how you really need this job... You stay, be good, and I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t need to say it outright. You know what he means, the threat underlining his words.

You swallow the bile that creeps up your throat and try to focus on anything but the way his hands are roaming so close to places they shouldn’t be. You can feel him against your hip now that you’ve stilled. Your mind is still reeling from the sudden shift in the conversation, trying desperately to make sense of it all. You stay, you let him do what he wants, you keep getting paid. A man, a very wealthy and attractive man, offering to ‘take care of you’ and pay you handsomely for it? You’d be an idiot to pass it up.

So why do you feel so gross?

“Y-Yes,” you mumble, cursing yourself for stuttering but you can’t help it when his grip tightens around your thighs and he hums again. “Please take care of me, John.”

His nose presses against the underside of your jaw, whiskers tickling and you shiver, “Good girl.” So quiet, so close, his voice is a growl. His hands begin to inch their way up your thighs, and you shudder, closing your eyes. “Takin’ such good care of the place, let me return the favour.” His hands deftly unbutton your slacks, tugging at the waistband until you lift your hips for him, rolling them down your thighs until they fall around your calves.

You let out a small sound of surprise, but he quickly quiets you with a gentle shush, firmly grabbing your thigh and pulling it open until the stretch aches, his other hand coming to rest on your hip as he guides you to turn in his lap, squeezing the flesh of your waist when you settle your back to his chest, curved and nestled into him. You can feel the strong thrum of his heart against your back, the way his chest rises and falls, so steady and confident compared to the way your heart flutters like a hummingbird. It’s calming, a metronome, forcing your breaths to align with his.

“Relax,” he mutters, and you shudder again as you feel him press his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your earlobe and his beard scratchy and coarse. His voice is almost a purr, low and sensual, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

He must feel the way your breath catches, realizing at the same time that you do that you’re enjoying this. His hands skimmed up your stomach and over your breasts, squeezing and kneading them through your blouse like he owned them, like he had every right in the world to touch you like this. In a way, he does- your livelihood cradled in his hands. He noses along your throat, following the pulse of your heart down until he reaches the space where it meets your shoulder, pressing a feather-soft kiss against the skin. A long breath rushes from your lips, and he hums against your skin, a sound you feel more than hear - the vibration against your skin, the rumble in his chest against your back.

His mouth on your neck distracts you from his hands, easily undoing the second and third buttons of your shirt until your chest is bared to the cool air. His hands find their way underneath the fabric, and you squirm in his lap as he runs his fingers under your bra and cups your breasts in his calloused grip, his thumbs circling your nipples and the feeling is so foreign you continue to writhe atop his thighs until he groans behind you. Your breathing hitches as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, and you can’t believe how turned on you are by this, by him.

“That nice?” he teases, a knowing lilt to his voice as he pinches the other nipple between splayed thumb and forefinger. You gasp again at the sensation and arch into his touch. He tugs at the band and pulls it down until your boobs tumble free, held up by the material. “Anyone touched you here?”

He punctuates his question with a harsh pinch to your nipples, and you squeal, “No one!”

“Do you?” He purrs, giving your nipples a break to knead at the flesh, his left arm sliding across your sternum like a bar, holding you against him as he squeezes your opposite breast. His other hand trails down, splaying over your ribs, fingers drumming impatiently against your skin.

“Some- hah- sometimes,” you pant, hands resting against his arms where they surround you in some twisted facsimile of affection.

His hand leaves your ribs and you whine, but it only moves lower, down your stomach, skirting dangerously close to where you ache. He dips a finger past the waistband of your underwear, resting at the apex of your thighs. “What about here?”

“John-”

“Tell me, sweetheart. Do you touch yourself? Right here?” He pushes his index finger between your folds and you moan even as you deny it, hips bucking against his hand. A bright trace of pleasure jolts through you as a result, and your eyes flutter for a moment as you try to resist the urge to repeat the motion.

“Y- no, I don’t-”

He chuckles, “Liar.”

He groans at the warm heat of you, the little flutter of invitation that greets him. It’s enough to startle a wanting little moan from you, craning your head a little, unintentionally baring the bare flesh of your neck to him. John’s mouth presses against the skin there and lets his tongue go flat over the spot he’s seized before he seals his lips over the spot and sucks. His finger, coated in slick, drags back up until he can again tease your clit, circling the nub until your entire body is tense with need. The wavering, licking flame of lust inside you blazes brightly at the sensation, shuddering as the heat pulses low in your core, slick and warm and empty. You moan as he pushes a second digit inside of you and then pulls them out, repeating the motion until your hips are rocking against his hand of their own accord, your ass grinding against Price’s cock below you.

“That’s it, love, right there.” He hisses in your ear, sucking another bruise onto your skin before hooking his chin over your shoulder, watching the way your panties bulge and move with his hand, a dark, wet patch obvious, highlighting the movements of his fingers. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you? All f’me?” His voice is like honey and yet it grates against your sensibilities, grating against your every instinct. You want to hate him for this, for reducing you to a quivering pile of need in his lap. But you can't seem to find it in yourself to care anymore. All you can think about is his fingers inside of you, the way his touch sets your body on fire, how good it feels. His fingers reach so much deeper than yours, calloused and rough and thick.

"John," you moan, voice rough with lust as he withdraws his fingers, leaving you aching and empty.

"Not yet," he teases, sucking another hickey onto the column of your neck. "We're not done yet." You whine as he helps you up off of his lap, but any protest that might have passed your lips dies on your lips as he stands and crowds himself against you, hands squeezing your hips and pushing until you stumble, ankles tied together with your pants, and you hiss in pain as your ass collides with the cold wood of his desk.

"Shit!" You exclaim, more shocked than hurt, but his hands are already tugging at your underwear, thumbs hooking in the sides and pulling them down until they're resting with your pants around your ankles. John takes a moment to run his eyes up and down your body, pausing on your breasts and between your legs, before he sinks to his knees. “What- what are you doing?”

“Said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” He hums, lifting your legs until they rest on his shoulders, his head nestled between your thighs, eye-level with the place your body weeps for him. It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Your head lolls forward, chin to your chest, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The white-hot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. A needy gasp tears from your throat. Your hips buck. John clamped down on your body, leaving deep dents in your thighs. His wide, flat tongue strokes from bottom to top in languid laps. When he reached the tender nub at the top, you jolted again. He paused and swirled over the area a second time.

And then his lips are on you, his tongue lapping at your folds with enthusiasm that borders on animalistic. You make a noise in the back of your throat, awful and wet and choked. You can’t seem to take a fucking breath around all the hoarse cries coming out of your throat. It honestly sounds like you’re sobbing, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you lifted your hand to find tears forming in your eyes. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. It slips in more. The full length. You keen, arching, hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. You cry out, hands flying to his head, nails digging into his scalp as he teases you with abandon. Trembling legs clenched around his shoulders, burning him in a vice grip of quivering thighs.

His fingers find their way back inside of you, curling and twisting in time with the movements of his tongue, and it’s enough to bring you back to the edge. His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, seals his mouth over you and sucks. Your nails score tracks down his scalp as you come apart in his mouth, pussy clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you like an ocean tide.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he pulls up your panties from between your legs before standing, still between your butterflied legs, and now that the ringing in your ears had quieted, you can hear him, the wet schlick of his hand around his cock - the hand he was using on you. “Fuck,” he groans, wedging his cock beneath your panties until the wet, hot head rests just above your clit, further darkening the wet spot you’d left. His hand continues its up and down on his cock, the movement jostling it against your still tender clit and releasing a pathetic, overstimulated whine from your throat.

“‘s too much, John,” you mewl, your hands slapping against his thighs weakly, and he growls again, deep in his throat, before a splash of heat coats your pussy and stomach, soaking into your panties.

He smears the head of his cock through his spend, painting it into your skin, and you yelp when he taps it against your clit one last time before pulling out from your ruined panties, tugging them up and into place again. His cum is warm against the lips of your pussy, and you can’t hold back the wince at the feel of the slick mess.

He holds down your thighs as he steps out from their embrace, a smug smile stretching his cheeks and crinkling his blue eyes, the cat that got the cream. He wiggles your pants up your legs again, over your hips, zips the fly and buttons them up, grabbing a handful of your ass before stepping back and slumping into one of the chairs. You refuse to move, to acknowledge the combined mess pressed into your skin. You’ve never been more glad for your black wardrobe.

John must see the disgust etched onto your features, and he just laughs, huffy and airy and quiet, “Couldn’t make another mess for you to clean, love.” You take a hesitant step toward the door, eyeing John, who seems to relish in your discomfort. “Best get yourself home before the boys return, eh? Wouldn’t want ‘em asking too many questions.”

You jolt at his words and hurry to the door, pointedly ignoring his laughter and the way your skin slides against your panties.

“Don’t forget to check your pockets when you make it home, sweetheart,” John cooes, and you make sure to slam his office door loudly once you pass the threshhold, but you can still hear him call after you. “Use it to buy something cute for next time!”

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: I'm a Mouse, Duh [Yandere TPOF!Ren (Fox) x Reader]

Title: I'm a Mouse, Duh [Yandere TPOF!Ren (Fox) x Reader]

Synopsis: Fox wants you in just the right costume for his party.

For Horrorfest request:

Fox making his darling try on different "sexy" Halloween costumes

Word Count: 1291

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, a bit of humiliation/degradation, descriptions of previous injuries including eye gouging, questionable taste in Halloween costumes

You didn’t know you could feel anything like shame anymore, but there it was, red-hot, covering your cheeks, not unlike a thin, sticky layer of latex that you couldn’t peel off yourself. 

Speaking of--

“Turn around,” Fox murmurs, idly swirling his glass of champagne while you swiftly obey his words. 

You turn ever so slowly, because you know what’s what he wants to see. You imagine you’re a doll in a music box, sans music and static ballerina pose, spinning slowly enough to let him get a look at his newest handiwork. 

The skin-tight latex cat costume does wonders in keeping your movements slow as well, but you try to ignore that part and stay in the music box metaphorical fantasy. 

He sighs lowly--your stomach roils--and shakes his head. 

“No, not quite right.”

He gives you another once-over, and you must be frowning, because he continues in a casually reassuring tone. “Not that you don’t look lovely, but it’s not what I want for tonight.” What he wants, in this case, is unclear. You’ve already tried on 3 different costumes, and he didn’t care for any of them. 

He gestures with his free hand at your hand, and you dutifully remove the latex cat ears (that matched your outfit, of course) and hand them over. 

He sets them on the table and beckons you over.You eagerly scamper over, turning away from him; you really did need help removing the thin layer of latex. At least he does it swiftly, though you feel a veneer of sweat on your back when he begins to peel it away. He continues pulling it down until you lift each of your legs, stepping out of the tight concoction with a visible sigh of relief. 

There’s a warm chuckle behind you, and you shiver when you feel his nails lightly raking down your back. 

When he stands and makes his way over to the long costume rack that one of his employees brought in, you follow. He thumbs through them, humming, pulling a few out now and then.

He pulls out a black and white lacy concoction, something that looks like the type of clothing people world in olden days. A big felt sword hangs off the flimsy top and there’s a large tricorn hat attached to the hanger, and it takes you a moment to realize what the costume is meant to be. 

A pirate.

He smiles, but you don’t. Your empty eye socket suddenly aches and your lip trembles. Which just makes him grin a little.

“Too on the nose, huh?” He taps his finger above your eye patch, a neutral black cloth for now. Fox said he wanted to pick your costume before they went about choosing what prosthetic or patch to give you. 

You suppose he wants you to care that he’s taking the time to find you the right costume, that he wants you to be appreciative that he’s putting so much effort into it. And when you suppose what he wants,  you do your best to fulfill it. That’s how you’ve made it this far.

So you look closer every time you think he might be choosing a costume and you try (pirate mistake notwithstanding) to mimic his reactions. This one is cute, mm-hmm. That one won’t do, nuh-uh. 

Maybe you would be appreciative, maybe even a bit excited about the idea of getting to dress up on Halloween, if you weren’t dreading tonight. You were going to attend a Halloween party with him. Thrown by him. Populated by the guests he chose. 

You weren’t putting on a show (that fear had already been cooingly whisked away, the moment you broke down into seizure-like sobs at the thought) but you would be… on display. 

Like a pet. No, no, that’s not entirely right, is it? You are a pet. You’ve got the collar to prove it. 

What would the people at the party be like? As bad as the ones who watched the show? Worse, because they were there in person and not just through a screen? Maybe some of them would be the same… would any of them recognize you? Would they hurt you? Would Fox let them hurt you? What if--

“Ah! This one!” He says, pulling you out of your heavy thoughts. There’s a glint of excitement in his voice that makes the tension in your stomach ease off. 

When he gets excited like this, it’s a good sign. Usually it’s related to finding out that you like some of the same things as him (you genuinely enjoyed, at least as much as you could, curling up on a sofa and watching anime with him) or you surprising him in a way that pleases him.

Sometimes he seems younger when he gets like this, more carefree. There’s a pang of envy when that happens, but you never let it last too long. 

He pulls out the costume he’s chosen and shoves it into your waiting, slightly trembling, arms. You don’t even have time to really see what he chose. 

“Quick now.” He flashes a muted grin. “The guests will arrive soon enough. Don’t want to be late for your first party.” 

You don’t waste time getting dressed. The end result, when you stand up and let him zip up the back of the costume, is cuter than you expected. It’s a mouse costume, a short little gray number with a black tail hanging off the edge. The costume covers your ass enough that as long as you don’t bend over, you should be fine.

 (You try not to think of ways that Fox might make you bend over in front of others. But then, he didn’t like it much when others were around you, so maybe he didn’t want you to show off more than necessary? The questions are really too difficult to consider for long.)

The finishing touch is a big pair of cutesy gray mouse ears that he tenderly places on your head. It’s the type of costume that you might have worn on a night out with friends, before. Though you’d have worn something else underneath, and you’d definitely still have two eyes. 

Still. It’s better than the tight catsuit. 

And you look... cute. If you ignore the missing eye, and the scars on your face. And the cauterized nail wounds dotting your body. And the cross-cross of scars, old and new, lining your arms and legs.

These are all things you have gradually forced yourself to ignore, so yes, you can put them aside and appreciate the way that the mouse ears frame your face or the way that the costume is made from nice materials.

You can ignore the hungry gaze of Fox standing behind you, keeping his eyes on your own as you stare at your reflection.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, standing behind you and looking at the finished product through your reflection. In the mirror, you see him place a kiss on your neck. Your body recognizes what will happen before your brain does, because your shoulder tenses even before he bites your skin harshly, lapping at the blood he leaves behind. 

“We can leave the patch as-is,” he says. You’re too busy staring at your reflection to answer. Maybe he takes it for being pouty, because he continues.  “Unless you want one of your prosthetics tonight?” 

How nice of him to ask, you think, and your heart feels sick when you realize the thought came without a trace of sarcasm. You’re really fucked up, huh?

You shake your head and give a little smile, looking at him in the mirror.

“No,” you say, voice meeker than you meant it to be. “Whatever you think looks best, sir.” 

He smiles, just a little. An intimate smile, a you’re-being-good smile, the kind you think (you hope) he reserves just for moments like this. And then he places a tender kiss on your bite wound. Bits of red stick to his lips and he licks them away, sighing low and almost husky. 

You know this sound, these gestures, the way his breath quickens and comes out of his nose. You feel two hands grope your ass and you squeak, like the mouse you might as well be. 

“I suppose it won’t hurt if we’re a little late… it is my party after all.”

[tinypandacakes]

Trapper, Keeper Ch. 13 — Calm

Tags: dubious consent, dark romance, power imbalance, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, Stockholm syndrome, injury recovery, fluff and smut, slice of life, implied non-consensual drug use, size difference, gratuitous use of pet names, metaphors, and descriptions of König’s eyes

Wc: 15.3k [135k total]

“I see you,” König said. “Always so much to prove. But you don’t have to do that with me.”

Toughened fingertips ghosted over the heated swell of your cheek, down the length of your jaw. König’s fingers rested under your chin, tilting your face, guiding you to him. You swallowed, chest aching.

“There’s no mission or rank to reach here. No lieutenant or sergeant to impress.” Dulcet tones lured you into docility. “You must be so tired of all that.”

You were tired — more than he knew. But not just of the stressors of a difficult, busy life, but of staying on guard, of worrying over things you desperately tried and failed to control. Your resolve was worn down like a seaside cliff shaped by the will of the water, eroded by waves until the rocks crumbled and splashed into the ocean. What use was resisting an immense force like that?

Give in, give in.

König was close enough that you could smell the freshly ground coffee on his breath. Your eyes fixated on full, pink lips likely still tacky with the essence of cinnamon and sugar and the little white scar cutting through one side. You wanted to kiss it, ask what happened, who hurt him. Your heart thumped heavily, a betrayal you were powerless to stop even as you felt it happening.

“Nobody has to know about what we do here.” His voice dropped to a whisper as his mouth curved into an easy smile. “I certainly won’t tell. Will you?”

“No,” you admitted, nearly lightheaded as you looked up.

Guileless eyes peered at you, blue clematis blooming on the vine, graceful and proud as it curved around a wrought iron trellis. Pretty, but poisonous for little creatures who might be tempted to nibble on the tender stalks, to fill their bellies with toxins masked as lush petals and crisp, sweet greens.

But…just a bite couldn’t hurt.

Just a taste.

Just—

König bent closer, his neck craning to close the distance between you. “It’s only us here, little one,” he reminded you, his mouth so close that the bristles of his mustache tickled your upper lip. “All that matters now is you and me.”

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[mickandmusings]

ii. crash my party

part two of the 'hangman & honey' series!

summary: when his original plans to bring honey to homecoming fall flat, jake thinks he's secured a fail-safe plan for honey to still have the night she deserves. when that too comes crumbling to pieces, jake, like always, is there to patch it back up. because jake is always the one to take care of her. they knew everything about each other...right?

word count: 5.6k

warnings: angsty -> fluffy, shitty homecoming dates, unbearable tension, i'm aware jake would only have a learner's permit but we don't follow the laws in small towns

-

It had started with one simple conversation.

"Jake, humor me," she'd started, finally closing her hardback book, looking up at him from across the table they'd been sharing in the school cafeteria. "A school dance? What part of that seems like a place I'd want to spend my Saturday?"

Jake smiled. "Hm, because I'll be there."

He gave her a shit-eating grin before shoveling fries into his mouth. Honey had rolled her eyes, forcing herself not to break into a grin as well. She stole a fry from his tray and swallowed before shaking her head and giving her retort.

"You're going to be there with Katie, and I highly doubt she'd want me hangin' around all night. She's like, majorly in love with you. I'm not going to be your third wheel, people already think I'm weird because I'm always taggin' along with you. I don't need to give them more fuel for the fire."

Ignoring the jab Honey gave herself, Jake tried to think of another approach. He hadn't wanted to go to this dance with Katie at all. He internally scolded himself-Katie was a sweet girl, pretty too, but as Honey had mentioned, Katie was in love with Jake. He just simply didn't feel the same. Suddenly, as if a light bulb had flickered above his head, Jake perked up.

"What if someone asks you to homecoming? Would you double date with me?"

Honey cut her eyes to his forest-green ones, looking away briefly before chewing on her bottom lip. She looked down at her hands, twisting the garnet ring adorning her right ring finger.

"That's sweet, Jake, but you and I both know that won't happen." She pauses, placing the ring back in position. "But, metaphorically speaking, if some random guy decided it wouldn't be social suicide to go with me, then, yeah, I'd double date."

Honey could feel the blush rising to her cheeks, she was positive Jake was the only guy in the entire school that had ever talked to her, much less look at her in any romantic nature.

Her confirmation was all Jake had needed, and he was already on a mission that he was sure he'd succeed in. As the lunch bell rang and he parted ways with Honey, he put his plan into action. Sitting in his fifth period Biology class, he turned to the seat behind him, a good-natured smile on his face. Hayden Wright, Jake's football teammate and friend, stared back at him. The teenage boy raised an eyebrow and gave Jake a look.

"What do you want, Seresin? You've got that stupid look on your face."

Jake scoffed, "First off, fuck you. Second, I've come to cash in my favor, Wright."

Jake had done Hayden a solid nearly a month ago, helping him in cleaning up his family's trashed barn from one of their post-game parties (to save him an ass-whooping from his father), and Hayden had agreed to owing Jake one, he'd just never thought Jake would actually ask him for one.

"What'd ya want?" Hayden's face had been neutral, figuring Jake wanted him to put in a good word with one of the cheerleaders, or to get Hayden's older brother to buy him alcohol.

"You know my friend, Honey?"

Hayden's eyebrow raised at Jake's word.

"The one that sits with you at lunch? I mean, yeah I know of her, why?"

"You're going to take her to homecoming." Jake said the statement plainly, so there would be no question.

Hayden audibly laughed. "Good one, Jake."

"I'm not joking, Wright," Jake's voice had taken a different tone. There was no more lighthearted humor to it, only a sense of seriousness. "I was already planning to take her, but Katie asked me before I could ask Honey myself. The only way she'll go is if she thinks she's not someone's tag-along. I'm not asking you to wine and dine her, asshole, I'm asking you to pick her up, give her a corsage, just-just fuckin' talk to her. Treat her like you would anyone else. She's not going to fall in love with you because you gave her an ounce of your precious attention. You owe me, man."

"Seresin, I already planned on asking Sam Van-"

"Be real, Wright," Jake's eyes were sharp, now daggers. "No shot in hell Sam Vance is going to say yes to you. Honestly, in my opinion, Honey is too good for you, way too good for you, but I'm desperate at this point. You'll ask her-in person-today, after practice. You'll ride with me and Katie, wear a nice suit and bring a corsage. She likes magnolias." Jake's statement left no room for leeway. It was set in stone, Hayden would ask her, be there with bells on, or else. Even as an underclassmen, Jake was easily on the taller side of his teammates, with the muscle to match-his daily farmwork had aided him in that department. Combined with his family's influence, you simply didn't want to be on his bad side.

Hayden sighs, his face drawn in a tight line.

"Fine, but consider my debt paid indefinitely, won't pull this shit again. If I'm going to have to take this girl, what the fuck am I supposed to talk to her about? I don't know the first thing about 'er."

Jake chuckles.

"Lucky for you, she's not much of a talker. Won't be to you, anyways. She likes to read, a lot. Ask her about literally any book. She's funny, just talk about whatever, she'll find a way to make you laugh. Just because she's not a cheerleader doesn't mean she isn't worth your time. Just for once in your life, just one night, don't be a dickhead."

-

Honey had been foolishly naive in thinking someone like Hayden Wright would actually be interested in someone like her. She'd felt the sinking feeling enter her chest the day he'd asked her to go to homecoming with him, starting small at first, but growing large enough to fill her anxiety-ridden torso. She'd felt the feeling lingering in her gut when she'd tried on and bought the flowing white dress that adorned her frame. She'd swallowed it down, buried it deep, told her internal insecurities that maybe, for once in her life, something good would happen to her. When that looming feeling had festered forward again that afternoon, as she meticulously curled her hair in Jake's bathroom, she had plastered on a smile and kept going, telling herself it was only a feeling.

But now, as she sat horribly mistaken on the steps of the Seresin farmhouse, she no longer stomached the feeling. Hayden was supposed to be here over an hour and half ago, and he had yet to show. Honey knew he wouldn’t, she’d expected it. She swallowed thickly and looked on as the sun made Katie look radiant in a way Honey knew she would never be-girls like Honey simply didn't shine like that. She let that aching feeling fester forward as she watched Katie laugh next to Jake in front of Janet's rosebushes, tears lining her lashes. The ridiculous eye makeup she'd spent an hour on had gone to waste, along with the heels she'd splurged on. She had almost unbuckled them and tossed them to the side when Janet's voice sounded.

"Honey, sweetheart, c'mon over, I want some pictures of you and Jake."

Honey had smiled and wiped her eyes, standing as tall as she could next to Jake in front of the Seresin's towering magnolia tree. She'd painted on her best smile, avoiding Jake's gaze that was staring holes into the side of her head. He hadn't said anything, and she didn't expect him to. Just because her night turned out to be miserable didn't mean his had to. He and Katie would go to the dance, and she'd stay with Seresin's, probably watch westerns with Jacob Sr. until he fell asleep in his recliner, then she'd take herself up to Jake's room and read until he came back. Maybe she'd just go home, despite hating being there because of the loneliness, so she wasn't a bother to anyone at all. The Seresin family was too kind to her, and she'd never want to overstay her welcome.

"Well, it's a quarter til', you young folk should be headin' along," Jacob Sr.'s voice sounded. Honey smiled as Katie hung off of Jake's arm, and Honey turned back towards the porch of the house, sitting back down on the stairs and started to unbuckle her shoes. Jacob Sr.'s eyes cut to her frame, and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Honey, what are you doin', girl? Not too sure on the dress code at this function, but I imagine shoes are required."

Jake's eyes looked at the figure of his best friend sitting on his grandparents' porch, and a feeling he had never felt seeped completely down to his bones. He hadn't even bothered to take her in completely since she'd gotten dressed, too focused on getting himself ready. Honey was dazzling as the sunset framed her figure. The color of her dress brought out her skin, and her hair had been styled lightly, but just enough to frame her face. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. But when he finally braved looking into her eyes, his heart ached. Sadness pooled behind her irises, water forming in her waterline. Her smile contradicted all of the feelings he knew were stirring inside of her, and every cell in his body wanted to shed his dress clothes, pile into his truck and hunt Hayden Wright down to beat the shit out of him.

"Oh, um," Honey started, as if she couldn't find the words to say. "My date isn't comin', I-I don't think I'll go. I'm just gonna go home." She smiled a smile that would appear unbothered by anyone else, but Jake knew that smile. It was entirely fake, an action to keep herself from bursting into tears. She was often so quiet and so good at saving face that it was hard to see her suffering, but Jake saw through her completely, he knew her 'strong' look. Jake jumps into action, without even thinking of how it may make the girl on his arm feel.

"Not a chance, Honey," Jake started, walking across the yard. "Just because Hayden is a jerk, doesn't mean you don't deserve to go. You look beautiful, can't let that go to waste. C'mon, you can hang out with us."

He sticks a hand out and looks down at her. She sighs heavily, taking it, and Jake feels his skin light up. His hairs stand on end, and after all these years, he notices every color in Honey's eyes. He notes the curves of her cheeks, the beauty of her entire figure. He finds himself feeling an overwhelming urge to press his lips into hers. How had he never seen her before? She had spent half of their lives by his side. She knew everything about him, from his favorite foods to the things that kept him up at night. Jake's eyes dart between her own as his heart races in his chest. Jake Seresin was in love with his best friend- head over heels, jumping into the deep end, full force in love. He stands stock still, her hand on his own, for a moment too long.

"Well, we're going to be late if we don't come on." Honey's voice is small, not quiet like usual, but small. She tears her hand away as she makes it down the stairs, giving Katie a curt smile as Katie's arm links around Jake's. He helps Katie into his passenger side, feeling a bit odd that Honey wouldn't be just to his right. Honey climbs into the backseat, her bottom lip tucked in-between her teeth, hands mindlessly rotating the rings on her hands. As Katie chatted animatedly in the truck, Honey only smiled politely, speaking when only necessary. She was utterly miserable, and Jake could see it. It was written across her face so plainly. For most of the night, that look never left her face.

Loud music, the sounds of their classmates yelling at one another to talk, and flashing lights filled the small high school gym, a basketball court full of underclassmen couples swaying to a song Honey didn't recognize. She was wishing she'd brought her current read with her, not that she'd be able to see it in the dark room. Instead, she sat in her metal folding chair at the table Jake and his friends had claimed, watching all the other girls' shoes and purses. As she looked out at the group, she couldn't quell the hurt in her heart that she'd tried swallowing down a million times that night. Katie threw her head back laughing at something Jake had said, though Jake didn't look nearly as amused as her. Her eyes focused on Katie alone-she danced barefoot in front of Jake, her turquoise colored dress shimmering under the lights. She wore a wide smile, one that lit up her whole face. Honey burned with envy. Of course that was the type of girl Jake went to dances with. Katie practically glowed-everyone loved her. The type of girl that guys would never stand up, the girl that guys stopped and stared when she walked by. And no matter how Honey yearned and prayed at night, begging to God to be that kind of girl-the girl that lights up a room, one that makes everyone's head turn-she would never be that. She'd always be bookish, timid, she shook with nerves when she had to give presentations in class, much less in a room full of her entire student body. Without much further thought, she suddenly realized it wasn't the fact she wanted to be loved by everyone, she just wanted to be the kind of girl Jake loved. Jake would never see her as anything more than a sort of quasi-sister, someone to give him advice on how to treat another type of girl right. Even without malice, Jake would hurt her too, and she knew it would leave her empty. Honey felt a tear slip down her face, she hadn't even realized she was crying. She wiped it away hastily, refusing to be the rejected girl that cried at a school dance. She might be a loser, but she wouldn't become a cliche. She found herself picking at the skin around her nails, biting her bottom lip, trying to distract herself from the oncoming round of tears pushing through her eyes.

Back on the dance floor, Jake let out a breath as Katie ran off to dance with some of her girlfriends. The girl was sweet, but he could hardly keep his mind focused on anything but the girl sitting at the table he'd left twenty minutes ago. He'd thought about just dropping Katie off and turning around to take Honey home, but his grandparents would've never let him hear the end of that. Instead he watched from the dance floor as Honey became more and more drawn in on herself. He clocked her fidgeting first-the once pristine white polish on her nails now chipped, her bottom lip red and peeling. Her shoulders were slumped and she hadn't smiled once since they'd arrived. He knew she was trying to let Hayden's rejection roll off her shoulders, he knew she would've already expected it, but when it actually happened, it left her devastated. Not that she cared much about Hayden, but her years worth of abandonment had flared. She was reeling in her own mind, and in a room like this, there were no distractions, no book to escape to, so she simply sat and drowned.

Jake plopped down in the chair next to her, his feet aching in his new dress shoes. The air was thick, and even knowing Honey so well, he wasn't sure how to comfort her. He simply went on instinct. His voice had a rough edge as he shouted over the music.

"You wanna dance?"

They'd danced before, a thousand different times. They'd dance to old country songs as kids, in the barn on the Seresin farm. They'd danced to the radio in his grandparents' kitchen, just friendly dances. It wouldn't be any different, right?

"No."

Jake's head whipped to her. She was never short with him, always layering her rejection softly. Jake didn't think too much about it, she was already feeling vulnerable.

"You sure, Hon? You love this song."

He wasn't wrong-she did love this song. It was a country ballad at least a decade old, but she'd loved it anyway.

"I'm fine, Jake. You should dance with Katie."

"Don't want to dance with her, want to dance with you."

Honey bit her lip to keep it from wobbling, shaking her head.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me. I already knew he wouldn't show, I expected it. It's not your fault, you have nothin' to make up for, okay? I'm not going to be the girl you give a slow dance to because she’s a loser who thought someone like Hayden Wright would actually want to go with her. I don’t need that kind of pity, Jake, especially not from you.” Her tone was fiery, but she hadn’t intended to come across as angry towards Jake, he hadn’t done anything, she was just growing tired of being completely visible and simultaneously invisible to him. “I'm sorry-I just, I don't feel much for dancing at the moment."

She swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Then let's get out of here."

Her head now whipped around to Jake.

"No, no. I'll just wait until you and Katie leave, o-or I'll call your Grandma, I'm sure she wouldn't mind coming to get me so you can keep having fun.” She looks out into the crowd and spots Katie moving through the large crowd of the football boys and cheerleader girls. “You're having fun, Jake, with your friends, and just because I'm miserable doesn't mean you have to be."

"I shouldn't have dragged you here, Honey. I convinced you to come, and you're miserable. I should've realized this isn't your scene, and I'm just making it worse. You shouldn't have to sit here and be miserable and watch as everyone else has a good time. That's like some sick form of torture."

Honey wanted to scream, to grab him by the shoulders and make him realize that she lived it every single day, she was always watching from the sidelines as everyone else lived. It wasn't any different now that she was in an uncomfortable dress in a cold metal chair.

Honey musters a smile and turns to face the boy who held her heart in his hands. Jake couldn’t pull his eyes away as the white satin dress adorned her freckled skin, falling perfectly on her curves. "Jake, look, Katie is out there and she's beautiful and she adores you, and she's been nothing but kind to me, even for being her date's weird third wheel. My night is already miserable, hers doesn't have to be. She deserves to have the night she dreamed of. I sort of already imagined my night to look this way, so, not that big of a disappointment, really."

She swallowed thickly, her vision blurring with the tears she couldn't keep pushing down. Jake blinked, crouching across to rest his elbows on his knees to turn himself closer to her. He caught her eyes, but she couldn’t meet his, afraid of the sympathy she’d find in them.

"Honey, how clueless do you think I am? You say that, that you already knew you’d be disappointed, but I watched you. I sat on the tub while you got ready, and I've seen that look before, the same look you get when somethin’ unexpected happens in your book, or a stupid meet-cute moment on a movie. You’re not some mutant, you may not care about the stupid social part of a school dance, but you were excited, Hon. I’m sorry he put out your fire, believe me I want nothin’ more than to take him behind the barn.” Honey now braves a glance at him, and finds herself staring at a pair of warm green eyes. No sympathy, no pity, just Jake. “You say you're fine with disappointment, but you're not Wonder Woman, darlin'. You're human, and no one can take that amount of sadness without breaking. You suffer in silence because you think no one cares about your happiness, but, Honey, I care. You deserve your own happy night. So please for the love of God, let me get you out of here, we'll do whatever you want. I can't sit and watch you suffer."

Honey shook her head.

"As wonderful as that sounds, Jake, I won't do that to another girl. It's not fair to Katie for you to just leave her here. It's already-"

"I don't think we'll have that to worry about." Jake points to the general direction of a crowd of people, where Katie is laughing as she hangs off the arm of another member of the football team. "I don't think Katie's 'obsessed' with me, I think it's more of anyone who wears the jersey."

Honey shook her head silently, looking up at Jake. His arm was stuck out for her to take, and she gave him a small but genuine smile. Her head rested on his bicep as they walked through the parking lot. As he opened her door and let her in, she almost let herself imagine that she was the girl he’d asked, that he’d decided the dance was lame, and they’d have more fun doing something else. She shut down those thoughts, knowing they’d only disappoint her later when he showed up with another pretty girl at his side. She let the thought float away as the high school faded in the rearview mirror, Jake’s country music filling the cab of the truck.

“What’d you wanna do, Hon? It’s kind of late, everything’s probably closed, but we could swing into Greenville, catch a fast food place.”

Honey shivered, Greenville was nearly twenty minutes out, and she was already itching to get out of this dress and into bed.

“Uh, don’t think I’m cuttin’ you short, J, I just, I really want to get out of this dress, and I want to shower. I-I think I just want to go to bed. I told you not to leave, your night is gonna be-“

Jake’s clouded mind filled with a particularly lewd thought as she spoke about getting out of her dress, one he shoved down quickly.

“My night’s gonna be just fine, because you’ll be in bed and not in that gym miserable.”

Honey simply smiled and continued to watch their small town pass by out her window. It wasn’t long until Jake parked in her driveway, her heart heavy. She stared at the dark house, the empty garage, and the feeling of emptiness she knew she’d find. She smiled half-heartedly as she turned to Jake. He smiled back as he cut the truck off and crawled out of his seat, opening her door and helping her out. He walked her up the steps and to her front door, they looked at each other in the darkness of night, illuminated only by the moonlight.

“Thanks, seriously, Jake, for everything. You’re the best friend I could ask for.”

Her heart cracked at the word ‘friend’, and so did his, not that either of them knew about each other’s feelings.

“No need to thank me, Honey. You can always crash my party.” He winked, looking up at the dark porch light. “Forget to leave the porch light on again?”

Honey shrugged, fetching her house keys from behind a plotted plant. She opened the door to turn the porch light on, and when she flicked the switch, nothing came on. Her eyebrows furrowed, trying the switch for the living room light, and nothing. She shakes her head, her shoulders slumping.

“That’s just rich,” she mumbles under her breath.

“What’s up? Light bulb blow?” Jake’s mind wandered aloud.

“No, uh,” Honey flushed red, feeling embarrassed. “My mother didn’t pay the light company, again. S-She forgets about this place sometimes. I’ll just call her tomorrow, it’s fine. I’ll see you Monday, Jake.”

Jake pauses, placing his palm on the front door she was trying to hastily shut. He takes in her slumped figure, his anger flaring at her neglectful mother.

“Hey, don’t shut me out. You say she forgot again? She’s done this before? Honey I’m not letting you sit down here in the dark, pack a bag, you can stay with us.”

As much as she wanted to protest, as much as her brain said she’d be an imposition at the Seresin’s, her heart was lonely and heavy, and she didn’t want to be alone tonight. She didn’t fight it, only grabbing the flashlight by the door and stomping up the stairs as Jake stood watch. She packed a duffel hastily, throwing in pajamas and casual clothes, and even a set for Monday at school. She never wanted to overstay her welcome, but she would stay as long as the Seresin’s would let her. She hated this house, she hated the empty rooms and she hated her mother. She stomped back down the stairs and locked the door back, sliding back into Jake’s truck and peeling down Seresin Farm Road.

Late that night, with wet hair and Jake’s Dallas Cowboys hoodie over her frame, she sat across from him atop his plaid comforter, snorting and heaving with laughter over Jake’s spot-on impressions of his football coach and teammates. He’s traded his formal wear for basketball shorts and an old rodeo t-shirt, appearing much more like the Jake she felt most comfortable with. For the first time that entire night, she’d felt light, filled with happiness. Hayden Wright never crossed her mind, nor the beautiful girls she held her standards to, not even her elusive mother who Honey felt hated her most. None of it mattered, because she was safe, comfortable, feeling perfectly content enough to curl under Jake’s sheets and fall asleep on his spare pillows. She slept soundly, not feeling Jake’s hands push hair out of her face, or his green eyes unable to look away from her sleeping frame until he too collapsed in sleep. Most importantly, she hadn’t heard Jake’s mumbles of how beautiful she’d looked tonight, things he’d only say when he knew she wasn’t listening. At least for now.

When Janet woke early the next morning, she relaxed seeing Jake’s truck parked in the drive. She stumbled up the stairs to find his bedroom door ajar, a pair of black high-top converse keeping it open. They were Honey’s-she wore them everywhere. Janet’s blue eyes peered into the room illuminated by morning sunshine.

Jake and Honey both slept soundly in Jake’s queen bed, facing one another, none of their limbs touching. To any other parent, this would lead to a sharp lashing and a loud wake-up, but Janet knew her grandson well. He held Honey in such high esteem he’d never try anything of a clandestine romance. Janet loved Honey, and, while never audibly saying it, she silently hoped her boy would open his eyes soon and see the diamond of a girl in front of him. She simply kicked Honey’s shoes out of the way, closing the door to leave them undisturbed.

When the pair woke, nothing had changed. Jake and Honey still sat at the breakfast table like any other weekend, Jake stealing bacon off of Honey’s plate, and Honey stealing strawberries off of his. There was no great fanfare of Honey all but moving into Jake’s room. Janet and Jacob Sr. had no objections when they found out the reasons why. They treated Honey as if she was another Seresin. The only thing that had changed is that Janet no longer had to pick her up for school. So when Honey and Jake walked into school together on Monday, no one seemed to bat an eye. When Hayden Wright walked into the courtyard Monday morning, however, it seemed every single eye was on him, or, more likely, the double black eyes he sported.

Jake had passed off his busted knuckles on some farm work, and Honey had believed him. When she noted that his closest football buddies, Brett and Willie, also had the same markings, she’d passed it off as a football tussle Jake hadn’t wanted to tell her about. Jake had smiled and kept the conversation topic away from Hayden at all costs, which struck Honey as weird, but she chalked it up to Jake’s protective nature. She only started to wonder when Willie turned to her in their shared third period and asked her about the book she’d been reading, or when Brett had caught her attention in the hallway.

“Honey!” The tall boy’s voice had boomed over the crowd of people in the hallway. “What’s up?!” He’d high-fived her as she simply responded with a quiet “nothing much” and headed towards her locker.

When the two boys joined her and Jake at lunch, she’d been nervous at first, as she always was around new people, but quickly fell into a more comfortable state as the weeks passed. Jake’s friends, his true friends it seemed, found her funny, doubling over in laughter at her witty retorts to Jake’s comments, and her jabs at particularly disliked teachers. She no longer cowered behind Jake as he spoke to his teammates, because Brett or Willie were always around, actively roping her into easy conversation. For the first time in her life, Honey had friends, well, besides Jake, but she'd always had Jake.

That Friday night, after the game, as Jake slung off his shoulder pads and tossed them into his designated cubby, Brett’s voice sounded over the bustle of the loud locker room.

“Yo, Jake, are you and Honey going to The Basket after this? I’m fucking starving, man, and she always lets me have her fries she doesn’t eat.”

Jake felt a weird sort of flutter erupt in his chest, knowing that he wasn’t the only person to see Honey’s personality, that she had made an impression on his closest friends too. It almost made him burn with jealousy, but then he’d realized that he quite literally slept next to Honey each night-platonically, of course.

“Uh, yeah, as long as she’s down,” came Jake’s reply as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Fuck yeah!” Willie’s voice came into the circle of conversation. “Tell your girl to come to the after party at Junior’s too! I just finished that book she let me borrow, and that party’s gonna be ass, so we’ll have plenty of time to talk about it.”

Jake’s blood ran cold, his girl? When had his friends decided that Honey was his girl? He didn’t correct the boy’s words, only nodding as he chuckled, thinking of Honey’s frame sitting on the bales of hay at Junior’s barn as Willie’s towering linebacker frame chatted animatedly about the copy of The Outsiders she’d lent him.

“Yeah, I’ll see if she wants to come. You might have to catch her later, though, she’s not really big on parties. She’s not one to be social or drink, so people give her shit about it.”

Brett’s scoff filled the air.

“She’s wearing your numbers, Seresin.” Brett referred to Jake’s old jersey Honey often wore to the game. “And me and Willie’ll be there, nobody’s gonna mess with ‘er.”

That night, Honey and Jake sat on one side of a sticky red booth at the local diner with Willie and Brett across from them, opting to spend their night over dinner instead of at a party the law would likely bust. Jake had hardly spoken to Honey at all since they’d arrived, she was deep in a conversation with Willie over greasers and poems about gold. It made Jake happy that she and his friends got along, but as Honey flashed Willie a smile she’d only given him, he felt his fists tighten at his side, the burning jealousy returning. As Brett chattered on and on, Jake tried to focus, but his eyes kept lingering on the other side of him, seeing Honey laugh or her eyes sparkle as she divulged in literary talk. His mood had turned sour, and she hadn’t even noticed. So when Willie and Brett parted for the night, and they’d made their way to Jake’s truck, she’d clocked his frown as he opened her door for her.

“You alright, J?” Her voice was sweet, laced with sympathy.

“M’fine, Hon,” came his reply as he shut the door, walking around to his side and sliding in before starting the truck. Silence filled the truck, and Honey found her happiness deflating. She must’ve done something to upset him, that must be why he was acting this way. She pulled her knees to her chest, feeling small. Jake caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing’s your fault. I swear.” His green eyes were more warm than before.

“Then why are you acting like this? I-I’m sorry if you thought I was ignoring you, I just got caught up in talking to Willie about the book that I didn’t think about it.”

“It’s not that, you haven’t done anything, I promise. Just, thinking about a lot up here.” His pointer finger tapped against his temple.

“You can always talk to me. You can tell me anything, Jake.”

He smiled at her and nodded, but he knew he couldn’t. He could tell her anything except that he was in love with her.

-

taglist:

@djs8891

[not-poignant]

Raphael has a very poetic and grandiose way of speaking that is absolutely not the norm for day-to-day life. How do you get in the mindset to come up with his dialogues? They're perfection and I just can't even imagine how long it would take to do one paragraph of the way he talks, but you're writing an entire story with him...

Oh I love this question because I can answer it, lol sadlkjfsda

Okay so, Raphael's character is tough for me.

Normally I do a lot of dialogue research before starting to write a character in fanfiction and original fiction, but Raphael actually gets proportionately very few lines that really show his full emotional range (compared to say, Astarion), and he's got an incredibly specific way of talking that sounds similar to Astarion but at the same time is very different.

They share enough similarities (calling people darling and dear for example) that it's easy to fall into the trap of giving them the same 'voice.'

I find Astarion's voice a lot easier to 'get' and I feel like I can hear him better when I'm writing him. But Raphael I'm taking into emotional spaces we simply never see in the game, and then I have to really guess how he'd sound (like coming up with the idea that the theatricality vanishes when Raphael is genuinely panicking).

I ended up listening to a lot of interviews with Andrew Wincott, the Voice Actor for Raphael who is an incredible actor and extremely articulate. He was very clear in one of his interviews that one of the reasons he was selected to play Raphael was because, in part, he already sounded like him. Obviously there's differences / skill in changing cadence and more, but for the most part, Andrew Wincott uses similar vocabulary and talks in a similar manner to Raphael naturally, so I had an abundance of interviews that I could then listen to in order to get a feel for Raphael's voice. I picked the things that felt more 'Raphael' and added them to my dialogue notes.

I often have to go back and edit Raphael's dialogue. Sometimes it's very simple things, I had him say 'much more' in the chapter I'm editing right now, and I edited it to 'far more' because I think he'd just phrase it like that. Sometimes I expand a sentence into an entire paragraph.

I've also leaned a lot from Korilla's transcripts in the game, which have been super useful. They really cement, more than anything, how much he loves lullabies, nursery rhymes, children's tales and more.

HOW TO DO DIALOGUE RESEARCH:-

If you're new to dialogue research, it mostly involves listening to - and watching a character and then literally taking notes of how they talk. The things you observe are:

The tone of their voice - Fast or slow. Loud or soft. Musical or flat. Theatrical or matter-of-fact. High or low. Questioning or complete statements. Considered or hedging (i.e. very well constructed sentences, or a lot of pauses, ellipses, broken sentences). Rambling or concise.

How often they talk - Some characters actually say a lot with very little. Raphael is actually a lot of observation and facial expressions and eyebrow movements in between his dialogue. Little smirks, hand gestures and more. Do they interrupt or let people finish their sentences? Are they comfortable with silence? I find Raphael oscillates between long theatrical paragraphs, single sentences or words, and then a lot of silence. He's actually not very conversational, in that you can have a conversation with him, but I doubt he'd see the point of two hours of small-talk. (At this point you might be realising that dialogue research is also character research, how a character talks tells you so much about a character.)

The words (and metaphors/subjects) they use - This is a big one and I'm going to break this down a little bit more:

How they pause if they don't know what to say. Is it 'um' 'uh' 'ah' 'hm' 'mm' 'mn' or nothing at all (or something else) because they've mastered self-control over their dialogue? If Raphael says 'ah' he does so on purpose.

Filler words. Things like characters saying 'like' in a sentence. 'He was like, 'I can't believe it'' etc. This is very similar to how they pause, but it's the things people say to get from point A to point B. People who don't do this have often had training or think very hard about what they're going to say before they say it. But people say 'like' or 'and then' or 'well' or 'i realised that' or 'i thought that' etc. to carry them on. Some are more acceptable than others (people do just have realisations for example).

Profanity. How often do they swear, and how intentional is it? Some characters only swear when they get hurt or stub their toe or get angry. Some characters swear all the time for fun. Some characters only use some swear words and not others. Be specific. Be aware that some swear words are cultural! This includes blasphemy. In Faerun they use 'gods' and 'gods damn it' more often than we use 'god' or 'oh my god.'

Vulgarity. This is useful for Raphael (and Astarion) because he's very happy to be vulgar. This is like... how comfortable are they talking about sex, about sexual subjects, being crude, being seductive, flirtatious? And if they use it, do they use vulgarity to shock, seduce, scare, threaten, or for humour?

Salutations and farewells. How do they greet people? Silence? A calm hello? (A lot of greetings are omitted in dialogue but this is still good to know). How do they say hello, goodbye. How does that change between friends and enemies and strangers?

Single word sentences. This might sound weird, but sometimes when a character hears something that shocks them, or needs to acknowledge something, they may say anything from 'huh' to 'yeah' to 'fuck' to 'okay' to 'all right' to 'sure' to 'go on' to 'indeed' to just laughing out loud. The list goes on. Raphael is team 'indeed' lmao.

Sentence structure. Raphael's sentence structure is - when he's most comfortable - gently provoking, teasing, vaguely threatening, and makes liberal use of simile, metaphor, fairy tale, rhyme, sayings, colloquialisms and more. Raphael talks like someone who knows someone could quote him at any moment lmao. But from here, how a character structures their sentences can be helpful to know. Go back to 'the tone of their voice.' Those notes will give you an idea of structure.

Emotionality. How emotional are they? Do they have rage rants? Joyful giggling dialogue? Do they infodump with little emotion? Or with sheer excitement? Does their dialogue feel fake or real? Opaque or transparent? Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, and others will never be able to say 'I love you' in anything other than actions. Raphael's emotionality in dialogue is more present in his anger and irritation, and also when he feels triumphant and/or turned on.

The symbols, sayings, colloquialisms and metaphors themselves. Not all characters use these. But some people/characters will talk through analogies, colloquialisms. This is actually Raphael's biggest dialogue departure from Astarion, imho, aside from the fact that Astarion is a lot more emotional with his dialogue.

Take into account their culture, ethnicity, conceits, upbringing, education and the people they're close to:

This one is vital. Firstly, some people tend to 'absorb' elements of those around them. A person raised by affluent people will often 'sound affluent' and a person raised in poverty will often have dialogue that reflects this and if they don't there will be reasons for that. It might be a conceit (some people self-teach themselves different accents), it might be education, it might be training, it might be the subculture/s they've entered into, and so on.

~

When doing this research, you'll end up with a kind of master-list of actual words and probably some sentences you've written down, along with a lot of notes. You can also do this for any original characters you're making at all, you're just then making it up based on the character, and this research will also give in many ways the shape of the character.

It's a fun exercise and I highly recommend everyone tries it literally for people who don't exist and also observe your friends and family, and do a dialogue cheat sheet for some of them. It's pretty eye-opening! Even one page will teach you more than nothing at all. You can go deep and write many pages, or you can do what I do and keep it lean at 2 pages. Anyone who struggles with characterisation I suggest at least try this exercise, because anyone can put on a YouTube video and/or streaming service or even a favourite Tiktoker and start doing dialogue research! It's a way of building a character from the top down while also getting information about their foundations.

[foursaints]

barty has a certified Evan Kink but what else specifically 👀👀👀

grim made a post here that i agree with & im going to reiterate some of it! but generally my barty is pretty disgusting so i’m putting this under a cut lmao…. Beware..... i know i just said i want my asks to be less horny but im not helping. this is so explicit seriously if you are one of my cool mutuals look away (fern do NOT read this i will be so mad)

prefacing this by saying 😭😭 these are NOT my personal preferences i’m simply huffing the fumes like the oracle at Delphi and divining into his mind. also with evan he gets way more switchy but these are just how i see his usual preferences in general 

24/7 power play (as grim said) and free use. barty gets off on blurring the lines between kink and reality and having complete control over his partner sexually but he does it in a sort of irreverent, half-joking-but-not-really-joking way. he’ll casually make his partner lick his boot and he’ll laugh and pat them on the head and get up to go make dinner. bend them over while they’re doing dishes because He Can Have Them Any Time & not let them finish because it’s his decision. that sort of thing

(but u have to put it in context like outside the bedroom that man is SO whipped. he’s calling evan his brainless fuckdoll but he’s also walking 4 miles in the snow to get him the specific type of croissant he wants)

to me there’s a major incongruity between barty’s fantasies and his actual preferences. he jerks off to the idea of keeping his partner collared & silent & pretty & obedient and dolled up and sat quietly on a pillow all day waiting to please him. but he would hate that irl and in reality he LOVES evan’s bitching and bossing him around. its so much more fun

FAKE KIDNAPPING (as grim said). SO REAL! HE IS THE KIDNAPPER! IN A SKI MASK! 

in general my barty is concerningly into cnc but only if its super negotiated and desired. hes checking in beforehand and throughout 800x but like? with evan? they are going the whole nine yards. he wants to pin him down and Take Him while he screams and struggles and cries and fails to fight him off 

while barty is cooing and salivating over him and petting his hair and licking his tears and mockingly telling him how sweet & weak he is and how perfectly evan takes him. btw

overstimulation. both giving and receiving. 

he’ll make his partner get off like eight times daily because he finds overstim entertaining. like he’s not even getting anything out of it at this point. just whenever he’s bored he’ll sit his partner on his knee for the third time that day and play with them until they cry while he scrolls his phone 

this next one shows up mostly in his dirty talk and his habit of manhandling but like? objectification? but in the weird possessive sense of “wow you are so perfect and pretty it’s like you’re a cute little toy that exists Just For Me” <- that type of vibe. he chooses to believe you were Invented to Be Fucked By Him

and his dirty talk is so meeeaaaan like he could be doing the most depraved thing ever and speaking in a casual tone of voice like he's making small talk. he's very condescending and asks a lot of demeaning questions and will laugh. he likes to see evan get angry and embarrassed and make him repeat filthy stuff

not really a kink bc i don’t think it’s something he seeks out or even thinks about much. but when he discovers evan rosier is a virgin he 100% gets SOOO weird and insane about it. bro is FROTHING 

but aside from all of that. he loves giving himself up to evan completely and service top barty is Real. that’s an entirely different rodeo with its own set of… fucking… rodeo clowns? lassos? 20-page long notarized consent forms? this is an untenable metaphor. but anyway i also like to believe that rosekiller has very loving vanilla dynamic-less sex too because im a romantic like that. and also because they are soulmates

he’s SO awful but. you know. i love him anyway

[vetinarivimesy]

Kenobi-centric fic recs

Everything here will heavily feature Obi-Wan Kenobi in some fashion, and will vary wildly by ship, tone, and fic-type though I'll do my best to give little blurbs/not-too-spoilery summaries.

The fics range from gen to explicit, in some cases pre-date tagging ettiquette, and, no, no I have not re-read them all (ye gods have you seen the word counts).

In a few cases I'm basing my summaries on very hazy memory and I have a noted bad habit of skimming straight past explicit porn when I don't want to read it, then forgetting its there entirely - so caveat lector!

These are mostly fics that I currently mentally catalogue as Wonderful Obvious Obi-Wan Kenobi Goodness fics rather than expecting to dig up any obscure hidden gems. The list would probably look very different on a different day. It's far from comprehensive, and the categories are loose at best. But here it is!

I've been contemplating putting something like this together for a while but been a bit nervous of sticking my head up above the metaphorical parapet. As, follows my fave character around without caring overmuch about the ship trash, I've got quite a list of Star Wars fics inhaled/rediscovered.

(Wee bit too used to coming into very dead fandoms long after everyone's left, put the chairs up on the tables, the metaphorical lights have been turned off... and the not so metaphorical bills have stopped being paid. More than once I've stumbled into a wonderful old fandom fic archive only for it to vanish into, Only What Was Saved on the Internet Archive Remains status. Even when the archive isn't actually an ex-archive, many don't actually allow for interaction. Apologies to the authors I've never worked up the courage to comment on, this is an explanation not an excuse!)

Obi-Wan's apprenticeship fics:

Commander Kenobi - norcumi (complete, 9646 words)

Obi-Wan gets de-aged in the midst of battle. Cody gets to find out what teenaged Obi-Wan was like. Given Obi-Wan thinks he's fresh out of Melida-Daan, nothing like whatever Cody might have been expecting.

A Town Called Stagnation - deniigiq (complete, 33,000 words)

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan take a trip to Stewjon, to let Obi-Wan get in touch with his roots post the horrorshow of his early apprenticeship. Smalltown thinking and the trauma of recent events clash horribly for everyone involved.

Another brilliant author who's whole fic-output is well worth checking out. Their wry utterly charming character voices never fail to amuse, even when the POV character is one I'm currently in an... actually I wouldn't mind some bashing of this guy kinda mood. I draw amusement and sympathy for Qui-Gon's character in every single one of their immediately post-Melida Daan fics for context here, with my knowledge of that event thoroughly warped and contaminated by the current popular fanon take on the matter too.

Though more Cody-centric, and thus Clone Wars era, than anything parallelogram (Complete, 33,000 words) and they're neutral (complete, 9900 words) by the same author are also wonderful.

poisoned chalice - qigiined (Complete, 9900 words)

Another author with the wit and deftness of characterisation to make immediately-post-Melida-Daan Qui-Gon's POV both amusing and sympathetic. They've also got quite a few other gems!

Qui-Gon's very wry POV as he tries to navigate raising a very traumatised child, and appeasing his various lineage members.

through hardships to the stars - kivaember (WIP, 148,000 words)

Canon divergence where Obi-Wan's apprenticeship snafu on Melida-Daan went just that much worse than those Legends-were-never-technically-canon novels would have it.

As a result Obi-Wan and a very young Jango Fett end up on the run from a terrifying darksider, whilst Jaster Mereel and Feemor despearately try to catch up with the pair.

Little Lights Stories - ms_nawilla (WIP, 628,000 words)

Qui-Gon neglected too much of Obi-Wan's training, so Obi-Wan isn't immediately knighted post-Naboo despite saving Qui-Gon's life and defeating the Sith.

Anakin goes to the creche, Qui-Gon's in utter denial, and Obi-Wan begins the rocky process of finding his own feet post-Naboo, getting through the thorny process of working out who you are as your own person after living under someone else's oppressive shadow for far too long.

Super detailed epic detailing all sorts of wonderful possible jedi-culture headcanons, illuminated manuscripts! beer! force-manipulation games! communal caring! crystallography! sex ed! old-people's homes! the engineers! clerical branch! outreach via art! dance instruction! reincarnation! politics! spies! terrible james bond esque spy films to hide that the spies were really real! lightsaber classes! non-jedi temple residents! U and L leaning prejudice! Alderaan!

Just what would happen if Qui-Gon Jinn were exactly the sort of irresponsible unpleasant adult who should never ever be given a child a lot of fandom suspects he is. His implied treatment of Obi-Wan here can be fairly harrowing, for all that its emotional neglect rather than anything graphic.

The jedi are never depicted as anything less than trying their best, unfortunately no matter how thorough the system tries to be, sometimes people do just fall through the cracks. As was v.nearly the case for Obi-Wan in this verse.

Mostly character driven, though the hints of the greater plot bubbling away underneath all of this glorious worldbuilding and character growth are both ominous and intriguing. The pairing is a hell of a spoiler, but also one that could potentially be a bit of a squick, I don't want to spoil the slowburn of this thing but I do want to give fair warning. Does tumblr offer spoiler tags?

Preventing Order 66 fics:

When Duty is Done - thosenearandfarwars (WIP, 257,000 words)

Wonderful long-form piece - technically a WIP but all installments so far are complete - a what happens next post-Palp's getting his comeuppance, messily. Features Codywan, grief, internalised ableism, jedi order reforming in a very nuanced 'we were this close to the brink' and lost so many people to the war sense *not* the sneaky 'jedi-positive but actually bashing' sense.

Hell I wholeheartedly reccie just about everything this author's ever done tbh!

(This Too Was a Gift (Complete, 69,000 words) is also utterly wonderfully done, and a complete fic in a similar vein, albeit much more focused on the ramifications for individual characters than the ensemble cast of thousands that is Star Wars.)

I Got My Head Checked - frostbitebakery (Complete, 79,000 words)

Codywan Sith!Obi-Wan AU. Cody falls for the hot Sith in the next cell...

Light of the Mists- Snowy Egret Chimes of Kyber, Songs of Kyber, and Anthem of Kyber (Complete, 166,000 words)

This one technically also fits the Obi-Wan's apprenticeship category too. Bit of an epic of, what would happen if Obi-Wan never made it to Bandomeer, and instead trained under a force sect with rather different ideas about how things worked than the modern jedi order?

Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi - stonefreeak (WIP, 113,000 words)

Wonderful crackfic premise done mostly seriously. (WIP)

By an extremely obscure bit of Senate Legalise, Obi-Wan finds himself thrust into the role of Supreme Chancellor. Palpatine is furious.

How A Romance Novel Saved The Galaxy - Ariana Deralte (WIP, 184,000 words)

The galaxy takes a left turn when a popular novel takes the world by storm, and the Jedi and Mandalorians mutually discover their two cultures aren't so different after all...

sanguine - glimmerglanger (complete, 158,000 words)

In which Obi-Wan being a vampire, with all the nasty prejudices that come with being a non-human in the GFFA, somehow saves the galaxy.

Just Go Kill Palpatine - nevertheless_turtle (WIP, 6662 words though this is likely an underestimate due to formatting of a wonderful epistolary/OutsiderPOV social-media-centric chapter)

Just as the title says. Obi-Wan goes and attempts to do just that. Wonderful and hilarious.

The More I Live the More I See this Life is Not About Me - K_R_Closson

Another de-aged Obi-Wan fic. In which post-Melida-Daan suspicious of everyone and everything Kenobi somehow fixes things. Everyone around Obi-Wan is suitably horrified by the news of just what his apprenticeship under Qui-Gon entailed.

Not Quite Sure How to Catergorise these...

This category is the equivalent of the draw marked 'misc.' sorry! Mostly a mix of action/adventure stuff and fics I suspect will turn into, and they prevented order 66 fix-its, but maybe not, with some other truly misc. things thrown in.

backdrop - esama (Complete, 2300 words)

Short and sweet self-contained little tale. Very succinct, but what the author does with those words...

Gunslinger's Paean - Idiot's Array + Homeworld Elegy - Ashcroft_Writes (WIP, 299,000 words)

Epic, what if Obi-Wan post-Rako Hardeen paired up with Cad Bane action adventure tale. Mistrust. Violence. Gunslinging. Espionage. Murder attempts galore!

We Brothers, We Sisters, We Vod'e Few - infinitecompositions(WIP, 322,000 words)

Hell of a fic. WIP. What if canon were to take just a step to the left... Post-Naboo Obi-Wan finds himself recruited for the Shadows branch of the jedi order...

Another epic, cough, can you tell what style I like yet? Uh, starts off as a bit of a dark action adventure romp, rapidly morphs into a detailed dissection of spy-craft, espionage, and galactic politics - but becomes no less tense for it.

Kneading - Threebea O (WIP, 79,000 words)

Manages the miraculous trick of being canon, whilst seeming to be a fluffy bakery AU for a significant chunk of the first few chapters.

Jango/Obi - Jango falls for a local baker whilst hanging out in small town with Boba. Increasingly important to the fate of the galaxy shenanigans inevitably ensue when aforementioned baker turns out to be Obi-Wan Kenobi undercover.

Be Your Love - glimmerglanger (complete, explicit, 9000 words)

I tend not to go for 'real world' AUs but this author's work is so very excellent that I'm reccieing this one - hell I think most of their work is well worth a look through, and every fic-genre they've attempted has proven very fun indeed.

Heed the tags. Explicit Codywan BDSM stuff contained within.

Wizard of the Jundland Wastes - phoenixyfriend (complete, 3200 words)

Obi-Wan on Tatooine, outsiderPOV.

One of many wonderful Star Wars fics this author has written. If this one doesn't catch your fancy, one of their many delightful utterly bizarre premise taken to logical conclusion fics probably will.

Father of the Year (Not) - phoenixyfriend (complete, 2430 words)

Obi-Wan and Jango find out they're each other's soulmates. Mostly they're furious.

Wonderful very pointed skewering of all the usual soulmate and Jango is actually a decent dude tendencies in fic-writing.

Time Travel fics:

I thought I fought this war alone - stonefreeak (Complete, 3783 words)

Wonderful short and sweet Obi-Wan time travelling to his padawan days fix-it.

this is unexpected - MarbleGlove (Complete, 4461 words)

Very succinct and perfect with it time travel what if. Old Ben Kenobi goes back in time and immediately ruins Palpatine's day.

This author tends to be delightful no matter the fandom.

The Sun Swings East - kj_feybarn (Complete, 33,000 words)

Brilliantly done timeloop story of woe and hope. As much about recovery as the initial plot-driven despair. Mind the tags, Obi-Wan is understandably severely depressed throughout much of this fic.

The Making of Mavericks - AppoApples (complete, 146,000 words)

It was extremely difficult to choose just the one time travel fic from this author. Their output is wonderfully varied, don't like their particular take on the Jedi Order and/or the Mandalorians in this fic? Pick another, and odds are they'll have explored the concept from precisely the opposite angle.

This author has a wonderful exploratory sense of, okay okay, so how do we fix this thing/how do we make it worse?

In this case, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Cody, and Rex time travel to the past. This creates broad sweeping changes to the timeline, not always for the better.

The Desert Storm (complete, 1,144,599 words) & Rise and Fall series (WIP, 396,000 words) - Blue_Sunshine (WIP)

Wonderful epic-length time-travel fic. Highly recommended. Technically a WIP, but what there is already is well worth the time.

Ben Kenobi, now Nasaade, in utter furious despair finds himself back in time, pre, well, everything. He decides to take matters into his own hands and change things.

Gorgeous character-work, where by the end of the piece the characters are all in very different places than where they started out. And you utterly believe the growth (positive and negative) that got them there.

Draws from both legends and canon in a bit of a hodgepodge approach - despite drawing from a few of the more leaning towards the jedi were the bad guys sources in legends, impressively manages to tread a nuanced stance on, okay so what if the jedi and mandalorians did decide to start reforming in the face of this grave existential threat that's been brought to their attention?

Wonderful utterly enviable pacing - I know this one's extremely long. But at no point do you ever feel/notice the length when reading this thing.

It Was Another Time and I Another Man - Pell_Binterhol (WIP, 196,000 words)

Multiple Kenobis time travelling. Absolute chaos for absolutely everyone else; fellow time travellers, fellow Kenobis, and plotting Sith alike.

the massive machinery of hope - Killbothtwins (Complete, 150,000 words)

Obi-Wan travels back to his padawan days and annoys everyone else into helping him save the day. Wonderful sense of wry humour throughout this fic.

Living Memory - elsa3beth (WIP, 363,000 words)

Epic very detailed wonderful fic detailing just what General Kenobi would do if he had to fight the war again.

Deals with just what could happen if Anakin had ever had to face his fellow jedi with even a few of his flaws laid bare, and the fallout.

Meanwhile, Obi-Wan, just barely managing to hold himself together, fresh out of the middle of his exile to Tatooine, is desperately playing four-dimensional chess against Palpatine and trying to use the awful structure of the Republic's Army to save both the Jedi and the Clones.

The 212th Attack Battalion's Guide to Saving the Galaxy by Accident - antigrav_vector & quarra (WIP, 783,000 words)

Long, character driven fic that's an incredibly fun take on just what might happen if Obi-Wan and a bunch of Ghost Company stumbled into Jaster Mereel's True Mandalorians and get themselves adopted. Heed the tags wrt pairings!

All the complications that come from being an adult stuck as an apparent child ensue. From being squicked out about being a kid again, to having other people being concerned that a kid is behaving like an adult, to just... time travel complications, kidnapping, force esoterica, and fighting a small war.

Plenty of Jedi thoughtfully staring at this strange miniature jedi master, lots of Mandalorians being both stunned and horrified by these tiny soldiers, and Dooku/Sifo-Dyas being a surprisingly lovely central pairing.

Not Qui-Gon friendly in the least, and in this verse you can't help but feel he very much deserves it.

Suicidal Misunderstandings - nevertheless_turtle (WIP, 67,000 words)

Obi-Wan spends much of this fic convinced he's hallucinating and on a bad spice-trip. The trigger warning is very much in the name here.

That said, wonderful, often hilarious time travelling Obi-Wan fic, as the jedi desperately try to work out 1) what's wrong with Obi-Wan, and 2) how to stop Palpatine.

Re-Entry (Complete, 568,000 words) and Re-Entry Journey of the Whills (WIP, 889,000 words) - flamethrower

Fair warning, might turn into a deadlink fairly soon. The author's stuff is in the process of being transferred to another archive. Not a big deal (though fandom being a collective arse is, ffs), as with many older fics this one has moved home fairly often! (Squidgeworld.)

Wonderful absolute epic time travelling Obi-Wan Kenobi fic. Even if you're not a fan of the central Qui/Obi pairing it's written from a very believable perspective, of you can see precisely how these two adults got there, and an extremely enjoyable read with it.

Starts off as a fairly character-driven piece, as the plot slowly builds into something extremely ominous indeed, though once the plot momentum gets going ye gods it gets going.

Another case of technically a series that's a WIP, but every individual story that's up is complete and a satisfying individual whole.

Filled with all the things I love in a Star Wars fic, Obi-Wan getting to be awesome, force esoterica, Obi-Wan getting to be a little shit, plotty plot, the jedi getting to be nuanced and awesome, canon and fanon star wars lore all over the place, and plenty of action adventure and gorgeous character work.

I don't want to go into too much spoilery detail here, but suffice it to say this one is a classic in the fandom for a reason, and deservedly so.

Warning that the dark stuff in this fic can get dark, the level of whump Obi-Wan endures goes all the way up to extremely creepy Palpatine-torture on par with the Ventress/Sith-mask/Alpha-17 situation. It's never gratuitous with it, but in places this fic is explicit, at turns in both the fun porny way and the whump sense.

Star Wars crossovers and fusions:

Alas this section will be shorter than I'd like it to be - unlike a lot of other sci-fi fandoms Star Wars fandom seems to shy away from crossover fic by and large. There's both less of it, and what there is seems to get a hell of a lot less interaction than it would in a different fandom. Not guilt-tripping, again, I am very very guilty of failing to interact myself, just a weird, 'huh, where are all the crossovers?' thing I've noticed.

Rouge Handed - nevertheless_turtle (complete, 2190 words)

As the name hopefully implies this one's kinda sorta a Moulin Rouge crossover. Ish. In that it's firmly set wholly in the GFFA.

Delightful little crackfic.

The weeping stone - Gabriel4Sam (complete, 6965 words)

A wonderful crossover with The Mummy that somehow manages to thread the needle, hitting the humorous tone of those films perfectly whilst simultaneously making you feel very sad indeed for Obi-Wan.

A Star to Steer By - dogmatix, norcumi (first fic in the series is complete, second a WIP, 109,000 words)

Absolutely wonderful Stargate crossover/fusion - it somehow manages to be both a crossover and a fusion at once.

Largely told from Jack's POV, the Jedi are symbionts, with all the misunderstandings that would imply, given the SGC are much more used to dealing with malevolent parasitic Goa'uld than benevolent symbiosis.

Lost Jedi - Augusta Pembroke (complete)

A Velvet Goldmine crossover fic. Curt Wild meets Qui-Gon Jinn, and things get complicated. Qui/Curt with implied unfulfilled Qui/Obi feelings.

All the unhealthy messy relationship stuff the Velvet Goldmine tag and the age of the fic implies is probably present and correct here.

Qui-Gon ends trapped on the wrong side of the galaxy, he finds Curt who's force sensitive, and trains him to help him get back home to Obi-Wan... Things get messy.

Snow and Cinder - MrsHamill (explicit, complete, 16,000 words)

The pre-requisite wonderfully done Highlander/Methos crossover fic. Obi-Wan hangs out with the ROG for a while post-Naboo in a bid to get over a falling out with Qui-Gon Jinn and work through his own messy feelings on the matter. The main pairing is Qui/Obi as many older Master&Apprentice archive era fics are.

All you really need to know about Methos is he's very old, and very cynical. He's literally seen and done it all.

This one doesn't fall into the all too easy to fall into trap of having Methos, understandably an extremely old and cunning immortal being so much better at anything and everything than everyone else around him that it stops being fun and starts bashing the other-verse in the crossover, for which I'm extremely grateful. It's a difficult balance to tread and this author manages it wonderfully. (I say this from first-hand, I have tried and failed to airdrop this character into other sci-fi fandoms you'd think he'd work well in, fic-author perspective rather than as a crit of anyone else's work!)

Look at the publishing dates please.

A few of these fics pre-date Attack of the Clones. They were written in the 90s.

If I find out someone's been bashing an author for outdated terminology or characterisation or for not using the current 2022 language, or a character the fic pre-dates in a fic they've not looked at for over twenty years, or how they wrote the central pairing in the era when the punchline to every single joke in Hollywood was 'haha they're gay!' I... Well... I won't be writing another one of these rec lists. Which isn't much of a threat I realise, but please, be civil.

I could probably easily fill a couple more of these lists tbh, and get more specific with it genre-wise... But as a general, here's a few fics I remember fondly often. I can feel myself getting neurotically 'this has to be perfect' at this thing, so, this'll do for now.

[heartgold]

as much as it's frustrating how only two of the umi episodes were penned by Sayo in the irl layer, I think it's fascinating to compare them with each other because so much becomes clear when you look at the writing choices in each one side by side

the specific ways in which Legend and Turn differ from each other makes me certain that one was among the first message bottles she wrote whereas the other was one of the last, but it's not clear which is which -- it depends on how you interpret her internal journey and process of creating all these tales and fragments. Sayo's writing as a whole is very marked by her personal observations of the sins and struggles of the family and using them as mirrors to actually write about herself, using characters as stand-ins that give voice to her own inner thoughts, but both stories are very different in tone and approach

Legend feels almost methodical with the ways the murders and illusions are carried out, and the way her resentment manifests is more controlled, understated. you need to wring it around a bit more to 'see', but in my understanding: it's interesting how the 3 cousins are all made to suffer incredible grief losing their parents and love interests in quick succession (Battler being the only adult cousin who only lost his parents and not a love interest feels important to get him to remember!), but they live until the end then get invited to the Golden Land and choose to resurrect their lost love. By contrast, Natsuhi is put through the wringer through and through while being given the opportunity to be the star of the episode with her struggles as a woman taking the center of the stage, only to lose a duel (!) to Beatrice and be denied entry in the very last moment. there's a lot of conflicting emotions all over the place in both cases which is of course very characteristic of Sayo but I'm fascinated by how the cousins' entire role in this episode is to lose everything they had, experience earth-shattering grief and be led towards a romanticized afterlife where they can heal that grief, making the choice to resurrect the love that was lost, whereas Natsuhi's role is to mirror and portray Sayo's actual interiority and struggles (many that were caused by Natsuhi herself!) that went unspoken her whole life and then be challenged to a duel and get shot. to shoot Natsuhi is to shoot herself. shooting her actual personhood and interiority and struggles to death. as a metaphor for the entire ceremony of Beatrice's revival being a suicide in order to pass on into the afterlife where compartmentalized parts of herself can simultaneously exist as whole and find happiness with their respective love interests. the final step of rejecting reality, seeking love by truly becoming fictional while the human heart of the actress behind the characters dies buried between the lines of the text unless you 'see' it. god she makes me insane. anyway

Turn by comparison is very brutal. Beatrice steps onto the gameboard and is at her cruelest here, and the deliberate narrative choices are dripping with anger, helplessness and sorrow. everything about the focus given to Rosa in her role as the main accomplice who only had eyes for gold vs the framing of the tragedy as the gift of a halloween party for Maria, the wolves and sheep allegory, the way Shannon and Kanon get repeatedly kicked around for trying to resist their fate and wanting to believe in love despite everything. Kanon's "corpse" being desecrated by being forcefully resurrected twice, not being allowed death. the barely contained sexual conflict and trauma in the themes and imagery all over the episode. the way Sayo personally kills Jessica and George and her personas are killed along with them, an utter rejection of the possibility of being loved in reality as something that can only happen in death and fiction, so they all get to die together and be connected by their souls, all portrayed as the innocent victims of a vicious witch. the unspoken horror of one of the few true closed rooms in the game, with Sayo physically killing herself while facing herself in the mirror after doing all that. no one could dispute that a coffin is a closed room. and with closed rooms in this game often symbolizing being trapped in your own logic even though the door was unlocked all along, it absolutely stands for Sayo giving up all hope. Beatrice won, the gold won, the family's curse won, Sayo's worst feelings regarding herself won. Kinzo won too, even as a dead puppet haunting the narrative, he 'lives' to the end and gets his miracle of meeting Beatrice granted again. just that says a lot. Turn is horror after horror and you can only fully grasp that with the context for her writing choices

Legend feels relatively composed and deliberate in its choices of allegory. it also carries a lot of pain and conflicted feelings (particularly with the way she hatewrote Battler in it) but the text in Turn is basically bleeding all of her self hatred and suicidality and conflict over the idea of being loved. Legend is for the most part a straightforward mystery embellished in illusions with her heart still very baked into the text, and it has a big focus on solvability (Eva as the main accomplice basically points Battler toward the solution... which he rejects) and gambling/risk-taking, with multiple moments where Sayo left things out of her hands and up to chance, making it so that she could've been stopped even by accident. and then Turn is basically an eruption of all the horrible feelings churning in her heart. it says a lot that in Legend, she left the people she loved the most alive until the end, as if hoping until the very end for the miracle that at least one of them would see through her and stop her from murdering them, while Turn kills off the cousins (barring Battler due to being the detective) and then herself before the ceremony even ends, destroying all outcomes beyond utter annihilation. Turn is absolutely about her surrendering and leaning right into the illusion she casts on herself of being an irredeemable monster, so Beatrice absolutely plays into that role here. fitting that it ends with Battler surrendering, too

the sheer tonal contrast between these two message bottles tells a story of the journey of how Sayo's mental state changed as she kept writing and running over her murder-suicide plans over and over again -- it can either show her hope and composure deteriorating as she resigned herself to accepting her dead-end of fate (Legend -> Turn) OR the raw emotion she felt in the beginning of the writing frenzy dissipating as she kept going, any result being a satisfactory outcome but still focusing on planning out a difficult but fair mystery, staking her hopes onto the miracle of having it solved by the person who shared her personal philosophy on mysteries (Turn -> Legend). I don't like relying on Confessions too much as "confirmation" of Sayo-related things because it doesn't sit well with me, but if you go by the way it portrayed the process, then it strongly suggests the latter explanation

wish we could have seen more of the countless tales she personally wrote because you can see so much of her personhood hidden within the text, her thought processes, personal views and authoral voice all providing characterization, but the two we got already tell entire untold stories. it's funny that the two first episodes are usually thought of as the least interesting ones on a first read when they're the ones with the most firsthand insight into the culprit's heart and how she felt about everything. the sorrows and pain but the strength of will and hope too

[thesherrinfordfacility]

im borderline animalistic where the 40s scenes are concerned and i have a lot of feelings about them that deserve a thorough run down now that we've had more delicious🍲 content🍲 and im in full fledged soup mode

ive talked about a lot of these different bits in different posts but i feel it's a good point to pull them altogether and build on them now that we've had more content, so yeah a lot of this will just be me repeating myself

major kudos, thanks, and my eternal soul goes to @theeminentlyimpractical (prev @lalie-go), im convinced someone visited them in the night and bestowed them the true gift of prophecy that in this instance has been the equivalent of pouring kerosene over the dumpster fire that is my brain rn,,,,,, and they're much smarter and more observant than me and that needs celebrating

✨inhale✨

so ive always been intrigued by the juxtaposition of the 1941 church scene and then the 1967 bentley scene from my very first watch of s1 because their tones are so polar opposite to each other.

you have the church scene (specifically the aftermath) which is so tender and revelatory and hesitant, but like in the same way that a baby bird takes flight for the first time. and it's almost voyeuristic in that you literally see the moment where aziraphale realises that he's in love with crowley. that moment is so deeply personal and vulnerable that it's almost painful to watch through the metaphorical keyhole.

it's a huge development moment for many reasons, but for me specifically bc i think aziraphale is somewhat convinced that he's the only one in on this giddy little secret, so he's a bit flirty and heart-eyed at crowley, but whole-pussy convinced that it's just a cutesy lil secret and he's really subtle and crowley won't cotton on.

then we have the bentley scene in '67, and it's so bloody cold, and awkward, and stilted, and almost hurts to watch - it's voyeuristic in a very different, bare way, in that we see aziraphale so closed off from crowley, but unable to help himself in getting involved because if he doesn't, crowley could end up getting seriously hurt, or wind up dead. and that's unthinkable, so aziraphale placates crowley with the holy water (because crowley will just simply get it another way), and controls the situation that way.

in fact, the whole scene is about aziraphale being in control - of the conversation, of the tension, of the entire emotion of the scene - and is in such contrast to the church scene where we see aziraphale as close to out-of-control as we've seen him so far, at least at that point chronologically. crowley attempts to weedle aziraphale into engaging with him, and aziraphale somewhat releases a little, mollifies him with the offer of a picnic or a dinner at the ritz...

and crowley latches onto this, onto this small chance that aziraphale is giving him, almost like he's trying to comfort aziraphale by offering, or trying to make amends for something. but aziraphale is back in control, never having really lost it, and closes off any opportunity of moving forward. he's regretful, we can see that on his face, but he needs to make space for himself, give himself room to breathe - like he's been suffocating.

now we come to what happens between these two points. i thought that something happened during the Dinner of '41, but now im not so sure. this is because it transpires that we have entirely separate scenes in the 40s era apart from the church and the dinner. but starting with the Dinner of '41, we see that aziraphale is coy, and employs his signature look-look-away mannerism which honestly i think is his biggest tell when it comes to crowley.

crowley is so chilled and relaxed in that scene - leaning back at this candlelit dinner, seemingly in his element, as if his inner monologue is just willing him to Be Cool™. im almost wondering if he's observed this candlelit dinner, and how aziraphale's acting, and is interpreting it as aziraphale just being grateful for saving him and his books, and wanting to make up after the holy water argument, no way does it mean anything more than that. but let's face it, crowley has been besotted for literal millennia and will take anything he can get, any scraps aziraphale cares to throw him.

and now that we know there's further 40s content in the form of the windmill theatre, and aziraphale's magic act. there's a few things to remark on that set the scene (once again the vast majority of which stems from lalie so all apollo memes are to be flung their way thanks)

we know that aziraphale performs a magic show at the windmill theatre, and is accompanied backstage by a well dress older woman and vaudeville/burlesque-style dancers

that woman is played by dame siân phillips, and neil alluded that georgia tennant was in discussions for a role which she ultimately turned down as she didn't feel she was the right fit for someone with that amount of historical importance - which points very firmly to this being the same role, and that role being laura henderson (owner of the windmill)

on a similar historical note, the windmill's theatre manager was vivian van damm (advice: read up on him, he was a genius as concerns finding loopholes in indecency laws at the time), who was VP of the London magician's club, and "held charity shows at the Windmill Theatre"

we know that on the set, along with aziraphale being in his magician's outfit and crowley in his 40s outfit, there were extras dressed up in period-appropriate military uniforms

the opening sequenece shows a bus with "Wings for Victory" on the side. WfV Weeks were campaign weeks in the UK during ww2, starting in march 1943, where each county (US translation in case it gets confused: counties in the UK are almost like states in the US) was essentially set with a target to raise money for the war effort (specifically RAF i think?) and would have competitions with each other to raise the most.

so i feel at this point it can be reliably surmised that WfV was running, a couple of years after the Dinner of '41, and aziraphale (probably having fallen in love with magic after coming across this magician's club of van damm's), get roped into doing a WfV performance at the Windmill.

where is crowley in this, you ask? well he could very well have just seen aziraphale advertised as an act, or if they're still on good speaking terms aziraphale may have simply told him. i feel though that is almost an unspoken hobby of aziraphale's, judging by the crowley s1 reaction to aziraphale liking magic, and ordinarily crowley wouldn't be caught dead discorporated going to a magic show.

now a couple of years previous, we hear glozier say to crowley, "anthony j. crowley! your fame precedes you". but why? why is crowley famous? it doesn't strike me as quite right that crowley is a secret agent or anything, however much a bond nerd he is. but it is the kind of area where i could imagine crowley gets caught up in... so what if he has a job in the heart of soho as (and stick with me here)... a bouncer?! think about it - working hands-on in a sordid, seedy theatre (at least that's how he would spin it to hq) but gets to be outright fiendish to any patrons getting a little too frisky? i think it's PERFECT but whatever-

in any case, i feel like this would just be one of those brilliant coincidences where aziraphale and crowley have an it's always sunny moment, a hilarious double take at each other in the theatre, but aziraphale is quickly whisked off to get ready and get on stage, but not a moment before my boy absolutely bricks it as he's about to go on (this screenshot seriously sends me each time it's so funny). i truly believe that a lot of dutch courage was drunk and a lot of miracles were employed that night haha

so fast forward post performance, and we get this utterly adorable shit being cutesy in his dressing room, congratulating himself on a job well done, spinning around in his lil feather boa, adrenaline (or whatever the angelic equivalent is) pumping, heart racing, just being a complete diva. its aziraphale's world and we're just living in it:

and then crowley comes in, still completely bemused as to what he's just witnessed, and maybe not expecting to encounter an incandescent, bubbling, and probably bladdered af angel spinning around in a fluffy feather boa dancing his approximation of the can-can. aziraphale whirls around, "CROWLEY!!! DID YOU SEE ME?! 💃", and starts blathering about how it all went and how it was so nerve wracking but once he got in the swing of it it was perfect and amazing and oh crowley did you see it, did you see me-

all the while getting crowley (who btw feels like he's just stepped into the twilight zone and not quite sure what to do with himself) totally covered in feathers and, and-

now idk if i feel like anything zesty happening between the two of them would be hugely out of character. and it probably is, and ive probably just provided the fodder material for about a thousand fics, but look if im right in this, im never shutting up about it as long as i fucking live-

what if then aziraphale in his alcohol-fuelled joy just leaps at crowley? huge smothering hug, feather boa and all, and is just essentially vibrating with the happiness and pride and whimsy? and he does that coquettish look-look-away thing that he does? and crowley - oh, crowley my baby boy - knows he should probably slam that pause button because this angel is utterly soused and definitely is not thinking straight... but just wants to soak up how happy and flirty aziraphale is right now? yum up another scrap tossed in his direction, but potentially misreads it all a little bit wrong, and try to take the next step? and aziraphale-

aziraphale very quickly sobers up, entirely miracle-less, and just gets the tiniest bit (see: fucking horrendously) spooked? WOAH this is a bit beyond where i wanted to go? no crowley, we can't do this? i can't do this? im still an angel and im not ready for this?

and someone walks in - it's not aziraphale's dressing room after all. we know from the opening sequence that there's a box in the theatre (which i think is just the artistic depiction of the dressing room scene, not an actual box), from which we see a figure lurking behind aziraphale just as they pull away...

im fully aware that this is completely theoretical and equally improbable but huns my purpose on this site is to provide unhinged commentary as content gets released and ill be DAMNED if anyone says I don't deliver ✨

is this what happens? that there's a very hurried, guilty shuffle away from each other, a very deliberate effort on aziraphale's part not to look at crowley, and a hasty and frightened exit from aziraphale just as crowley is about to apologise? he only just got his angel back after the holy water tantrum, and he's already pushed him away again, by going too fast?

(SIGH EDIT: so i guess the above paragraph does happen but it's got me wondering if the people that interrupt them are glozier and harmony fresh off the national express coach from hell? idk it still kinda fits? tentative but plausible (lmao this sums up my approach to gomens speculation, tentative but plausible))

[venusandsaturnsrings]

★彡 devoted little lamb!

synopsis: to worship was your purpose and it only made sense that this extends to the most beloved of priests.

contains: afab/fem reader, sacrilege, blood sacrifice, power imbalance, reader is a virgin, f.receiving oral, and fingering.

a/n: this is a full 3k words of blasphemy. please enjoy cuz i sure did!! ꒰(͏ˊ•ꈊ•ˋ)꒱

father Alhaitham was something of a miracle worker for you. with any troubles you could trust he’d dispel them with so much as a goblet to your lips and a prayer unspoken. such power, to anyone outside the church, should warrant fear. it should warrant caution and even a call to the matra. even in a world of elements, gods, and visions he was unnatural and worthy of bone trembling terror. you should find your skin prickling with fear upon the favour he bestowed to you yet, so much as a single raised hair was never felt. much like any other that attends his sermons, you revere father Alhaitham; he comes only second to your beloved god. blessed by the archon of wisdom herself, father Alhaithams knowledge knows no bounds. through his eyes you’re sure you could see the innermost workings of anything those viridian hues laid upon. he is positively worth all of the commotion the people, yourself included, give to him.

with slender fingers, he shuts the heavy text he’s surely already memorized. with every sermon you feel as though you see a new and more impressive side of father Alhaitham. no doubt, his mind and body are akin to the most divine of pastries; smooth layers to which only the most delicate and sharpest of knives could split open to admire the inner beauty. only metaphorically, of course, would you dream of splicing him so carefully. his voice reverberates over the room. honey smooth and laced with dominance came all his words; almost practiced, though, you knew he wouldn’t need it. what is practicing worth to a man who already has it all? his light bow and gesture for the acolyte to trail him had your guts in knots. a man as self assured as himself would make a lovely god, you think.

the cool tones, ones that nearly matched his eyes, of many stained glass windows shimmered down his form much like stars opening at his wake. you wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if the sky had opened up to gift him his own ever present galaxy. royal blue, gold, and jade painted over his already handsome features to create something you would have painted had you had the time. his skin and hair nearly glittered with how delicately the light graced him as though he was only porcelain, a vessel handcrafted by Buer for her most perfect messiah. one she’d fill with riches and a soul of the most lovely. his shoes made a soft ‘clack’ with each step he took across the hand tiled floor. you heard rumours that each one had been individually blessed by father Al-haitham but you wouldn’t dare bring such a ridiculous statement to his attention; you only desire to keep his favour. after every sermon you’d wait for the majority of the congregation to dispel before leading yourself to his office, your own personal taste of heaven.

the hallways are linear. to get from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’ was a task even a freshly born puppy could do so the first few times you got lost, father Alhaitham reprimanded you with a firm hand on your shoulder. he wasn’t truly mad but you felt something you’d never felt before when he mumbled about how, ‘you’re such a silly one. a lost little lamb, hm? no matter, you’re here now.’ with a voice that reached your stomach it was no wonder how he’d managed to wrap you around his finger. with gentle knuckles, you knocked against the bright wood door. the man in question opened the door as if he’s been waiting on the other side for your arrival; due to routine, he had been.

“you’re here. come now, today will be a bit… different from our usual sessions. i’m afraid i have concerns about your… state,” such words he’d never spoken to you before. with knitted eyebrows he re-closed the door before giving you a once over, right hand under his chin. the room was already dim due to the window facing away from the sun but with his presence seeming as though it loomed alongside your demise, it felt even darker. he stepped towards his desk which had already been covered in a number of tools you’d seen before; a rosary, a glass of holy water, a golden goblet of dandelion wine, and bread. yet, one was unfamiliar to you; what looked to be a freshly polished silver knife, a cross engraved in the handle. father Alhaitham glanced over his wares before letting out a long sigh and nodding to himself as if receiving his own approval. maybe after this you’d be on the end of this nod rather than a collection of objects. he spoke without turning to look at you, “i sense what can only be described as sin bubbling up within you,” he shook his head with clear upset, “this cannot go unattended. you are one of my, and our gods, most wonderful treasures. please, allow me to purify you.” had you not been so trusting of him you’d have thought your god was an afterthought in his actions but fear flourished faster than you could think. with trembling legs and tears beading in the corners of your eyes, you begged. you begged for him to make you clean once more, for whatever this sin was to no longer afflict you, for father Alhaitham to praise you once more. those with sharp minds would decode your words accurately; you were begging for his love, not your gods. he swivelled and his gaze found you once more, “righteous as always. forgive me, but i require you to remove all your clothing. on our beloved god, i will not look for the sake of your modesty. instead, i will busy myself with the final preparations for our ceremony.”

he rolled up his sleeves to reveal the pearly skin of his forearms. on other occasions perhaps you’d stop to admire the display of skin but you were given a task, to strip. your shaky fingers began removing your clothing and folding it nearly on a small side table located in the corner of the room as he prepared the stone altar against the window with a combination of holy water, myrrh, sweetgrass, and sage. father Alhaitham took his time delicately preparing the surface, hands lovingly applying the mix and massaging it into every crevice with a level of sensuality that had you averting your eyes. with all clothing shed, you modestly covered your most intimate parts while mentally steeling yourself for his eyes to land on you. when he turned, if he had any feelings about the view of your body in its most natural state, his expression did not waver from one of concern. before ridding his hands of all residue, he gestured to the stone alter, “please, lay down.”

cold, damp, and unpleasant were all words you could attribute to the experience of your bare skin atop the surface. your nose wrinkled a slight bit and you tried to find comfort in knowing it would heat up through your body and that this is all for your own good. after this, you’d be clean of sin once more. father Alhaitham returned to your side, rosary in hand. nimble fingers gently guided your shaky ones to hold it the way you had many times before when praying at his side. typically, you found that he had no patience for any nervousness but it today, for you, he made no comment or move to chide you. though you were lying down, soon bread was placed against your palate by his own hand. he gently drew it back to caress your cheek with what could only be described as the most tender of care. with such worry directed to you by father Alhaitham, you could nearly cry; it’s a blessing in its own right. the goblet soon followed, wine pouring into your mouth and the slightest bit down the corner and across your cheek. this time, no hand came to remove it though his eyes followed its path down your neck. he swallowed harshly and paused in his movements momentarily before turning back to take up the knife. if you were nervous before, you were terrified now.

“relax. i promise i would never do anything to you that wasn’t required, especially if it involves pain,” he almost looked as if your pain would be his own and perhaps it was. you didn’t dwell on this thought for it was a selfish one. the pain of any loyal worshipper of the same god would be his own, you are no special exception. “for this portion, i will draw gently upon your form. along each arm and leg, from the bottom of your ribs to your navel, and across each breast. this knife is sharp so it will take no more effort than the weight of the handle. i urge you to refrain from moving.” you sucked in air in tandem with him as the blade first came to your sternum. his words were most certainly truthful, expected of a priest, as he added no extra pressure when gently dragging it lower. the first thing you registered was just how cold the tip of the knife is, the second was the sharp pain. your slight wince didn’t go unnoticed as father Alhaitham mumbled an apology. he raised the knife from your flesh when it came to the end of his mental line. the blades edge took on a dark sheen of your blood that he looked over. his most beautiful eyes inspected the silver before dropping to where the knife had cut; he hummed in satisfaction before bringing it to just below your left hip, the next place he’d cut. father Alhaitham took to softly singing a hymn you were familiar with, seemingly to comfort you as the blade came across all your limbs in the following moments. it rose up to your chest where he gulped. no longer could he ignore just how bare your are under him and just how dollish your eyes were as they fluttered, glazed over in both pain and fear. while his right hand placed the knife appropriately, his left came to cup your cheek. with his thumb soothing across your flesh, you barely noticed how he cleanly cut atop each of your breasts. you were simply too caught up in the delightful feeling of his skin against your as you lay exposed to his lowered gaze. had you not been so assured in the professional nature of this encounter, you would have noticed the increasing thickness in the air that could only be attributed to the intimacy and the arousal you had not noticed pooling between your folds; father Alhaitham did.

he stood up straight and drew away from you to admire the work he had done. your form under the soft light of the window and painted in your own blood, the most lovely of sacrifices. the goblet was in his hand once more as he brought it to collect the blood dripping down your waist and sides, mixing with the remnants of wine previously drank. the metal was wonderfully blunt compared to the blade that had just split your flesh open. with what he gathered, father Alhaitham dipped his thumb in to draw the horizontal and vertical lines to complete a cross on all seven of the cuts he had made; one for each element of Teyvet. he was more than satisfied with his work, if the soft smile gracing his features was anything to go by.

“my dearest little lamb, it pleases me greatly how well you’ve done for me here but,” he seemed to be conflicted by his next words, “would you allow me to indulge myself in you?” the meaning of his words was lost on you but how could you ever decline him? how could you ever decline the one that has given you purpose, light, and salvation should you ever need it? you nodded and half expected him to request your words as he always does but, today only a movement was enough for him. “please, continue holding the rosary as you are.” strong hands pulled you down the stone by your knees until you rested with your lower legs dangling off the edge which elicited a sigh from your most beloved priest; your pliancy always did please him. with hands still on you, he gently parted your legs as he kneeled between them before speaking in a tone lower than you had heard before, “consider this my own kind of worship.”

your face was certainly flushed already but it heated up tenfold as his tongue made its way through your soft folds and you could hear him sigh as your grip on the rosary became tighter. he used the tip to gently poke through and play softly with your virgin entrance, one hand coming up to push the lips of your pussy open much like a flower blooming. your hips jerked slightly as his nose came in contact with a spot you weren’t familiar with but that felt so very good. a whimper left your throat as a moan left his, the vibrations travelling through your cunt and causing a whole new gush of slick to leave your pussy. eagerly, father Alhaitham lapped it up before bringing his lips to your clit. he planted a couple soft kisses to your pretty and glistening nub before wrapping his lips around it and suckling oh so perfectly. he knew you were a virgin but didn’t expect you to come undone on his face with only a slight suck to your cute little clit. a sudden and loud whine left your mouth as your back arched to push your pussy further against his face. the feeling of an orgasm was entirely new to you but you were already addicted to the intense pleasure brought by your priest. he leaned back slightly, panting and in reasonable amounts of shock from such a sudden reaction. with your wetness still on his face, he mumbled to himself, “apologies but i suspect i’ll have to worship for awhile longer.”

you didn’t even have time to come down from your first high before his face was settled into the heat of your core once again. a small sob left your throat upon the contact but you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked up to meet his mouth. father Alhaitham, as always, knew exactly what you wanted and needed. his tongue worked wonders as it gently fucked into your hole, where his cock would rest at a letter date, and his fingers moved to gently flick at your clit. he buried his face impossible closer to you only to inhale the scent your pussy let off, one he could spend the rest of his days smelling like some sort of inhalant drug. his mouth and fingers swapped places so he could lathe over your clit and provide teasing nips to the sensitive bundle. with one gently finger, he circled your hole to gather more wetness before slowly plunging into you. as if an apology for the sting, he kissed at your clit endlessly before twisting his finger to provide the perfect angle he needed. with your utmost comfort in mind, father Alhaitham waited until your sobs subsided before fucking you gently with the single finger. he curled it slightly and made sure to push up against where he knew would have you writhing on the alter as he nipped once more at your clit to keep you grounded in the reality of his face between your legs.

for a man with, what you assumed, no prior experience he sure knew how to fuck you without his dick. all his concentration was solely on how much he was falling in love with your pretty pussy and how much he wanted to die buried between your thighs. gods be damned, you were his new religion and your moans his scripture. he was pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, rutting against the side of the alter. his cock rubbed harshly against the stone through his pants and while he mourned for the warmth you’d most certainly provide, he’s nothing if not patience. you, his most devoted lamb, were to be rewarded with all his mouth can give. your grip on the rosary became tight enough that it broke, beads falling down to the floor. you’d have been appalled at how careless your treatment of such a sacred object was had you not been so caught up in the pleasure bestowed to you. with eyes rolling back into your head and a particularly high moan, you drenched his face. father Alhaitham would take it as his new holy water, siphoned directly from his own personal fountain of youth and most importantly, from his lover. he panted much as you did as well but this task was far from over for him. how could he end things here when he craved so much more? when your pretty hole was fluttering so enticingly and when his cock was so very close from emptying his balls inside his pants? only a fool would hold back now, he thought as his mouth placed open kisses and bites to your thighs for slight mercy to your already abused cunt. a dreamy sigh left his watering mouth, you really do smell delightful. he spat onto your pussy in a rather debauched fashion before drawing his tongue up from the cleft of your ass to the top of your cunt. with eyes finally drawing back up and across your form, he mentally sent a genuine prayer to your shared god. one so filthy he’d most certainly be sent straight to hell upon death but he couldn’t find it in himself to care; hell could be delightful as long as you’re there with him. his eyes dropped back to your pussy.

“c’mon little one, a bit more for me. you truly are my favourite.”

[theflyindutchwoman]

Listen, about -- We should prob-- Sorry. Oh, the -- Sorry, no. Go ahead. You go first. You s-- You sure? Mm-hmm. Okay. I-I just wanted to say… …we need more work on our back story. Give it more depth. Key moments, you know? Yeah, we, uh, we could take the morning -- you know, while we're waiting for Hajek to call. That's great. Great.

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - CHENFORD EDITION 4.22 - Day In The Hole

That kiss really changed everything… It may have been initially for 'work', but the feelings it revealed? They were real… no matter how much they are going to try to pretend otherwise. And this scene gives us a really good aperçu of what's to come. The image of Tim waiting in his car, looking lost for a second, all pensive and preoccupied, already sets the tone. It's clear that he still hasn't completely recovered from his revelation in the hallway… Not that Lucy is faring any better : her little dorky wave speaks for itself as well...

Their meeting in the parking lot in front of the station also underlines the growing awareness of their feelings. Up until now (and Tim's fake proposal), they tended to meet in the parking garage, underground : a fitting metaphor for their feelings being buried underneath the surface. But now that they're out in the open, this is no longer necessary. I love the little details of these two meeting halfway and wearing matching outfits… It just reinforces this idea that they're both on the same page in that regard… And it makes their uncoordination sticks out even more. They're both so awkward around the other. She tries to break the ice by talking about their case, starting with a safe topic… But it feels clumsy, as further illustrated by how they speak at the same time, simultaneously… It is so rare to see them like this… so out of sync, so off-balance...

For a few seconds it seems like Tim is about to address the (new) elephant in the room, to confess… Lucy is looking at him intently, all curious and hopeful… There's so much longing and pining in that instant - before Tim changes his mind, following Lucy's lead instead. And yet… It's so obvious he wanted to say something else entirely. The more he talks, the more he keeps nodding, as if he's trying to convince himself. And Lucy… She's trying so hard to contain her disappointment, but her face still visibly falls. She was clearly expecting a very different type of conversation. Her stuttering when she answers just shows how flustered she is. And it makes me wonder what she was going to say at the very beginning, before Tim took the lead...

The way they both say 'great' couldn't sound any less convincing… Their relationship is shifting and they don't really know how to behave around the other anymore. They may want to downplay that moment to 'just a kiss', but they both know better. They need time to re-adjust, something they didn't necessarily need after that fake confession or after their almost kiss… There's no going back this time. They can't put a lid back on those feelings. This is just a prelude of what's to come… From Tim needing to confide about the kiss to Angela… To Lucy dreaming about it… To him trying to talk about what's happening in Vegas… And most importantly : to their awkward and pining era...

[accidentalcultleader]

On the mountain tall:

This song does a great job of setting the tone, of being that known world that we as the protagonists find ourselves in.  As we look at this through a couple different lenses we can either think of this entire work as either a story about deconstructing christian evangelical fundamentalism or we can think of the entire work of the four winds as a metaphorical piece about the process of growing as a person, of challenging the systems of the world that we live in and finding out how to be better.  Because both of these are fundamentally correct ways to think about the four winds I’ll analyze each song and album from both perspectives.  

We start with On the Mountain Tall and even the title itself is setting, the entire song gives you a very good idea of the level of comfort we have in the known and in the way that we think about the world around us.  This does not mean that the song is passive in any way, however.  The song is very active and shows how you believe, when you are in this system, that you are a part of the creation of a great thing and how good that feels and, to a certain extent how scary anything outside of the great thing you’re building feels.  

Within the context of evangelical christianity the song talks about having a connection to your god and trying to build the belief in that religion because of not only the connection to your god but also the connection that you have with all of the stories that you were taught.  You were taught that there is a kind and loving god who will save you from torment and because of that there is a feeling of comfort and fear at the same time.  

Within a context of a more general idea of growth and backstory the song talks about what it feels like to be complacent in a system, maybe not quite as active in the perpetration of the ideas of the system but you nonetheless feel like this is a part of you, and that there is a piece of you or a community that you would alienate by questioning these norms.  

On the Mountain Tall is very much about the setting of complacency and the comfort that comes from being in a system that works for you.  

Ok time for analysis of specific lyrics with both of these contexts:

On the Mountain Tall

Whisper to me words in a voice so small

Like the one that to Elijah called

Quiet as a candle and bright as the morning sun

There is a clear sense of connection to the purpose of the thing that created this community, whether that be a sense of purpose or to a specific deity depends on the analytical context.  The call to it, no matter which of these things it is, is generally something that is almost subconscious in your thinking in that its existence in your life is obvious, it underscores everything that you do.

Though the fire and wind

Shattered down the hills with a rage unbent

And a fear that shook the firmament

He was not within them, the clatter of brass and drums

This section talks about the existence of other things and people outside of the community that you have for yourself within this connection, the existence of these people creates a sense of fear within your community.  This could even be interpreted to talk about the fear for someone who is outside of your community because you believe that this thing that is so intrinsic to you and so important has to have the same importance for everyone.  

I know you want me to be afraid

I know you want me to love you

These lyrics are repeated multiple times throughout the song, it starts to talk about the fear that happens within a community towards the outside of it.  Whether that fear be a fear of those outside that group, a fear for those outside the group or a fear of becoming an outsider of the group.  All of these fears are present but so is the love that was mentioned in the first part of the first verse.  

Still the wild wind blows

Up out of the grave of an angry ghost

Firing bricks from broken canon and prose

To build a wall so high it reaches the heavens in the sky

This is the part where we start to talk about building something bigger within this community, taking the pieces that fit the narrative that the community wants and turning it into something greater.  

Can we take a sec and talk about the brilliance of the lyricism here? Firing bricks from broken canon and prose? Beautiful, we are misled by the firing to think that it’s about conquest when it’s actually talking about construction.  This is where the biblical references become obvious by talking about building a wall so high it reaches the heavens in the sky, a reference to the tower of babel, the excitement of everyone around it about its construction, of the idea of reaching the heavens and really of being a part of something with lofty goals about changing the world is intoxicating.  The sounds of doubt from others is something that you consider either unimportant or long gone, coming out of a grave because you’re caught up in the creation of something greater with the core of your being in mind.  

Also a quick note that broken canon and prose is a little nod to the amount of cherry-picking in the church of bible verses.

After this we have a repetition of 

I know you want me to be afraid, 

I know you want me to love you  

Which really just stresses that in the back of your head the fear is still there to a certain extent even with this great project and all of its intoxicating idealistic beauty.

Still you beat your drums

Raising holy war with every strum

Shouting down the quiet kingdom come

Brushing at your fingers, hoping you’ll come around

These lyrics vaguely allude to the idea that everyone in these kinds of situations believes that everyone around them who doesn’t is either evil or misguided for not falling into step with them.  Everyone who is not helping in the creation of the tower is obviously against it but it’s okay because they’ll come around to it as it happens, they will all be saved eventually and all of the objections of the rest of the world won’t matter.

Musical analysis:

Not a ton of different notes right now, (please leave your own thoughts in comments/reblogs) I just really like how the music matches the song’s content so well, there’s pounding drums in the background from the beginning that moves the content forwards.  The music is intentionally creating a moving but comforting piece that rouses the spirit.  I have been told that it is in a very similar style to the music that is used at youth church camps once you  get too smart for the songs that just repeat the same things over and over again, although since I was never part of evangelical christian circles I will just have to take that at face value.  After listening specifically to make notes on the musicality I’ve noticed that after the first verse we get tyler joining maggie and creating harmonies as soon as the point of the song itself moves outside of the first person and more on the person’s relationship with their community. 

The harmony focusing on being even and almost muted compared to the other parts of the song in ‘I know you want me to be afraid, I know you want me to love you’ really shows that idea of falling into place within the community, especially since it is echoed right after even softer.  The second repetition of this being much louder is because this person has become more comfortable in the community as they find a role within it.  

I also really like the part where it musically creates a beautifully complex upward moving harmony for ‘reaches the heavens in the sky’  for its own reason but combining it with the idea of working together to reach an otherwise deemed impossible goal is chef’s kiss.

As the song continues on, it adds more and more parts and it could just be because it sounds cool but I would think of it as a fun way to show that there are several different pieces that come together to form the beautiful community in an almost overly idyllic way, but that is pure english teacher why-was-the-door-blue level of speculation.

Song link (spotify):https://open.spotify.com/track/24nbKu7Yydp3G3TPd7OAhO?si=583273855d2347c6

[oddygaul]

Chain Gang All-Stars

Great book.

I sort of hope Chain Gang All-Stars is never adapted into a show or movie. It’s certainly possible that it could be done with proper deference to the tone and message of the book, but I think it’s far more likely that it would end up essentially being what Chain Gang is in the story itself - a hyper-violent spectacle that people tune into because they think it’s cool and action-packed. I think Chain Gang All-Stars is very successful at walking the tightrope line of drawing the reader into the story and letting them flirt with what it must feel like to be a viewer of the program, while presenting enough reminders of its grim reality to prevent you from being totally sucked in. While there were times during the LinkLyfe segments where I was drawn in the way a viewer absorbed in a reality show would be, the battles themselves never give in to ‘just’ being badass. They were tense, certainly, and I was on pins & needles reading them, worried about the characters, but there’s a certain utilitarian brutality to the writing in those sections that keeps them grounded. I’d be worried any adaptation would make everything too stylish and exciting, thoroughly missing the point*.

*To say nothing of any potential dilution of the politics to appeal to a wider audience.

— “All other sport was just a metaphor for this.” —

Chain Gang All-Stars is incredibly good at giving every single character a depth and fullness, even ‘antagonists’, so that even the characters who infuriate us, we understand to a degree. The book doesn't justify evil deeds - there’s no excusing Wil’s dumb ass self - but it shows how easy it is for someone to placate themselves, to keep themselves on a surface level and not dig too deep into their own morality, to convince themselves that they’ve done what they could and that all those who have wrong done to them deserve what they get. The fluid perspective switches it accomplishes this with are fascinating, too. We get chapters dedicated to different characters, of course, be it our leads, our deuteragonists, and plenty of one-off side stories - standard stuff. But Adjei-Brenyah also rapidly switches between multiple perspectives within the same page, hell, the same paragraph at times, which gives us insight into a much wider breadth of viewpoints than we normally would.

By getting to see into the inner thoughts of quite a few Links, we get to see how, while their individual experiences are different, their imprisonment has broken them all in tragically similar ways. From Bishop to Sunset to Thurwar to Staxxx, we see a consistent, crippling lack of self-worth. The A-Hamm chain is unique in preaching a vision of solidarity, accepting one’s past mistakes, and focusing on how they’ve grown and changed as people. Despite this, at their core, none of them can truly find it in themselves to be forgiven, because Chain Gang grinds their lack of perceived value into them unceasingly - ultimately resulting in what is essentially suicide. The carceral system does not allow for or encourage rehabilitation, only suffering and self-hatred.

I thought it was a compelling decision to make the majority of the imprisoned characters we follow legitimate violent offenders. A lot of the abolitionist / prison-critical literature I’ve read often focuses on, or at least begins with, incarceration that is plainly, nakedly unjust, like long-serving non-violent offenders and mandatory minimum sentencing. Conversations about the treatment of murderers, rapists, etc., are naturally more fraught - it’s harder to get someone to imagine an entirely different system, rather than just adjustments to the current system.

Chain Gang All-Stars does not shy away from it one bit. We get self-reflection from multiple different Links, both those who regret what they’ve done and those who don’t; we get conflicted thoughts from family members who recognize that their lives have been fundamentally changed by the imprisonment of their kin, but are still ambivalent about forgiveness; and we get, of course, the fearmongering and appeals to pathos used by government and the media to try and stop any ideas of abolition from even beginning to take root in the minds of the public. The book understands that there’s no easy answers, and instead brings all of these perspectives to the reader, demanding they grapple with the issues themselves.

It does, however, make clear the absurdity of pretending that taking someone whose life has been indelibly touched by violence and putting them into a system that encourages and requires additional violence, by the state, by their peers, is somehow rehabilitation. It’s brought to an extreme in the novel, of course - Thurwar’s overriding instinct that every problem can potentially be solved by violence due to the constant killing she’s done is more reminiscent of a soldier returning to peacetime than anything else - but the message stands.

Some of the most powerful parallels shine through as-is, though. Even when you put aside the horror the Links are put through on a daily basis and the rampant normalization of state-sanctioned violence, the base lack of freedom and personal autonomy is what breaks people. Both during Chain Gang and our looks at other prisons, the regimented days, planned schedule, and inability to spend time or talk with the people they care about are basic human rights that are removed from prisoners every day. Hendrix’s silent prison (an idea I was horrified to find has been enacted before) shows this in one extreme - after being robbed of something as simple as his own voice for so long, Hendrix is willing to risk everything just to be able to reclaim that part of himself. Most heartbreakingly, the morning of the final doubles match, Thurwar’s only desire is to stay in bed longer with Staxxx. Leisure time with your loved ones, one of the most basic luxuries a person ought to have, seen as an unobtainable prize. Don’t need a dystopian near-future novel to see that happening.

Speaking of Hendrix Young, the voice Adjei-Brenyah uses for his sections was absolutely beautiful and oozing with character and I loved it. The way he speaks is simultaneously poetic yet so pragmatic - there’s an idiosyncratic turn of phrase in nearly every paragraph, and his love for the world and its beauty is never eclipsed by his cynicism and the horrible things happening around him. His sections were handily my favorites, despite the looming dramatic irony that overshadows them all.

— “I thought of how the world can be anything and how sad it is that it’s this.” —

As a literary device, the interspersing of worldbuilding notes and Actual Fucked-Up Prison Facts was a genius touch. By priming your brain to expect something more fantastical, the more grounded notes become something of a sucker punch. The first few are all in-universe lore explanations - they’re not entirely necessary, you could’ve pretty much got the gist through context, but the thorough explanation written almost as an ad read pulls you into the mentality of this world… so then, when it drops, say, the net worth and founding members of the Corrections Corporation of America and you get the inkling that this tidbit feels a little too specific to be made up, the lines between the book’s world and our own start to blur.

In addition to the unique cognitive dissonance it invokes, I think it’s a pretty effective strategy to convince or teach a reader who perhaps hasn’t done as much digging about the nightmare that is the American prison-industrial complex. Especially given that the main conceit of the book is a little outlandish, it’s very easy for me to imagine such a reader enjoying the story for its plot, but deflecting or doubting the themes with the classic “Oh, but this is an exaggeration - it would never happen like this! It would never be that sadistic”. In some way, the footnotes feel like the author directly responding with a “Yes, it would, and in fact has already happened this way previously”.

I do wish the footnotes stayed as dense throughout the entire book as they were at the start. In the beginning, they come hard and fast, blending the real and the fictional, keeping the reader on their toes. About a third of the way through, though, they slow to a trickle, becoming a rarity. Adjei-Brenyah keeps experimenting with what the footnotes can convey (“Don’t look down. Help me.” was particularly chilling), but the infrequency starts to make them feel like an afterthought.

— “Just jump.” —

The closer I got to the end of Chain Gang All-Stars, as fewer and fewer pages remained, I was increasingly desperate for something to break. Even as the story continued towards the inevitable, even as it showed me there could be no other way for things to go, I hoped for something else. Anything but what happened.

And yet… the ending gives this book’s message a lot of its power. It’s not a story where things always work out and the good guys always win - it’s a reflection of real problems, and those real problems don’t have such a simple solution. Chain Gang All-Stars is about people living in an unfair world, working within a cruel, unjust, system, and still finding the strength and conviction to believe that there can be positive change. It’s about knowing that progress can be slow, and that the system can feel daunting, and feeling powerless to enact change, and still imagining and pushing for the world to be better anyway. And somehow, that it faces that hopelessness head-on makes it more uplifting than a safer story with an easier ending.

[lovefromivy]

metaphors in hozier's 'would that i'

the song doesn't make a lot of sense until you decode the metaphors he uses in it, but then it all clicks. the use of extended metaphors for his present and previous lovers is really important and significant because it tells the listener a lot about how he experiences these different loves in very different ways, and why his current love isn't 'just another date', but something entirely new that he values very highly and cherishes to the point that he 'worships' it.

hozier compares his past loves to plants - he describes his past lover as having 'hair like the branch of a tree' and calls her a 'willow', and, when talking about forgetting other loves in the wake of his current lover, he says that he watches 'still living roots' be destroyed. plants are beautiful, but they require a lot of care. there's a specificity to each type of plant, because different plants have different needs in terms of water, types of food, mineral content, soil pH, and the list goes on. it's easy to accidentally kill plants with just one misstep. they are delicate and difficult and progress is slow because it takes years and years for trees to grow and reach their full potential, start producing fruit, etc. hozier is saying that his past loves were a lot of work and they didn't give anything back easily, even though he had to give them everything to try and make them work.

by contrast, hozier calls his new love 'the fire', 'flames', and so on. fire is wild, all-consuming, and can be terrifying. but fire is also powerful and free. when we think about fire, we mostly think about destruction - wildfires or burning buildings or similar disasters - but fire is also life. before human ancestors had fire, they were cold and vulnerable and in the dark. but, after fire, their survival was completely revolutionised: it was an entirely new way of life. for the first time, they could control when it was light; they could keep warm in the winter; they could cook food, and, subsequently, their diets were transformed; they could protect themselves much better from predators. fire represented energy, innovation, life. yes, it was dangerous. but it was also majorly useful and ultimately it was something they needed, not just to stay alive, but to live. to call your love not just a fire but the fire - as in, the first fire, the only fire, the fire to rival all other fires - is to call it the introduction of warmth, protection, light, growth, energy, and power; it is to call it the biggest advancement possible in your lifetime; it is to call it the single root cause of a metamorphosis. the speaker is commenting that this newest love has entirely changed the way that he sees and experiences love.

the metaphors also allude to the speaker's own inner turmoil and problems with love and loving. when hozier talks about his prior trysts, he uses precise, controlling language: he's very specific when he talks about exactly what the relationship was and how it worked in his first verse, detailing what was 'under' him and what was 'over' him. then, in the next verse, he repeats the verb 'must', giving that verse a desperate, urgent tone. 'must' is a harsh verb and it doesn't leave much room for debate. the level of control that hozier is exerting (or, at the very least, trying to exert) over this relationship is made clear linguistically, but is also mimicked in that extended metaphor of the willow tree. taking care of them is long, hard, and mostly fruitless work, and maybe he even feels like it's his duty to take control of the relationship because he feels that his lover needs that control, maybe because she isn't giving him anything much back, just like that volatile, hard-to-care-for willow tree. that same verse sees an allusion to the time that he 'fretted fire', and, if the tree is control and stability, then surely fire is the opposite - anarchy and disorder? - except that he comes to see fire as freedom. he manages to let go of the need to be in control. he finds a relationship where he doesn't need to be the one doing everything: he doesn't address his past lover(s) at all (perhaps he knows it's pointless, since they won't respond?), instead talking about them passively, but he does talk a lot about what he does, relying heavily on first person singular pronouns. in the fourth verse, he addresses someone else for the first time - his 'flame' - personally, and the fifth verse is entirely directed at her. he talks about her actually taking action, actually doing things. when he says that she 'licked off the grain', i think that he is alluding to her taking all of his bad memories, all of his felled willow (and other?) trees, and simply taking away the rough, uneven parts (the grain), leaving him with the smooth wood, and that she is able to do this because he no longer has any reason to lament his past failures in love - he has his 'flame', and the trees of his past can't use their roots to trip him up or push their branches in his face any more, and so he is simply left with happy memories, the best of his ex-lovers, whatever is left that he can still appreciate and be thankful for. and that's significant because he's found a love who has helped him let go of the need for control. he doesn't need to control the relationship any more, for his sake or for his lover's, because she is here and she is willing to do things with him and for him and give back to him and help him to be free, and offer him warmth and protection and energy and all these things that fire is, and he doesn't need to do anything except love her back, because fire only needs one thing to stay alive, and everything else simply becomes fuel. if his love is her flames' version of oxygen, then everything else is just flammable material. nothing he does can make her stop loving him because fires aren't difficult to keep alive, they are difficult to put out. fires don't need food with specific mineral ratios or a certain volume of rainfall or the right soil pH. they just burn. she just loves him - that is what she does. and he watches 'in awe' because that kind of unconditional love is so far removed from his carefully-measured, carefully-controlled previous relationships.

and those last two lines of the last verse are so beautiful: "long as amber of ember glows/all the 'would that i'd loved' is long ago". he's saying that even when the flame burns out, even if she stops loving him, even if she is dead and gone and buried, the freedom that she gave him will remain in the 'amber', that beautiful colour linked to energy and the sun and wealth (because isn't that what love is?), of the last, residual 'ember', the dwindling remains of the love and freedom they shared. and as long as he can hold onto that freedom, even if it does dwindle down to embers and ashes - treasured memories and the fears that you'll forget what their smile looked like or the way they scrunched their nose when the disliked something or the cute expression they assumed when focussed - then he never has to go back to feeling like he needs to grip onto a half-hearted relationship, where he must always be responsible and in control and doing.

but yeah i just love that fire metaphor. can you tell??? probably not