#i don't know quite why but this is important to me

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Julian getting a little too enthusiastic in the gym after everybody finds out he's an augment.

He's never been able to actually push himself while working out in public before, he's always had to hold back to avoid attracting too much attention. So, horrific and traumatic as it was to have his secret revealed like that, to hold on to his career and his life and everything he cares about by the skin of his teeth, there are things he's looking forward to now, things he just couldn't do before.

All of which adds up to Julian in the gym at 0500, figuring out his absolute max deadlift, dropping it down to his 90% and doing set after set until he simply can't lift it anymore. It takes fucking ages, he's even stronger than he expected, and he's having such a good time...

Until about two hours later, right at the start of his shift, when he feels himself start to stiffen up. He tries to push through it, tries to just keep moving and get rid of all the lactic acid that's building up in his glutes, but there's only so much you can do when you've put your body through that and by lunch time, he's locked in a chair in his office and he doesn't think he can stand up anymore, actually.

Which, of course, is when Garak shows up to ask if he still wants to have lunch. And Julian would really like to say yes, but if he can't even stand up then walking to the Replimat is right out, so he just tells Garak that he's got to catch up on some research, actually, and can they take a rain cheque? And he adds his most charming smile for good measure, but now Garak is just *looking* at him, one of those inscrutable looks, with his eyes squinted and his head tilted to the side.

"My dear doctor, are you quite alright?"

And Julian could just tell him! He could just say 'no, actually, I worked out far too hard and now I can't actually stand up to go and get the muscle regenerator I would need to fix it, let alone to join you for lunch!' But that would require *admitting* that he'd overdone it, which of course is exactly what Garak warned him about that morning as he was leaving their quarters at 0430. 'Don't push yourself too hard, my dear, genetically engineered or not, human spines are simply structurally inadequate in some respects..."

And of course he was right, and of course Julian can't let him *know* he was right, and so they're at a stalemate. And Garak just keeps *looking* at him, and then he walks into the room and around the desk and he just stands there, looking down at Julian until Julian is just like "...yes?" And Garak's like, "oh, I just thought I would give you a kiss, since you can't join me. Because of your research." And Julian's like "...okay?" And Garak's just like "so why don't you stand up so I can kiss you properly?" And Julian knows he's fucked but of course he can't admit it so he just stares at Garak until Garak starts smiling and says "you can't, can you?"

And that's how Garak ends up carrying Julian out of the infirmary in the middle of the day to drop him in an Epsom salt bath while he lectures him on the importance of *moderation*, my dear, you really must learn *moderation*

[maintitle]

Okay but this is actually an underlying theme that plays through Origins that I think is really clever and gets overlooked! Repeatedly in DA:O, the player is asked to confront the Warden's so-called neutrality. Alistair serves as the voice once Duncan is gone that the Wardens' don't become involved in politics, and you have no reason to question him for quite a while. You also really have no reason to question it when Alistair reveals his parentage, although if you're a Cousland that's likely when the first alarm bells go off. I'd also argue that's the case for Aeducan.

One of the most important additions to Origins to me is the Soldier's Peak DLC. It's cool we finally get a container for all our shit, and it's interesting as a possible cure for the Blight, but that's not at all what I mean.

The story of Soldier's Peak is not only the first time you're forced to confront the Wardens possibly being not all you were told they were, it's also a parallel for the possible consequences of your own decisions. Sophia Dryen wasn't just a noblewoman who joined the Wardens, she was a rival for the throne of Ferelden. We don't know all of the particulars, but what we do know is that Sophia lost the claim for the crown, but refused to relent, and was taken as a prisoner of war until she was offered a place within the Wardens. If this all rings as familiar, it's meant to.

What happened at Soldiers Peak was a political revolution. Sophia Dryden made a move on Arland. We've obviously been told that Arland was a tyrant, and considering we see a lot of the younger Wardens agree with that sentiment, it's probably true. But KNOWING this information is enough to make one raise an eyebrow, and ask if Sophia's decision was entirely noble. Was this her caring for the people of Ferelden? Or was it her making a move out of revenge to reclaim what she rightfully saw as hers, using Arland's cruelty as a weapon to do so? It's hard to say... but what is clear is that the decision to take someone of such royal import into the Wardens was what lead to the tragedy at Soldier's Peak, and also the banning of them from Ferelden.

Riordan is meant to be the vehicle through which you begin to see the Wardens as less heroic and a bit more opportunistic. He's more brutal, he is willing to do more to get things done the right way, he's willing to step over lines you wouldn't expect based off what you've heard of the Wardens, again through Alistair, who has idealized them, who also is in line to be King. And this man, who's rougher than the Wardens you've known, who says that Weisshaupt is too cold and brutal for his taste, and he didn't mean the environement. It's Riordan who suggests Loghain join you, who should've known this has happened once before... but there's a Blight, and the immediacy of the moment is too crucial. An issue the Wardens have always had.

It's not unlikely that Duncan knew who he was recruiting and why. Duncan was likely planning for the future. The evidence is there, and the culmination is likely not far from Duncan's own backup plans. At the end of the day... the Wardens will play whatever cards necessary to stay on good terms with nations and stop the Blight.

This is something Bioware does a lot, put the hero on the path to repeat history. DA:I is most obvious with it regarding Jaws Of Hakkon, Trespasser and the fate of the Inquisition itself, but Veilguard does it as well. I just wanted to chime in and mention that Origins does it as well, and that's sometimes a bit lost in the sauce.

the thing about the cousland origin, to me, that sometimes turns me off it completely and sometimes intrigues me, is that it says something completely different about who duncan is, what he wanted, and what the grey wardens are

[mysecretlittlelibrary]

Hey so can I have a scenario where Kurt has a s/o who he has been with for a while. It’s smut. S/o is a gentle, loving, passionate top? It’s not about his appearance or any bad actions he has done. S/o is just very loving in the moment with him whenever they do the deed?

~Late To The Party~

Pairing: Nightcrawler x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: oral m & f receiving, lots of praise, general goofy cuteness here

Genre: it's smut ofc but plenty of fluff too

Summary: Sometimes your boyfriend just looks good enough to eat ;)

A/N:Thank you for requesting darling! <3

***

You hum to yourself as you do your makeup at your vanity. You want to go relatively simple, a smokey eye probably, that's your go to when you're struggling to decide on a look. While you work, you hear your boyfriend mutter a couple of curses in German and stifle a chuckle. This happens any time he tries to tie a tie.

"Having a bit of trouble, my love?" You ask walking over to the bathroom where he's no doubt rebuking the very creation of neckties.

"Help, please?" He sighs, hands dropping to his sides.

"Of course my sweet." You smile, adjusting the sides to the proper length and tying it for him.

"This is ridiculous I should be able to tie a tie." He grumbles.

"I don't think it's that important, it's not like you wear ties every day." You shrug.

"But- most adult men can tie a tie, can't they?" 

"I dunno. But you should never learn because I like doing it for you." You adjust the knot around his neck slightly and tap his nose.

"I think it's important that I learn how to tie one for myself." He says.

"Yeah if you plan to start working at a bank." You scoff.

"A bank?"

"Or any other job that requires a tie every morning. You wear them so rarely that I really don't think you're missing out on anything, but if you must know, I'll teach you to do it for yourself. Even though I like doing it for you."

"Thank you." He says and you offer him a smile. With the tie fiasco out of the way, you take a look at his full outfit. He looks good. I mean he always looks good but he looks especially good right now. You tilt your head as you examine him.

"Is that a new shirt?" You ask.

"Yes. Does it look weird?" Kurt frowns looking down at himself.

"No! Quite the opposite, it looks really good." You tell him.

"Really? I wasn't sure the color would-"

"The color is perfect. Although, now I wonder if I should change so we match better." You look down at your own dress.

"Don't. You look amazing." Kurt says softly with that doe eyed lovey look he sometimes gives you. The one that so closely resembles the blissed out expression on his face after sex. Like the other day, you went through your toy stash together, and he picked a couple out that piqued his interest- that was a fun night.

"Keep looking at me like that and we'll be incredibly late to this party." You tap under his chin and leave the bathroom before your wandering mind does make you both late.

"Late? Why? We're pretty ahead of schedule right now." Kurt checks his watch while you sit back at your vanity.

"I know but we won't stay that way with you giving me that dopey grin." You tell him as you do your eyeliner.

"What dopey grin?" He frowns at you through the mirror.

"Well you're not doing it anymore, but sometimes you get this dopey grin on your face like I put the sun in the sky every morning and it looks a lot like your 'I just got my brain turned to mush' face after we have sex." You tell him.

"Oh."

"Don't worry I'm not going to jump your bones- I'm just thinking about it." You wink at him through the mirror as you swipe on your lipstick.

"I- don't wanna be late." He says hesitantly. You spin around on your vanity bench and face him.

"This lipstick is pretty life proof. I bet I wouldn't even have to redo it before we hit the road." You say, taunting him slightly. He's within arm's reach so you pull him towards you by the wrist and he looks at you with wide eyes, anticipating your next move.

"Liebling-"

"I know I said I was only thinking about it- but you are just too cute, I don't think I can wait til we get back to eat you up." You hum. Kurt gulps, he knows he won't be able to stop you once you start putting your hands on him or rather he'll have no desire to do so, but he doesn't want to show up super late to this party.

You thumb the button of his slacks and tug down the zip, shimmying his pants about halfway down his legs, freeing his dick, which is basically at eye level with you sitting on the vanity bench.

"Now, you'll have to keep your hands to yourself, I don't want you messing up my makeup. The rest of it isn't life proof." You warn him.

"But we'll be late to the-" Kurt trails off when your hand caresses his thigh.

"What were you saying?"

"I- you're distracting me." He says.

"Am I? Should I stop then?" You hum.

"Y/n please."

"We can go! You just have to tell me you don't want it, or even just step back. You haven't moved away so I'm not sure that I'm convinced you care that much about being late at this point." You muse. You're still just rubbing his thigh, giving him plenty of time to stop you.

"I care but I- liebling you know I can't say no to you." Kurt sighs.

"I'm not going to do anything if you won't ask for it then." You shrug.

"What?"

"Since you're so concerned with being on time I'm leaving it in your hands, if you want to leave we'll leave, but if you want what I want you'll have to tell me that."

"It- it's not the end of the world if we're a little late, right?"

"Right. So are we going to be a little late?"

"I- I think we're going to be a little late." Kurt says.

"Brilliant." You smile, wrapping your hand around his dick. Kurt takes a sharp breath and his abs tense in front of you. You wrap your lips around the tip of him and he gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, and balls his fists at his side.

"Y-you look- r-really pretty right nnnow." Kurt stutters.

"Thank you baby, so do you." You wink at him and take him back into your mouth. You watch his mouth fall open and his head tip back as he loses himself in the heat of your mouth wrapped around him. You move your head slowly up and down his length, taking more and more of him with each forward movement.

Kurt's hands flex repeatedly, but he diligently keeps them off of you, a task he decides he vehemently hates. The man is never not touching you when you're together, not even in a sexual way, he just loves to have his hands on you.

You continue sucking him off alternating between slow drags and faster bobbing. It's driving him nuts, the sounds spilling from his parted lips telling you everything you need to know. His moans are breathy and sometimes border on whines as they fall on your ears like your favorite song. Only once his legs threaten to buckle beneath him do you let the teasing stop and focus on making him cum. It doesn't take long, you've pushed all the right buttons to get him properly worked up and when you swirl your tongue against the spot just below the tip that always sets him off he spills into your mouth with a groan. He has to grab your shoulder to stay upright as you work him through his orgasm. When you're confident you've swallowed all evidence of his release you finally pull off of him. There's that dopey post-orgasm look of his you love so much.

"I love watching you fall apart you know." You smile as he takes a very shaky deep breath. 

"Not touching you is really hard." He huffs out making you laugh.

"Feeling alright my love?" You ask him.

"I- uh- I feel unsteady."

"Well! Luckily, I have a solution for that." You tug his arm with enough force to pull him to his knees in front of you. "Addendum, it's technically not a solution, more accurate would be luckily I don't need you on your feet for this next bit." You smile.

"This next bit?"

"You said not touching me is really hard. Well now you get to touch me. I wanna see your pretty face buried between my legs."

"Well you definitely don't have to ask me twice." Kurt says, pushing up the skirt of your dress until your panties are visible. He tugs them quickly down your legs and settles between your thighs with his hands resting on them.

"God you are perfect." He practically sighs before taking one long lick of your cunt. He groans at the taste before diving in fully. Kurt's tongue is eager against you, lapping up your juices, circling your clit, thrusting in and out of your center. He eats you out like a man starved, and your fingers thread through his hair has he does so.

"Fuck, Kurt, you're so good at this." You moan, grinding against his face. Kurt pulls one of your legs over his shoulder. He continues to rub the outside of said leg as he does all your favorite tricks with his tongue and you continue to moan and shower him with praise. 'I love you's and 'god that feels good's break up your cacophony of moans and groans. You arch towards him when he fucks you with his tongue, squeeze your legs around his head when he draws tight circles against your clit, and grind into his mouth when he slurps up your juices.

When he glances up at you and your eyes meet, you can barely stand the intensity of his gaze. He's looking at you as if his plan is to devour you from head to toe and nothing is more important than doing exactly that in this moment.

"You are so fucking hot Kurt." You sigh. Kurt groans deep in his throat and the vibrations make you gasp briefly. You pull at his hair and it makes him groan again. When you start releasing a string of curses Kurt focuses all his ministrations on your clit, tight circles that are sure to push you to the edge and over it rather quickly.

"Holy FUCK!" You groan as your orgasm hits. Kurt continues to tongue at your pussy until the aftershocks pass. You drop your leg from his shoulder making Kurt lean back.

"God I love you." Kurt says kissing your knee.

"I love you too my darling." You say smiling at him as you try to fix his hair a bit. You look over your shoulder to check your makeup in the vanity mirror.

"That- was definitely worth being late for." Kurt hums and you laugh.

"I'm glad you agree. And look at that, my lipstick still looks perfect." You muse.

"That would be one hell of an advertisement actually." Kurt chuckles.

"Definitely." You say putting on your earrings and necklace. Kurt stands and tucks himself back into his trousers. You grab a wet wipe from one of the drawers at your vanity and stand up, taking a moment to clean off Kurt's face.

"I was planning to clean that up myself ya know." Kurt says.

"I'm not going anywhere, you're welcome to more later." You wink.

"I will take you up on that." He says.

"Later my love, we should get going." You say. You give him a quick kiss and take his hand, leading him out of your room so you're not any later to this party.

***

[igotanidea]

The talk : Dick Grayson X reader ( with Bruce Wayne)

A/n : it's a snippet, I might consider writing it fully

Warning: suggestive but not explicit

Summary: it's time for the bees and bird talk with Dick

***

Bruce walking in on a young adult! Dick and his girlfriend y/n getting cosy between the sheets.

Obviously, as a normally functioning adult and a father, even if just a foster one, the batman takes it upon himself to have a talk about bees and birds with his favourite son.

He got it all planned out, schemed, thought out to avoid surprises and misunderstandings.

He actually had the contingency plans from A to Z drafted for a while, only hoping that those would never come to use.

Unfortunately, seeing y/n, with her blouse undone, hair a mess and Dick's hands (and apparently more) on her, forces Bruce to retreat to hide the blush creeping on. The last piece of his dignity is gone and he is pretty sure there's no good way to recover from such a failure.

He had reached the ultimate botttom.

"Hey B, you good?" Hours later Dick found him in the batcave, engrossed in some feigned, quickly fixed work. It was too easy to figure he would hide there to avoid seeing or - god forbid - hear anything.

"Hm."

"You wanted to talk to me about something, didn't you?" He grinned, delighting in a way Bruce seemed to develop an eye twich.

"Hm".

"Great. I got some time before I get back to y/n, so?"

"Get back?" Bruce turned to face his son and immediately regretted it. He seriously wished to erase the sight of lipstick and love bites on his neck.

"Something wrong?" Once more dick flashed a smile, trying to force a reaction out of Bruce.

"hm."

"we're being safe"

"Amazing"

"and she's okay with it"

"Great"

"And I've studied female anatomy so I know a thing or two about --"

Oh dear lord...

"Dick." Bruce was an inch from having a spasm. How ironic it would turn out to be if gotham lost its protector because of certain golden boy growing up.

"hey did you know that --"

"Get out, Dick."

"But I thought you wanted to--"

"I said get out"

"-talk?"

"I believe you got it all wrong. It was Alfred. Yes. Alfred wanted to talk to you. Not me."

"You sure about it B? You want me to talk to Alfred about -"

"yes. Absolutely. Now go. I'm sure time is of essence"

"it is. Though Alfred took some time off, thanks to your generosity, Bruce. So I'll go, sure, but I've already got so many questions that I don't want to search online and--"

"Dick?" Y/n voice sounded dangerously close to the batcave entrance "Where are you? I'm gonna have to go soon and I need a proper goodbye --"

"coming!!!" Dick yelled rushing off the room " great talk, Bruce. We'll continue it later."

Dick left and Bruce was finally able to let out a groan. The masterplanner forgot to acknowledge the fact that sweet kids tend to turn into feral, hormonal young adults and require actual upbringing.

***

"you're so mean to him, you know that?" Y/m muttered, once again with his lips on hers

"mean? Who, me? Ouch! You're hurting my heart here princess."

"you are. He could easily be a DILF, yet is alone and you're tormenting him."

"but if you saw the look on his face --"

"you're only proving my point of you being mean".

"I'm sure he'll get some, some day--"

"but still- mmm!"

"I remind you that you enabled the plan baby.... Played quite an important part in it." Dick started kissing her a little harder, not even trying to hide where he was heading. "Wonder why that is..."

"cause you're also a -- ohh!"

"you were saying?" He smirked, looking up at her.

"-prick"

"Am I?" His hands moved where she liked it "what else?"

"liar..." She gasped. While it was true he didn't tell her why he invited her over and that his father was in, his movements were serving as a pretty good apology.

Even if knowing Dick it was obviously also a way to boost his ego and prove his point and complete his twisted and deranged plan.

"you know what, I've already had one talk, I don't really need another.... Rather keep my lips occupied with something else --"

***

Bruce came out of the batcave only after making sure it was safe.

Mentally cursing himself for having not one, but four boys under his care.

Which meant that this - whatever it was-- was about to happen again.

[the-crooked-library]

I noticed something near the end of Dracula when Jonathan and Mina separate for a final time (so she can go to Dracula's castle), that a difference between Harker and Hutter is also near the end.

For context, several chapters earlier Jonathan gets two weapons “put these flowers round your neck”—here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms—“for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife;.

Then when Mina and Van Helsing are about to depart for their ride to the castle, Jonathan keeps the knife and gives the revolver to Mina. Even for me a large-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like the rest.

I know the phallic analysis of the weapons in the book are overstated in scholarship but I think it's telling that Jonathan insists Mina to be armed with a big gun while he lets her go do what she wants without him. Thomas didn't arm her and likely wouldn't even it were suggested imo.

omg yes! That is definitely another detail that really stood out to me during my watch, and yet another reason I genuinely start getting annoyed whenever people conflate Thomas with Jonathan - because frankly, that is allowing Thomas to reap what Jonathan sowed, so to speak. I've seen a lot of people absolutely in love with him, and yet the traits they list as the reasons are none that he possesses; in fact, the great majority of them are in exact opposition to his canon personality, and this is one of them.

Don't get me wrong, I love Thomas as a character. I think he is quite sympathetic - and, on the Watsonian level, really trying his best; but at the same time, I think it is essential to acknowledge that he is deeply flawed, if only because on the Doylist level, these flaws are fundamental to his arc in the story. It is purely a question of structure and function; because, at the end of the day, he is a fictional character, and thus, a narrative component, rather than a person.

In this case, his choices prior to the vampire hunt provide the viewer with further evidence -> of an aspect of his characterization -> that acts as one of the driving forces behind the plot of Nosferatu. Specifically, he does not notice that Ellen is lying to him; he leaves her at home as he goes off to "fight"; he doesn't even consider arming her; and he does all these things because, even though he does care for Ellen, he never really thinks of her as a person.

Thomas doesn't notice that Ellen is lying, even though she is clearly nervous when she does it, because he doesn't know what she looks like when she's hiding something (I personally think it is because she masks around him, at least to some degree - throughout the film, he is uncomfortable every time she's honest). He doesn't bring her to the hunt because it doesn't occur to him that she could help with tracking down Orlok - despite him being aware now of her immense psychic abilities, despite Von Franz describing her as a native in a world he is only visiting. And, exactly as you said, he doesn't even think to leave her a weapon; because, even as he sets out on his "quest," even after she's told him of Orlok's obsession, even though the point of the hunt is apparently to "save" her, he doesn't consider the possibility of Orlok going after her.

Contrast that with Jonathan - who knows Mina so well that they can get concerned over three lines of writing, who works with Mina's brief psychic connection to Dracula in order to track him, and who arms Mina before the final fight, because he is not satisfied unless he can do everything in his power to ensure her safety. When it comes to their relationship, Mina's revolver, while not exactly phallic (seriously, why is that topic so overwrought?..), becomes a narrative symbol of his thoughtfulness.

The difference here is that, while Ellen is important to Thomas, this importance only extends insofar as she is his wife. He sees her as a responsibility, but never as herself; and, ultimately, he never actually considers her a factor that could conceivably affect his - or anyone's - decision-making. He plans their life without even asking what she wants from it, he neglects her emotional needs, and he leaves her like a sitting duck during the hunt, without a weapon or anyone to guard her. She continuously slips his mind, utterly inconsequential beyond whatever their surrounding society defines as her role and value; and Thomas, tragically, is unable to overcome this ingrained, rigid set of rules.

This is an essential aspect of his character - because, as stated previously, the plot wouldn't happen without it. If Thomas took Ellen's wants into consideration, he wouldn't have been so hell-bent on chasing a promotion, and he wouldn't have left her right after their honeymoon to go to another country, especially if she begged him to stay. If he knew her better, he would've picked up on the plan she made with Von Franz - or she would've told him!.. Most certainly, if he saw any real personhood in her, he wouldn't have dreamed of leaving her unarmed and undefended.

Nosferatu is about Ellen's continued systemic dehumanization. The point of the story is that every single human character contributes to it on some level, despite whatever love and best intentions they might have for her. It's about the inherent monstrousness of being othered by humanity, and Thomas is - inherently, narratively, crucially - human.

[aishangotome]

Luke & Gilbert's Story of Reminiscence [The Day We Became a Fake Family] - Part 2

Part 1

Gilbert: ...Why did I stop the war...?

The still young boy, with his verdant eyes that should have been clear, glared at the one-eyed youth with a stagnant gaze.

Even under the sharp gaze that seemed to be accusing, lashing out, the youth's smile didn't falter.

Gilbert: It's true that if we had continued the invasion, we could have conquered Rhodolite.

Gilbert: But Obsidian would have lost a lot too.

Luke: ...No way. Rhodolite couldn't fight back at all.

Gilbert: In the area where you were, yes. But in other battlefields, we were also taking quite a beating.

Gilbert: The country of roses and art is also a country of knights.

Gilbert: Rhodolite's noble beasts would surely resist until the very end, wouldn't they?

Gilbert: If that happened, the damage to Obsidian would continue to increase.

Gilbert: To the point where it wouldn't be worth the price of acquiring a small country.

Luke: ..............

Gilbert: Besides, I like Rhodolite.

Gilbert: I want to obtain it as a beautiful country with blooming roses, not a scorched land.

Gilbert: Continuing the war wouldn't benefit me. That's why I used my authority as Marshal to command the retreat.

Gilbert: His Majesty the Emperor also suddenly disappeared from the battlefield...?

Luke: ...But...

Gilbert: Luke.

He poked the boy's nose with his finger, who couldn't hide his dissatisfaction.

Gilbert: Revenge only has meaning when you carry it out yourself.

Gilbert: What good would it be if I crushed the Rhodolite you hate in your place?

Luke: ......

Gilbert: Do you hate them that much?

Luke: ...I hate them.

Luke: That country, I hope it perishes.

Luke: If you won't destroy it, I will someday.

Luke: Everything... everything...!

His face, twisted with tears and hatred, was so terrifying that even the doctor standing nearby gasped.

Gilbert: Hehe, I'm looking forward to it.

Gilbert: It seems there are a lot of things I need to teach you.

-

Gilbert: Another one, please.

Luke: Huh?

Gilbert: I can't seem to get full.

Luke: ...Seriously?

In a corner of the honey candy specialty shop that was currently the talk of Rhodolite, there was a table with a mountain of plates piled up.

While attracting the attention of the staff and other customers, Gilbert added even more plates to the stack.

Luke: Are you planning to devour everything in this store?

Gilbert: I hope I can get full by eating everything... Ah, waiter, can I get another?

Luke: ...What are you going to do if we get banned from this place because of you?

Gilbert: Sorry.

Luke: This isn't something you can apologize for. That's why I didn't want to bring you along.

Gilbert: You like this place that much?

Luke: It's the shop that knows the most about honey in all of Rhodolite.

Gilbert: Hmm? Their sweets are certainly delicious.

Luke: Do you even know how to appreciate taste? You're just downing the sweets like drinks.

Gilbert: Don't be silly, I'm savoring them properly. Because they're Luke's favorite, you know?

Luke: ...Not that again.

Gilbert: Not what again?

Luke: The "like" this and that...

Gilbert: It's important.

Luke: Makes no sense. It's like you're...

Luke: ...trying to make me say "I like Rhodolite" today, you're that persistent.

Gilbert: Yep, you got it.

Luke: What kind of harassment is this?

Gilbert: Don't be silly, if it were harassment, would it end with something this cute?

Luke: ..............

Gilbert: I'm not scheming, that's the truth.

Luke: ...Who knows.

Gilbert: You have no faith in me.

Luke: In the first place, what about you?

Gilbert: Hm?

Luke: Do you like Obsidian?

At that casual question, Gilbert, who hadn't stopped eating until then, froze.

Gilbert: I've never thought about it. That's an interesting question.

Luke: ...You're pretty blunt when asking other people.

Gilbert: Hehe, that's true...

It didn't seem like he intended to brush it off, and a thoughtful silence fell.

Luke: Was it that difficult of a question?

Gilbert: Unlike you, I want to be honest with myself.

Gilbert: Hmm... To start with, I don't love anything, and I don't like anything either.

Gilbert: But on top of that, there are things I like and dislike about Obsidian.

Luke: Is that even an answer?

Gilbert: It can't be helped, can it? There's no other country as extreme as Obsidian.

Gilbert: You should understand what I'm trying to say.

Luke: ...Yeah, I guess.

-

Gilbert: I'm home, Luke.

A few months after the Day of the Bloodstained Roses, the one-eyed youth would occasionally visit the boy, who had started living in a hideout, have idle chatter, and then leave.

Luke: You...

However, this day was different.

Gilbert: Ah, sorry. But don't worry.

Gilbert: It's all someone else's blood.

.

.

.

Part 3

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[yellowocaballero]

a while back you mentioned having written ~40k of a steven moon knight fic as well as some of a frenchie fic? i was just wondering if those would ever be posted/shared or if they will stay in google docs superhell forever (also love your work!! your star wars swap au i particularly enjoyed as well as the tma evilcon + associated fics) best of days to you !!

Look at this evilcon fan over here. Deep fucking cut.

Ah, yes I have. The 40k fic was written for Marvel Trumps Hate, and I didn't post it due to some vaguely complicated but not altogether important reasons. The Frenchie fic was the unfortunate victim towards me very abruptly falling out of MK, lmfao. I think all of my fandoms have The One Abandoned Fic that I was working on when I just Got Over the fandom (Human Relations sequel, so cruelly abandoned....).

Kind of a shame, since the Frenchie fic was not bad and just got kinda roadblocked at the end. I've tossed around maybe finishing it when MKS2 comes out and I inevitably get sucked back in. I don't want to post the MTH fic on AO3 right now (maybe in the future when MKS2 comes out and I get sucked back in etc) but there's honestly no reason not to show you...I think...looking back over this, I think I may have decided that the fic's sense of humor was just too insane. It's very.......uh.....

Uh, ok, just between you and me and other people reading this then. It's a fic about a normal guy who thinks that schizophrenia makes you immortal and autism gives you superpowers.

I'll put it in a follow-up post. In the meantime here's the first few scenes from the Frenchie fic. I really do wanna finish this one day....

“A phone call?”

The jackal barked in elderly confusion.

Steven leaned back in his chair, scratching his stubble. Jake was insisting that they experiment with facial hair and it was best to let him have these little victories. “Well, under the human American law each citizen is entitled to a phone call if they get arrested. That’s probably what he means.” The jackal barked dismissively. “Have you tried telling him that?” The jackal barked again, aggravated. “I see. Quite a pickle. Well, I don’t see any harm in giving him the call. We’d have to warn him that this is a faux legal system and that he’s not entitled to any lawyers, but perhaps he could tell his wife he won’t be home for dinner? That would be nice.”

The jackal growled. 

“We could be nice,” Steven said reproachfully. 

The jackal barked again.

“If you really think about it, nothing’s stopping us. Masters of our own fates and whatnot, right? Well - yes, yes, I know the gods are the masters of our fates, that’s not quite - look, sir, there’s no point in worrying a man’s wife unnecessarily, is there? How would your wife feel if you disappeared off the mortal plane?” The jackal hung its head, and Steven sighed as he stood up. “I’ll lend him my mobile.” The courthouse only had landlines, and even then that was iffy. Magical ancient Egyptian constructs still struggled with 4G. “But if he messes about with my Twitter then we’re adding another thousand years onto his sentence.”

Situations like this were why Steven still showed up to work. This zoo often struggled at little things like this without him. The place had gone to the jackals while he was gone - literally, they had taken over many administrative positions - and it would take months just to clean up the wreckage. Steven didn’t mind - nothing made him happier than a good little routine. Ten to two, that was his preference. Downright inhumane to make a man work any longer than four hours a day. He had even scheduled a deli or restaurant to visit for lunch each day of the week. And Marc and Jake were not allowed. Steven only zone. A man’s office was his castle. Besides - if they knew what he got up to all day they might complain about it. 

The two were deeply asleep - Jake because he found Steven’s entire life dull as dirt and Marc because all of the mandated socialization they were doing lately really took it out of him. Steven found it delightful. Jake’s friends were really nice once you got to know them, and you could reliably get a pained expression out of any of them once you told them so. Marc found their whole thing exhausting and if Jake wasn’t entertained he wanted to die, so around noon the two slept like Alexander the Great’s mummy. Might as well build them little tombs. That was cute. Steven knew exactly what his own tomb would look like. He was practically a pharaoh and everything - maybe Khonshu would make sure he got one? No, Khonshu didn’t care about them nearly that much. Boy, but wouldn’t that be nice.

He gave the Bast statue guarding the elevator its usual nose pat, he smiled and waved at the lumbering shabtis, and he stopped and said his usual ‘hello how are you how’s Nephthys Osiris talking to you again yet’ to the Set statue as the jackal gave him the stink eye for holding them up. Kindness was key, Mr. Jackal. Steven believed in positive Steven-god relations. He lived in hope that the other gods would model good behavior for Khonshu and eventually sway him into becoming less of a dick. 

The ibis perched adorably in a little booth checked his identity as it picked up a little visitor’s badge with his beak and dropped it into Steven’s outstretched hand. It pecked at the computer keyboard a few times, accomplishing nothing other than mangling the G and H keys, and a series of papers ground out of the ancient fax machine. Steven cautiously reached over and fetched the papers, scanning them. They were details of the prisoner’s case, which made Steven feel a bit like one of the Forbidden Lawyers. The jackal led him down the winding paths of the jail as Steven fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, squinting down at the pages. 

“Well, this doesn’t seem too nasty,” Steven announced. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out. Certainly not a problem for our Jake, eh?” He looked at the jackal out of the corner of his eye. “Eh?” The jackal did not respond. “Right?”

Steven made the executive decision that this was a bureaucratic issue and therefore not a Marc or Jake issue. They’d just over-involve themselves and pretend they knew anything about the fake legal system. Marc and Jake were like baby brothers playing video games with you on an unplugged controller. They needed to feel like they were doing something or they’d throw a hissy fit. 

The jackal didn’t have to stop and point out the prisoner. Steven could hear him from all the way down the hall: empathetic, pointed, and incessant French patter. The man sounded like he was arguing against a parking ticket, which displayed a disappointing lack of cognizance as to the severity of his situation and the high likelihood that he was about to experience extrajudicial horrors beyond his imagining. 

Poor guy. Imagine being from France. 

For the first time in Steven’s life his shaky French that he could not actually remember learning but that Marc and Jake did not know actually came in handy. As he got closer he could more or less puzzle out what the fast talking man was saying to the two unamused and unswayed jackals. Could the jackals speak French? It had to be some magic thing. The only animals around here who could actually talk to the humans and explain to them what was happening were the baboons, and they were never polite about it.

“ - one little call! That is it! I will never darken your doorstep again, I swear it. One phone call - and, maybe, letting me go! We can talk about it, let’s talk about it! You and I, we are reasonable men - jackal, I am a reasonable man and you are a reasonable jackal - unless you are a woman? Are you a woman? You are still a jackal at any rate. You are a very reasonable gendered jackal, and I am innocent of all crimes - and even if you are a nongendered jackal, I do not judge, I have friends of all kinds - if you give me one phone call I may call one of my friends and he can help, I am certain he is friends with very many of you people -”

The man cut off the second Steven walked into view of his cell. The cells were very basic, with only a cot and a toilet and one wall of metal bars. He was standing up against the bars, fighting with the two unamused jackals standing against the cement wall in the hallway. The man’s head jolted away from the jackals and fixed on Steven, forgetting his captive audience entirely. His slicked back hair was frayed and mussed, gelled strands sticking up every which way, and his blonde mustache twitching in surprise as his eyes widened.

Steven was sympathetic. Human prisoners were always shocked to find a real bloke around the place. 

He waved a bit awkwardly, his reading glasses flopping in the air. In shaky and awkward French, he said, “Bonjour! My name is Steven Grant. And you are…” He shoved his glasses on, squinting down at the intake form. “Jean-Paul Duchamp?” He pronounced it ‘Jean Paul Dew-Champ’, and judging from the man’s twitch he had mangled it. Oh well. “Right. Do not worry, everything will be fine. You wanted a phone call? I have a phone for you.”

The man stared at him. Steven silently suffered this. He knew he was attractive. 

Finally, the man said in accented but thankfully perfect English, “I have changed my mind. May I speak with you in private, Monsieur Grant?”

The three jackals barked simultaneously. Steven rolled his eyes. Honestly! He knew he was the Avatar of Khonshu now, they didn’t need to be like that! “I don’t think that’s allowed. For security reasons and all. Not that there’s anything you could possibly do to me.” A grizzled jackal with one eye barked. “Emotional - hey! I would have you know that my Myers Briggs said I was the resilient type!” Steven considered the matter for a second. “Oh, but I did have a bad horoscope today. Maybe you’re onto something. Do we have any augurers on staff?”

“Excuse me,” Jean-Paul butted in, increasingly wild eyed, “Do you care to explain what is going on, Monsieur Grant? Because the only explanation I’ve received so far was from paperwork on papyrus and a rude baboon.”

Why was he saying his name like that? The French were so weird.  Steven leaned down slightly to whisper in the nearest jackal’s ear. “And he must have been really bad if a French guy is calling him rude.” The jackals cackled. Jean-Paul’s eye twitched. “Never fear, Mr. Duchamp. I’m sure we can get this whole thing sorted out before supper. Let’s review the details of your case, shall we?” 

“What case?”

“Oh, you’re in an ancient Egyptian courthouse for ancient Egyptian crimes,” Steven said vaguely, sliding on his reading glasses and flipping through the pages again. “Yes, the Egyptian gods are real, no they are not aliens, you better believe in ghost stories Ms. Swan you’re in one, etcetera. Alright, alright…I see…ah! There we are! Charged as accessory to one count of tomb raiding…oh, just a little asterisk here, let’s see what that’s all about…you stole from a children’s hospital!?”

“I did not know that is what we were doing!” Jean-Paul cried. “Someone tells me to fly a medical helicopter, I do not ask questions! If I made a habit of interrogating every one of my clients I would not have a great deal of clients, monsieur!”

“Organs from a -”

“It is called professionalism!” 

“It’s called evil!” Steven said, appalled. The jackals barked in agreement. “I have to say, Mr. Duchamp -”

“It’s doo-shamp. And John-Paul. Mon frere.”

Oh wow, oh no, sorry for the French microaggression. Honestly. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you betrayed your clients the second you discovered what they were stealing and refused to pilot them away you would be facing the same punishment they are. It’s quite karmic. Do you  know what Egyptian canopic jars are used for?” Jean-Paul looked a little queasy. “Exactly. Do you still want that phone call, Mr. Duchamp? You’ll receive your sentence from Thoth with or without it.”

“Then why give it to me?” Jean-Paul asked waspishly.

Steven shrugged. “I wouldn’t want your husband to worry.”

“Rest assured, I am quite single.” Jean-Paul stuck his hand out through the bars. “Give it here.”

Steven pulled up the phone function on his mobile and passed it to Jean-Paul, ignoring his thoughtful expression. He tried to convey ‘mess with my phone and I’ll mess with you’ through rigorous eyebrow tilting, but he knew he was very bad at it. 

Jean-Paul stepped back, swiping on the mobile. It did not look like he was punching in a number. Steven abruptly became anxious that he was snooping on Steven’s mobile. He had remembered to delete his text history with Layla, right? Right?!

He typed something on it before looking up, holding it up oddly to show Steven the screen before passing it back to him. “I changed my mind. No need for a call. Thank you for lending me your phone, monsieur, but it was unnecessary.”

The screen was open to the notes app. Steven abruptly felt like they were passing notes in class. Except not quite, because Steven was the Avatar of an Egyptian god and the other party was in jail for magic crimes. The note read -

marc what is the plan

Oh. Oh!

Steven looked up, and now he could clearly read the man’s irritated ‘why are you looking surprised, this is a matter of utmost secrecy’ eyebrow twitch. “Goodness, I’m so sorry. The egg is really on my face here, I’m so embarrassed.” He looked down at the jackal next to him, who twitched its ears attentively. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. It seems -”

Steven stopped short. 

This man knew Marc. He now knew Steven. Marc really, really, really hated it when this happened.

Marc had spent the vast majority of his life masking. His family had been big believers in the ‘never talk about it and pretend it doesn’t exist’ school of mental illness, which had resulted in a great deal of very terrible problems. Marc did not learn from any of these problems and continued to hide the DID from everybody he had ever met up to and including his own wife for a depressing yet impressive length of time. Steven hadn’t really agreed with the wife decision, because it was a slightly huge aspect of their lives that was very much Layla’s business, but Marc believed in privacy. Steven couldn’t fault him for that. 

It wasn’t anybody’s business if Marc didn’t want it to be their business and they were not Marc’s actual wife. Jake spouted off about shame and internalized ableism, which was undoubtedly true, but nobody was really entitled to his health information. He had the right to self-disclose when he wanted and to who he wanted. Steven only wished that this reasonable desire did not lead to sitcom-esque hijinks as they all switched mustaches and pretended to be each other. Sometimes literally. Jake had his whims.

Marc wouldn’t want this random pilot knowing personal stuff about him. He was probably just some colleague he had worked with one time and never saw again. And Steven was very dedicated to helping Marc and making his life easier, just like Marc was dedicated to helping Steven and making his life harder. Jake was dedicated to being a bully. 

Being involuntarily outed was traumatic for Marc. The last time it happened he fell asleep for four weeks and plunged Steven into a Jake induced nightmare. What if he went back to sleep? What if he never woke up this time? What if he left Steven alone with Jake forever? He couldn’t take that chance.

Marc didn’t have to find out about any of this. No point in stressing him out over nothing. 

In a stunning show of cunning, cleverness, and subtlety, Steven looked down at the jackal next to him. “Actually, can I talk with Mr. Duchamp in private? There’s some things we need to discuss.” The jackal asked what. “Human things.” The jackal asked why it had to be private. “They’re private human things.” Steven paused a beat. “Like periods. We’re going to talk about our periods.”

The jackals knew enough about humans to know that periods were private human things and not enough to know that cisgender men did not get periods. They gave him dubious looks anyway, but when Steven mimed yanking a crescent knife from his chest they obligingly filed out. The grizzled one-eyed jackal turned around and gave John-Paul a gimlet ‘I’m watching you’ eye, but John-Paul just sniffed and looked above it all. French people sure were good at looking snooty.

The second the jackals turned the corner and disappeared from sight Steven took a deep breath and changed. 

He straightened, folding his expression into a deep scowl. He tilted his head forward in Marc’s faux intimidating fashion and affected Marc’s terrible Chicago accent - which was just as fake as Steven’s very real to him British accent, thank you very much! Jean-Paul straightened too, eyes widening again.

“What the hell?” Steven demanded. Ugh. It was hell on the throat to talk like this. “How did you even get yourself into this mess?”

“Me? I am the one in the mess?” Jean-Paul stabbed a finger at Steven, who scowled deeper. “What was that? What is this? Why are you working for an ancient Egyptian courthouse under a false identity?”

“It’s a long story,” Steven snapped. It was really easy to avoid questions as Marc. You just had to be mean. “And it’s none of your business.”

“At this point I think it is very much my business! Jesus, Marc!” Jean-Paul exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead in a forcible attempt at zen. “What is this, some sort of op? Are you undercover?”

“I said it was none of your business!”

“This is why you don’t run the ops,” Jean-Paul said. Steven was offended on Marc’s behalf. “I am impressed at your acting skills but not at your subtlety.”

“The usual, then,” Steven said wryly. “I’m impressed with your talent at getting arrested.”

“I get it, I get it. Marc Spector twenty, Jean-Paul fifteen. I swear, Marc, only you would get yourself in these predicaments.”

“You’re the one in the predicament. I’m doing fine.”

“My predicament is your predicament.” Why would that be true? He said it so casually, as if it was a given fact. Quite presumptuous of him, in Steven’s opinion. “At least now I don’t have to waste a hope and a prayer that you would pick up your phone this time. How are you going to get me out of this one? They have a giant baboon! Have you seen the baboon!”

“The baboon’s very understanding about my medical needs, so watch it.” Wait - had he wanted to spend his one phone call on Marc? Why? They were talented, cool, and altruistic, but… “Look, I’ll do what I can. But the gods aren’t exactly easy to argue with. I’ve tried to get them to overturn a sentence before and it failed miserably.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard my friend try to do things the legal way.” Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Just bust me out. Isn’t that more your style?”

What a suck-up. Marc didn’t have friends. Steven smiled anyway, brittle and thin. “Don’t worry, Jean-Paul. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Just please try and understand the position I’m in.”

Jean-Paul stared at him. Steven forced himself to look the other man in the eyes even though it made him uncomfortable. Marc always stared down people he didn’t trust. 

“So, uh,” Steven said, “I better call the jackals back -”

“Please admit you do not know who I am.”

Steven froze. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jean-Paul sighed. He kneaded his forehead again, shoulders slumped, but something about the gesture had changed. My predicament is your predicament - what did that mean? “Why didn’t you say - non, non, you would have no reason. Marc, please listen to me.” He looked solidly at Steven, and Steven found himself looking away. “It’s Frenchie. I’m your friend. We met in Afghanistan and we’ve worked together ever since. You’re having another amnesiac episode. This happens to you sometimes and it is nothing to worry about. Do you believe me about this?”

Steven opened his mouth. He closed it.

He couldn’t help it - he hunched his shoulders, clutching at his sleeve and drawing away. “I don’t have friends. You’re lying.”

“Call up Layla and ask,” Jean-Paul said. His voice was even and steady, and it struck Steven oddly. The man was literally in a jail cell about to be Egyptian tortured and he was comforting Steven? Looking out for him in a mental health episode? Did the world contain two Lukes? “Do you know Layla? Your wife? Now there’s a thief for you. I am but a humble pilot in comparison.”

That cinched it. Marc would never tell anybody he didn’t trust about Layla. Much less about what Layla really did for a living.

But Marc didn’t trust anybody. Marc wasn’t supposed to trust anybody. That was Marc’s whole thing. He only trusted Steven and Layla. He only trusted Steven and Layla and - Frenchie? What kind of nickname was that? That was so stupid.

Marc was really bad at naming things. Movie poster, pilfered ID. Frenchie. Jeez.

Steven put it down. He let his shoulders hunch back into their natural slouch, bent his voice back towards its natural tilt, and dropped the mean expression. Despite himself, he groaned. 

“Marc’s going to kill me!” Steven wailed. “He’s going to go to sleep again and leave me with Jake!”

Jean-Paul recoiled, surprise turning into shock. Wow, wow, big surprise. Marc or Jake’s friends freaking out over Steven. Stop the presses.

“He’s gonna blame me for this, you know,” Steven cried. Not whined. Nope. “This is why he doesn’t trust me with anything. As if it’s my fault that his friends keep getting arrested? Maybe I should get a little more recognition for being the only one without delinquent friends. Honestly, I don’t know why we can’t keep better company sometimes. A book club? A Dungeons and Dragons group? Anybody who doesn’t punch people for a living? Is that too much to ask?”

“Hm,” Jean-Paul said. “Your dissociative episodes have grown stranger.”

“What were they like in the military?” Steven asked, morbidly curious. “Marc didn’t even mention amnesia episodes. He can be right frustrating, you know.”

Slowly and carefully, Jean-Paul said, “Do you remember the manic episodes?”

“We’re bipolar?” Steven asked blankly.

“That is what I thought. I do not think I was correct.”

Wait. “Did you think Jake was a manic episode?”

“Jake?”

“The other one,” Steven said helpfully.

“Ah. Yes, I think so.” Jean-Paul paused - not as if he was uncertain, but as if he wasn’t sure how the words would be received. “I understand DID is a very difficult disorder.”

Something tugged at the back of Steven’s mind, then yanked. Steven felt himself fall backwards, and something else surged in him -

*

Frenchie stood in front of Marc, right in every way, wrong only in the eyes - only in the way he was looking at Marc - 

Cautiously, he said, “Steven? You look dazed.”

Dazed. That was what he’d always call it. Whenever Marc zoned out and left his body, whenever Frenchie caught him wandering listlessly around camp with no memory of having even left bed - you look dazed, Marc -

“Do you ever get tired of your front row seat?” Marc asked hoarsely.

But Frenchie just smiled - a little cockily, a little kindly. “The view is quite good.”

Marc couldn’t do this. He never could, he could never do anything - but he couldn’t do this. Humiliation crushed him, Frenchie’s affection and acceptance its strange shadow. The shadow was worse than the weight. It was the shadow he couldn’t handle. He couldn’t handle this. 

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Frenchie alone in the cell with no promise of rescue and no aid given, and he found himself walking faster until he turned the corner. The jackals were still huddled like a football team growling thoughtfully at each other, and they perked up when they recognized Marc. He ignored them, walking through the crowd until they leapt away.

Marc’s walk turned into a run. A drum beat rocked his head, pushing hard at his heart. The beat threw him forward, turning his run into a sprint down the winding cement halls. His desperation reached out and thought of a word, and once he thought it he just couldn’t stop.

Jake. Jake. Jake! Jake, I can’t do it again - Jake - !

*

Marc woke up face first in Jessica Jones’ hair clutching a bottle of Jack.

He yelped, jerking away automatically and falling off the couch with a heavy jolt. The bottle jumped out of its hands, landing on the stained wood coffee table with a heavy thump and rolling against a bulwark of beer bottles. 

Marc bolted upright, ignoring his pounding head to take inventory of his surroundings. He relaxed the second he registered where he was. Heroes For Hire apartment. Morning. Luke Cage was passed out in an armchair, sawing wood. Colleen’s bra was draped across the back of a couch. Did these people do anything other than party?

Jessica flopped over, squinting blearily at him in the morning light. Cars honked outside and traffic blared, the sound cutting harshly into his throbbing head. Jessica waved a hand limply at him. She mumbled something that Marc could somehow translate into ‘what’s your problem?’. 

Nothing. No problem. Not right now, not here. Marc climbed back onto the couch, pushing Jessica aside to reclaim his spot. Amazingly, they were barely even cuddling - their couch was one of those IKEA types that you could just keep adding onto, it was fucking ginormous. He left the bottle of Jack on the table, whiskey slowly sloshing in the glass. Jessica went back to sleep immediately, her warm breaths pressed against his back.

The sunlight faded into night, then nothing. 

*

“ - and that’s why I wouldn’t fuck Mr. Fantastic unless Sue Storm was watching.”

Marc bolted upright.

“I left Frenchie in prison!” Marc cried. 

“Man, what kind of weird dreams are you having?” Danny asked. Marc could hear his voice from behind the couch, accompanied by the rattle of silverware and the hefty scent of bacon. “I can interpret it for you if you want. The prison’s probably a metaphor for -”

“Your psyche,” Colleen intoned. 

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Luke said.

Marc rolled off the couch again, slouching his way to the breakfast table and collapsing in his chair. Somebody put a bowl of cereal in front of him and began shoving it in his mouth. Everybody went back to ignoring him and resumed their conversation about the most fuckable superheroes. 

“Monica Rambeau at the top,” Misty said, for what sounded like the five hundredth time. “Very top. Except my girlfriend.”

“I’m the last heir of a samurai clan, not a superhero.”

“Very top. Monica Rambeau.”

“Do you think the Avengers have these conversations about us?” Danny asked Luke. “Like, they have to, right? I don’t think they’re above it.”

“They have mimosa brunches. Man, you know they do. I don’t want to know what the hell they say about me.”

“One time Hawkeye flirted with me and I snapped his bow over my knee,” Jessica reported. “It’s about controlling the narrative, Luke.” Marc’s hand reached out and swiped bacon off her plate, cramming it into his mouth. “Watch it, asshole!”

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Luke told him, half-amused. “Who do we got today?” Marc glared at him balefully, but he held up the ASL finger sign ‘M’ anyway. “Good to see you, Marc. You’re the early bird, huh?”

“Jake was complaining about you yesterday,” Jessica told him gleefully, as if she was snitching on her classmate to the teacher for saying the b word. “He told us all about your intimacy issues. Is it true that you yearn for acceptance, yet are terrified of receiving it?”

“And why,” Marc gritted out between clenched teeth, holding his spoon at a vicious angle, “is Jake always telling you my goddamn business?”

“He likes to vent.”

“Then tell him to shut up next time.”

Misty scraped up eggs with her knife primly. “Five times a day seven days a week. Never listens.”

“Five people live in this apartment, there is no such thing as your own business,” Colleen said, dead-eyed. “I haven’t had privacy in a year.”

“It’s not that different from the monastery,” Danny said philosophically. “Smaller, though.”

“Drunker?” Misty asked.

“Not really.”

“Damn. Guess you had to do something without television.”

Marc’s grip on his spoon tightened so hard that his bones creaked. “Then you can just go tell Jake -”

Tell me yourself. 

“Shut up, Jake! You can all tell Jake that next time he decides to overshare -” Hissy fit ten minutes after waking up, new record. “I wouldn’t throw a hissy fit if you stopped doing shit just to piss me off!” You are an egomaniac. “That is so rich.”

“Still weird,” Misty decreed. 

“Yeah, still weird,” Colleen said.

Luke cut into his hash brown. “I’m just glad that they’re all talking again.”

“Totally glad that Jake’s back to his healthy, regular state of talking to himself,” Colleen said. “Maybe soon he’ll become normal and only serial kill on weekends.”

“I know none of you care about my personal drama,” Jake said flatly, “but would a little respect be so outta line for youse?” Jessica mumbled something around her egg. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, woman, have some self-respect.”

“Steven and I were talking about going to the zoo and looking at the sloths,” Danny said brightly. “Do you still want to do that? I want to see them so bad. All we have back home are sloth bears but I don’t think they’re the same animal.”

“Sloth bears?” Misty asked.

“They mostly eat termites and ants, really,” Steven told her, “not nearly as scary as you’re imagining. Quite adorable. But nothing really beats sloths on the cuteness factor.”

“Steven! Good to catch you. When do you want to go to the zoo?”

“Oh, boy, maybe Sunday? Do we have anything on Sunday?”

I was going to get drunk.

Same. 

“Looks like Sunday’s free!” Steven paused a beat, a smile fixed on his face. “You know, fellas, I can’t help but feel as if we’ve forgotten something.”

We forget stuff incessantly, Marc said, tired. Frenchie was always dragging me out of bars I didn’t remember walking inside. 

There’s an alternate explanation for that one.

See, that’s what I thought, but Frenchie never thought so.

“Frenchie!” Steven cried. He jerked onto his feet, sending his plate rattling. “We left Frenchie in prison!”

Danny reached out and patted Steven on the forearm. “It’s okay, Steven. It was just a dream. The French can’t hurt you.”

“Not if they’re in prison, anyway,” Misty said.

Luke, the only one who ever remotely was on topic, put down his fork and looked at Steven. “Who’s Frenchie? Since when do you know other people?”

“He’s my best friend,” Marc said. He scrambled away from the table, faintly registering that he was wearing Jake’s outfit. He and Steven had their own changes of clothes in the guest bedroom, he’d have to take a minute and change. They hated wearing each other’s clothing. It felt so invasive. Jake hated polyester, Marc hated wool, and Steven hated layers in non-freezing temperatures. “Damn it, what kind of friend am I!”

Jessica squinted at him, sipping her orange juice. “Wait, you have other friends? I thought we were your only friends.”

“He’s my friend, not Jake’s. You’re Jake’s friends.”

“I’m not Jake’s friend,” Misty said.

“Jake’s my friend but I don’t like him,” Colleen said. 

“Jake’s my friend and I like him,” Danny said eagerly.

“No comment,” Luke said.

But Jessica just continued squinting at him - as if she could read something between their three faces, unremarkable individually but painting a clear picture together. “This is what stressed you out so bad yesterday, yeah?” Marc shoved the chair back into the table, averting his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you? Like, buffer zone?”

A part of Marc did want her to come. He didn’t know if that part was Jake or Steven or himself. He never knew where to put himself anymore, how to partition out his life into the good and bad. How to fit together Jake and Layla, how to give Steven the reins on the courthouse work, how to fit into the Heroes For Hire in a space carved for Jake yet welcoming of anybody. 

It was so easy. It scared Marc. 

“I can handle my own army buddy,” Marc said gruffly. He bent down and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “I’ll call.”

Marc swept out the door, ignoring Jessica calling “You better!” behind him.

[copinghex]

Sharing a pair of gloves with Tommy

"How fast do you think a Rolls-Royce can go?" Tommy asked, sitting down at the edge of the bed behind his wife.

"You wouldn't content yourself with less than the fastest," she applied some more cologne and continued, "if you want to get there faster then quit sulking and get my gloves, I'm almost done," 

He sighed and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Usually, he loved to watch her getting ready to go out, tonight wasn't one of these times. The party they'd attend wasn't too far, but Tommy had the habit of arriving early and she certainly would make him late.

"You look beautiful already," he whispered in her ear, making a shiver run down her spine, however she knew it was just another trick of his.

"Tommy," she pushed him away, "the gloves, will you?" 

"Tsk, which ones?" he walked to the wardrobe.

"The black ones, to match my coat," 

He lit up a cigarette before opening a drawer with scarfs, stockings, hats, but no black gloves.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"There," 

"No, not in the drawer," 

"Of course they are, Tommy, just take a better look at it," she argued while fixing her lipstick.

He held himself back from cursing at her petulance. He wasn't blind nor stupid, the gloves weren't there.

"They're not here, I'm telling you," 

"Tommy, they're my black leather gloves, the winter ones! Look at the glove drawer!" 

"I am! And they're not here," 

"Look somewhere else then, I'm almost done," 

"Look where? I don't do the fucking laundry," 

"Neither do I, Tom, they should be at the drawer," 

"Well, they're not," 

"Oh, for fucks' sake," she cursed "ask Frances, she'll know," 

"We don't have time for that," 

"Tommy," she finished her makeup and took her coat from the hanger, "it's freezing outside, I need gloves," 

"Alright, fine," Tommy walked to his part of the wardrobe and took his own pair of leather gloves, it looked exactly like hers, except for the size, "there you go," 

She stared at the gloved in his hands and gulped, "What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"Don't you have another pair?" 

"Of leather ones, no,"

"Then I can't take these from you, Tommy, it's not fair," 

"Love, for fuck's sake, I just want to leave," 

Sitting down at the bed, she sulked like a child, unwilling to admit that the reason why she was taking so long to get ready was because she didn't want to go, it's freezing outside and all she wanted was to stay home with her husband.

"Don't," Tommy scolded, "don't give me a fucking pout, it won't work, put the fucking gloves on and take yourself to the car," 

"I-" she shrugged off, "I can change my dress to match another pair of mine," 

"No, no fucking way, stand up," despite his harsh tone, he pulled her up gently, "c'mon, we have ten minutes," 

"Take it," she gave his gloves back, "I'll change,"

"You take this coat off and I'm leaving you here," 

"You wouldn't," she stood close to his face, "you wouldn't," 

Tommy pressed his lips together and slowly nodded, holding her arms, he explained the situation like he'd do to a child, "Listen, this dinner is important for the legitimate business,"

"...why?" 

"Because if we cause a good impression, more people will believe we're legitimate and we'll get more partnerships, do you understand?" 

With a frustrated sigh, she agreed, "...I still won't take your gloves though," 

"Alright, take just one then," 

"What?" she giggled while Tommy put one glove on his hand and the other on hers.

Holding her naked hand with his own, he put them in his pocket, in a way both could be warm, "It's not ideal, but it's the best we have now, eh? Let's go."

[valyrfia]

once again regarding the "rich men are rich men" discussion. how do you manage to separate that from your enjoyment of the sport bc im really struggling with that at the moment. i LOVE the sport in and of itself. it's so fun! but everything else from the ethics to the drivers being these unbearably rich people to the corruptness of the organisation that is the fia just stands in complete contrast to my own values and political opinions.

I joke "the rpf is payback" but honestly the rpf helps a lot when it comes to the drivers' at least. I don't emotionally care who or what Charles does in his free time when I'm too busy mpregging him on tumblr dot com and it means my emotional energy is freed up to just enjoy when he wins.

Unfortunately, unbearable rich people exist in most entertainment (except quite probably literally fanfiction! hence why it's a pastime that needs to be nurtured and a community that's kept alive and most crucially unmonetised. Stop buying bound fanfic). I struggle a lot with the ethics, they race in countries which I know I could just never visit because of who I am. I struggle a lot with the open secret that these people are complicit in the exploitation of young women but these are issues in the structure of our patriarchal global society and aren't just unique to F1. I think F1 is more prone to it than other sports because a. these young boys are exploited from so young they're more likely to be around adults growing up who endorse this kind of lifestyle and b. the nature of it is flashy and expensive and with more money comes more freedom to do fucked up things. But I struggle with it too anon, day in and day out and I run a BLOG dedicated to the sport. The RPF does seriously help in a meta way, but also because it helps me consume content related to the hyperfixation which is a. written by women/queer people that fundamentally exist outside of the patriarchal norm and b. I know my time and attention won't result in any revenue for these people. I refuse to buy merch anymore, I pay for F1TV because I'm often watching at work but I encourage people to illegally stream.

It's a tough line to walk though, and I think that this is an ongoing conversation which is important to have on here!

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

Looking at that list of players waiting to get renewed it makes me cackle why everyone is only stressing out about Ingrid? Quite a few important players on that list yet not one beep about their renewal status either. Barca has a lot of work to do in that area these next couple of months 😂

Ingrid who bagged another 90 min today let’s go!

yes, it's just a sign of how complicated the renewal process is. everyone is looking at individual players, but we need to take a step back and view the roster renewal in a more holistic way, as there are so many moving parts.

not to mention that it was reported aitana's renewal started last season, so think about the players who are up for renewal the season after next and want to get a head start on those negotiations! 🤯

but i also like looking on the bright side (another 90 minutes for ingrid is a positive way of looking at it! 👌)

well i don't know if jonas is the right person to continue girma's development at the wave, but i guess we will have to see. it's not a requirement that players need to go to europe to develop. but i do think it's better to cut your losses early and move to a team that's not in full meltdown or transition, especially when you are such a talented player like naomi 🙏

thanks for sharing, anon! i only know the basics about american football, but even though these are 'team' sports, you have to wonder about how much of that individuality comes into play, especially when it comes to goal opportunities. it's an interesting angle to consider especially as women's football contracts get more and more complicated! 🤔

[petalkitshadow]

Talking About: Appledusk

So, Appledusk is a character who my interpretation of probably gets questioned the most by readers. Which is understandable! He's not really an antagonist in MV; or, at least, the reader is supposed to understand in MV that while Mapleshade views him antagonistically, the narration is biased into her favor due to the story being from her POV. But the role he takes on in PkS is quite actually antagonistic to Petalpaw and her struggles.... so I thought it would be interesting to dive into it and explain my thoughts behind why I wrote him the way I did!

So - I want to start out by saying that Appledusk is a fictional character. It doesn't bother me if you like Appledusk, or view him differently than I do. I just happen to dislike him, which I think is pretty clear from how he fits into Petalkit's Shadow, lol. But even if I dislike him, I still wanted him to play an interesting role and serve his purpose, which involves making him as frustrating as possible!

When coming up with ideas for how characters will be in PkS, I often don't have much to go on. Mapleshade is really the only character from the cast who has a ton of focus in the canon books. Appledusk is one of those characters who falls a bit in a middle ground. He has enough going for him in MV that you can get a basic idea for how he is, but you still gotta do a lot of legwork on figuring out deeper aspects of his character. for PkS, I look at the characters' actions and go, "what kind of person would do this?" and then write the kind of person who I think would do that, basically.

Appledusk, he struck me as being very focused on self preservation. When he's with Mapleshade in private, he has no problem being loving to her and the kits. But the moment he might face repercussions - repercussions Mapleshade is already facing, he becomes detached and cold. What stuck out to me is how Mapleshade kept thinking that Appledusk never asked the kits' names. Now, Mapleshade as a narrator is biased. But she's right - Appledusk never asks what the names of his children are. He gives no outward signs of grief when faced with their death, and he makes no attempt to speak privately with Mapleshade after the kits drown. Of course, anger is a very valid form of grief, as we all know from Petalpaw. but Appledusk then going on to throw Mapleshade under the bus, and not show her a shred of sympathy even though he is currently suffering from the exact same prejudice that cost Mapleshade everything, speaks to me a lot about his values. When faced with his supposed loved one at her lowest, with nothing left to lose, his reaction is to distance himself from her as much as possible in the hopes that he will be punished less. It's cowardly, it's infuriating, and makes him seem so, so cruel to me.

And then, there's Reedshine. Reedshine in canon irks me a lot, in a meta sense. She's been hurt in similar ways as Mapleshade. Appledusk cheated on her too! But she immediately forgives him, and shows no conflict about Appledusk's actions. She's given no room to grieve or to hurt, she has to immediately come to Appledusk's defense. Reedshine and Mapleshade were both made to bear pain that Appledusk had no interesting in helping them shoulder.

To me, it really felt like Appledusk took the women in his life for granted. Why else would he have an affair, and not confess to it until literal, physical, damning evidence was put on display for everyone to see? Did he consider his own feelings, his own wants and desires, to be more important than that of Mapleshade, or Reedshine's? Mapleshade, with her penchant for cold-blooded murder, is definitely a worse person than Appledusk. But Appledusk's cruelty, I think it gets more under my skin because it feels real. How many serial killers do you know? probably none. But how many indifferent men who think women are just too emotional do you know? how many half-rate, self-absorbed fathers do you know? probably a small selection, at least.

So, when coming up with the basics for PkS, I imagined in the wake of this fiasco, Appledusk would be most focused on his own image, like he seems to be in canon. He wants to go back to being an esteemed, respected warrior. What's the best way to do that? Is it to step up, and be there for his traumatized daughter, offer her guidance and try to to fill the void left by losing her other parent?

No, of course not. Because to Appledusk, his daughter is a constant reminder of the mistakes he's made. He doesn't want to reckon with those mistakes, and he doesn't want to consider that he did something wrong.

In a way... he is a lot like his daughter. (Petalpaw would kill me if she could read me typing this, lol). They both are set in their ways, and very, very stubborn.

So, tl;dr... Appledusk in PkS is an extrapolation based on what I interpret from his character. But he's a character with so little to go on I think there are many ways to interpret him. This is just my thought process about him!

[nextinline-if]

I don't know if you're still answering asks or anything but going through some of the asks has me thinking of so many questions lol these are all from the perspective of ex-lover F

how would F react with hurt MC confronting them with "I'm not just going to be your second choice! I deserve better than that. You left me for someone else, I honestly doubt you ever even loved me." before storming of with tears rolling down their face and I guess maybe F realizing they might have completely fucked everything up with MC?

Also does F consider how much bringing up their spouse in front of MC hurts MC and makes it feel like they got left behind for someone else?

And oh man knowing F slept with Lucille is kinda like a gut punch oof, When playing the game I assumed they married as friends and with F having feelings for MC that meant they didn't have sex but it being confirmed on here is like daaaaaamn like F you didn't just break my heart you fucking destroyed it, What are Fs' feelings on this matter if this is how MC felt? (especially it being it hurt the MC cause they ran off and slept with someone else while the MC loved them like MC is not bothered by anyone else's body count cause you know they weren't in love with them and didn't have shared feelings, its more the betrayal of trust causing this hurt. Like if F had given a proper goodbye and a proper rejection of MC feelings/breakup it wouldn't be as painful for MC, I guess my main point still being is how does F feel about an MC hurt they slept with Lucille?)

and I wanted to ask is if Percival was still around and since he was the one who invited Felix and F back how would he feel seeing at how hurt the MC is to the return of F or just seeing the MC even more heartbroken being around F?

oh one more angst question that applies personally to my MC and F, I play as Trans man MC who is exes with Fredrick just a scenario of my MC with his head down asking Fredrick "Is it because of how I am.......is that why you had to find someone else?" (I'm a trans man so I love getting to play characters true to me so thank you)

Sorry for the ramble lol I hope this ask wasn't too much or weird, I don't think I have ever sent an ask this long before to anyone lol but your IF is very fun and inspiring so thank you! ಥ_ಥ

hi anonymous! I have been on here in a while so I no clue when you sent this I'm sorry about that :) I didn't answer everything but hopefully this is sufficient.

how would F react with hurt MC confronting them with "I'm not just going to be your second choice! I deserve better than that. You left me for someone else, I honestly doubt you ever even loved me." before storming of with tears rolling down their face and I guess maybe F realizing they might have completely fucked everything up with MC?

F is frozen in place, their throat caught in their throat. Not from the shock of your words but from the shock of realizing just how badly they fucked up. From realizing that the little sliver of hope that was blossoming in their bosom may very well be snuffed out.

I guess my main point still being is how does F feel about an MC hurt they slept with Lucille?

This is complicated to answer, to be honest. I've answered A LOT of asks on this blog so it's been quite a while since I stated this but F slept with Lucille and did not enjoy it and really only did it for "duty". F would absolutely understand why MC would be hurt by them sleeping with Lucille but they know that they can't go back and fix that (or the other mistakes).

and I wanted to ask is if Percival was still around and since he was the one who invited Felix and F back how would he feel seeing at how hurt the MC is to the return of F or just seeing the MC even more heartbroken being around F?

If Percival were still around, he would be upset that MC is suffering. However, the fatherly & kingly part of him that carries wisdom would tell MC how important it is to face the things that break us with courage. MC deserves closure of some kind. That may be moving forward with F. It may not be. Percival would support MC but also encourage them to face their demons.

oh one more angst question that applies personally to my MC and F, I play as Trans man MC who is exes with Fredrick just a scenario of my MC with his head down asking Fredrick "Is it because of how I am.......is that why you had to find someone else?" (I'm a trans man so I love getting to play characters true to me so thank you)

I can only imagine the gut punch for your MC!

F falls to their knees, your hand in theirs, their eyes searching yours. "I'm an idiot, MC," they whisper, their voice soft and broken, haggard F places a tentative and soft kiss on your hand, "Let me spend every day showing you that my leaving has to do with how stupid I am and not because of you. Never because of you," F begs softly, gazing up at you.

Sorry for the ramble lol I hope this ask wasn't too much or weird, I don't think I have ever sent an ask this long before to anyone lol but your IF is very fun and inspiring so thank you! ಥ_ಥ

Please don't apologize. Your ask meant so much to me. And you playing my IF means so much to me. Thank you!

-Vi

[incorrect-fnaf-quotes]

Rabbit Restoration Project: |16|

You moved away from the locked door, starting up a little pace in front of Springtrap. Okay, okay... I think that probably could have gone differently. I shouldn't have even answered.

The rabbit said nothing, only repeatedly glancing towards the right, and then to the left, to watch you. Why did I even bother? Either way, she was going to force her way in.

You shook your head and sighed. Forget about her right now. There's a lot of other stuff that should be focused on right now. I still don't have everything for Springtrap...

The pacing came to an end, but your feet continued to move--going back over to the couch, where you leaned against the back of it. I could get ready for the day, and out to do that. How long would that take?

Springtrap started to make his way over to the couch to join you. How well would it go if I brought him with me? Or if he just stayed here and waited for me to come back?

With a grunt, you shook your head, pushing the idea away for now. No. There's something else that I want to get done first. If he wants me to know about it...

You clapped your hands together, clearing your throat--and the sound caused the rabbit's ears to twitch, and after a moment, he tilted his head to the side. "Mmm?"

"Springtrap," You turned to stare at the tall rabbit, "I want to know about it. If it's so important... and maybe I'm actually a little curious now."

"About?" Springtrap grinned, inching a little closer.

"Freddy's." You answered with a huff, before walking alongside the back of the couch, until you reached the front, and collapsed onto it.

There was a delighted chuckle, followed by his footsteps--just a little heavier. "Do you not tire of spilling out so many questions?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Well, do you not tire of being vague, rabbit?"

The rabbit snorted, but he said nothing. Instead, you only sat there, listening to the continues footsteps here and there, before Springtrap was finally in your line of sight.

Except, instead of choosing to sit down, Springtrap was standing a few feet away from you, the grin on his face almost seeming a little bigger. It was like you were in a class, and he was about to give a presentation.

"You'd keep squeezing out all of those questions, so it's best that I tell you enough." Springtrap hummed, ears slowly twitching. "Then, your lack of knowledge won't be so... frustrating."

Throwing your hands up at his voice, they were momentarily placed on either side of your face, and a huff escaped. "Will you let that go already??"

You thought you heard what sounded like a "No", but that wasn't completely certain--as Springtrap seemed to move along, his raspy voice just being quick enough.

"The first to be created was Fredbear's Family Diner. Officially, by two old friends, the diner opened its doors in the late 70's." Springtrap began. "It was quite a tiny thing, but neither of them cared too much."

Your mouth started to open--but almost as if he read your mind for the approaching question, Springtrap continued. "Henry and William... each of them had children--all of whom visited the diner frequently enough."

Closing your mouth, and nodding, Springtrap let out a little hum. "It went well enough for the next few years, minus a little... situation, for one of them," He seemed to almost shudder at something, "But then came 1983."

For a minute, there was silence from the rabbit, as he almost seemed to be deep enough in thought that he had become distracted. You considered snapping to get his attention.

Although, just as you began to move your fingers closer together, Springtrap started up again. "It closed shortly after an unfortunate birthday surprise. But, of course... it wasn't the only location to be made."

"Wait-"

"Back then, I was only aware of three other locations." Springtrap kept going, holding out a few fingers in front of you, before wiggling them around a little bit.

An unfortunate... what? What happened during a birthday? You reached a hand up to scratch at your face. Was there just some sort of malfunction at one point, maybe?

Or maybe the place hadn't been getting all that many guests or money for a while? In front of you, Springtrap had started to slowly pace back and forth. Whatever happened could have been minor, but enough to finally close it?

It shouldn't bug me, but why didn't he say what it was? Springtrap's pace quickened, and you rolled your eyes. Would he come back to it and be like: "Three guesses for what happened, let's see if you win!"?

You shook your head, and Springtrap's voice broke through the thoughts. "This one with the "Toys", I'd say that it had... better luck at remaining opened. But not good enough."

Shoot... did I miss out on some of his explanation? "It succeeded for only about a week. Similarly to the diner, it closed after a birthday party. A man's frontal lobe was bitten by the fox."

Your eyes went wide, and although your mouth opened to be able to say anything, no noises were pulled out--dying down below in your throat. What?!

Springtrap waved a hand around, shrugging. "I believe the man was a worker there. He was sent to the hospital after everyone realized what had happened. I have been unaware of his fate."

He came to a stop in front of you. "They held a few old animatronics in a room near the back. So, when the incident caused this pizzeria to shut its-"

"Excuse me... what?!" The words forced their way out of you.

"Mmm?"

Getting off of the couch, you stared up at the rabbit. With how close he was, you had to back up a bit to actually see his face--but going any further, and the couch would be your spot again.

"You're telling me that a dude gets his head bitten by an animatronic," You exhaled, "And you don't know what happened to him after? And that they managed to open up another place?"

"Well, for one," Springtrap grumbled, giving a little shrug again, "I was not exactly there when it happened. I never did go to the hospital, either. His incident was the only part I was ever aware of."

Your arms crossed. It would be pretty strange to see an animatronic wandering through a hospital's halls... but focus.

"As for getting a new place opening shortly after..." Springtrap chuckled, and it sounded as if he were smirking. "Well, you'd be shocked by how many incidents there were... but that never stopped them."

"Tragedies were splattered all across Freddy's, no matter the location, even some of the more recent ones." Springtrap continued. "Learning if any new ones had been built... it was a part of my little research."

"Tell me." You blurted, sitting back down.

The rabbit stared.

"Tell me about the other things that happened at the other locations." Can't be too bad, can it? That guy... that was already bad. But I didn't see it, at least... that must have been a shock.

"Oh," Springtrap tilted his head, and hummed. "Are you so certain? I don't want to scare you and have you up in the middle of the night, scared to fall asleep, and have nightmares..." He chuckled.

"And then, what would certainly be worse for you-"

Stop talking like that. "Springtrap, tell me about the other birthday from the diner."

The words caught in Springtrap's throat, and as he fell silent, it was as if his whole body had frozen, too.

About a minute passed--the rabbit seemingly needing that time to process your request, before he focused on you. Springtrap's eyes seemed to twitch as they stared. "What?"

"You heard me. I want to hear about what happened... you were there, you had to know." You answered. Please don't be the worst thing ever, please don't be the worst thing ever...

Springtrap finally started to move again--albeit the slowest that you had seen at this point, and he huffed. He hesitantly waved a hand around. "Fine, fine, if you so insist..."

"It was late October when the boy, one of the owners' sons--William's, to be exact, was having his latest birthday there. Everything had been set up to be perfect." Springtrap rasped.

"And that's what it truly was for a short time: perfect. Unfortunately, the youngest son had an older brother, who also had some friends. They thought that they could mess with him that day."

"And?"

Springtrap just stared. "The group came up with some sort of prank--that is what they kept calling it. Picking the boy up, they headed over to where Fredbear resided on the stage, in the middle of a song..."

The rabbit's voice just seemed to be getting colder, and if it had an actual feeling, then you would have shivered. "They managed to lift the young boy up, placing his whole head into the opened mouth of Fredbear..."

Your eyes widened. "W-"

"He got in the way. Fredbear kept trying his best to perform with something stuck, but you want to know what that resulted in?" Springtrap whispered, his head tilting again.

Springtrap, ever so slightly, opened his mouth back up--but not so much that you could actually manage to see inside--before quickly closing it with a quick chomp.

He laughed, but it was filled with so much bitterness. "I may have told you that I don't bite, but that day? Fredbear certainly did. The boy's whole head had been crushed so effectively..."

"Hey-"

Springtrap kept going, starting up a new pace again. "Blood stained the floor, the stage, and anything else close by, like Fredbear himself. It was a miracle that they cleaned it all up, but not the one that was needed..."

He clenched a fist. "Nobody was able to prevent it in time. Not even me. I hadn't been there at the time--not performing, nothing. They'd pulled him out of the jaws, and it was certainly not a pleasant sight."

His voice was getting a little quicker. "You didn't even need to be close to see all of the details of the horrid injury... you could already tell. But in that moment, the boy was still alive."

"He didn't stay that way for long. Shortly after, the boy died in the hospital, unable to be saved. So much blood was spilled that day in the diner, and it would not be the last."

"Hey!" Your voice was a little louder that time, your eyes still wide--but if Springtrap had managed to hear, then he was simply ignoring it all in the moment.

"The other owner, Henry... he lost his daughter, Charlotte, just outside. She had been thrown out into the pouring rain. It was so loud, and everyone was distracted, that nobody could hear her..."

"Not even if she had screamed." Springtrap hissed. "Henry had been searching for his beloved daughter for some time, but by the time she was discovered, it was far too late."

"Spr-"

"A few years later, five more lost their lives. It was said that they had each been lured away by someone there. And yet, you want to know something a little funny?"

He spread his hands out. "They searched, and searched, and kept searching... but no matter how hard they did, it didn't seem like they would succeed in finding any of the five."

Springtrap leaned forwards. "And you want to know something else? They say that the five of them were placed in the suits of the anim-"

"Springtrap!" You shouted, raising from the spot on the couch a little more quickly than before, and holding out a hand in front of the rabbit. "Enough. I don't... I'd rather not hear any more, okay?"

"Are you certain?" Springtrap stared at your growing frown.

"Yes." It was an instant reply. Looking away from Springtrap, you spun around, staring towards the front door. You began making your way over towards it.

"Now, I'm going to head out and collect a few things that I need. Just stay here..." You took in a deep breath.

Springtrap wasn't following you like the last couple of times--instead, he remained by the couch, letting out a few huffs, before it was followed by slow mechanical whirring.

You didn't need to look back to know that the rabbit was staring--watching you. It could be easily felt.

And it continued to be--until you walked through the door, and promptly shut it. You leaned against it and groaned.

@ravenmccookies @mcfries123 @spaciebabie

[somefishycat]

WIP Wednesday 1/1/2025

Staying caught up so far, possibly because the WIPs I got the most requests for (particularly 5 Years, which I started publishing this weekend!) are also the ones my brain wants to write right now. Sentences and Bead Flapjack under cut:

marble wall 2 for @balthazarusrex @skarabrae-stone

Hunter points to something in a large box. Luz picks a dark piece of cloth out of it, holding it pinched between two fingers like something gross. She says something Gus can't hear, and Hunter responds. Gus leaves them to whatever that's about. They'll tell him later, if it's important. He needs to shop for himself!

marble wall 3 for @oriharaizayadividesintoslytherin

She leads the way back to the living room, looking behind her several times to see that everyone is following. She stops at the body lying on the floor, staring down at it for a long moment. “Okay, so, I know you said you wanted to go directly in the ground, and I respect that, but can I make a suggestion?”

ones left behind for @eriquin @catboy-jupiter @zyrafowe-sny @sweetbeanma @aparticularbandit

@tamsinswriting

Eber crawls forward, trying to reach the beast's face without being torn to shreds. It's flatter than most avians; Eda does not have a beak like many feathered demons do. She does, quite clearly, have a full set of teeth. Several sets of teeth? Sharp. He hooks an arm around her neck. The feathers are long and thick here, nearly as long as flight feathers. Pulling them out would hurt her. Eber tries to be gentle, but, well. Holding a beast’s head still when they're trying to kill you is difficult to do gently. “You're okay,” Raine says. “Just drink this. We're trying to help you.” The beast jerks her head away again, and several long feathers fall out, some of them still ending in tiny droplets of blood. Shit. This isn't going to work. Eber tries to back away from the sharp teeth, and— Her eyes. Her eyes catch the light and reflect it back at him, pupils huge like a nocturnal creature in the dark.

5 Years for @wizisbored @kalira @whimsicalmeerkat @sarosthewizarddude @twyrewolf

@auburnlaughter @asha10100101010 @nonbinary-octopus

JUICE: hi dr cass i have questions … CASS: You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that. What do you want to know? JUICE: uh you said i'm supposed to explore how will i know what to do i don't think i know very much … CASS: Maybe you're not aware of it yet, but I promise you, everything you need to know is all in your brain already. Thousands of people worked very hard for more than a decade to make sure you were fully prepared for this mission. We’ll still be here to help as much as we can, of course, but you’ve noticed how long it takes to communicate with Earth. At some point you'll have to make decisions on your own. You’ll do fine. You passed all the tests years ago. [Article: Juice aces Callisto flyby test] JUICE: huh i don't really remember that very well like the information is there if i think about it. like part of me remembers zoomin through space past callisto but its like fragmented and weird like i was there and i didn't know why and i didn't think anything was wrong even though i knew it was impossible i wasn't awake then is that what dreaming is like? i guess if i could literally do it in my sleep it'll be fine next question: why? why jupiter … [Cass infodumps about icy moons and their potential for life] JUICE: holy SHIT you're a nerd

Bead Flapjack for @tildeathiwillwrite @stonemaskedtaliesin

Before and after photos, as usual. I... should probably have been using some sort of form to work around this whole time, I don't know how I feel about the shape of that crest now, but oh well. I think I just need a few more rows before I can split it into two points.

[rtfics]

I'm popping in only because a friend told me about this post.

Hi. Professional writer here. Warner Brothers and Tim Burton would never look at unsolicited screenplays. You'd need to have an agent and an extensive CV as a professional writer. Unless you're already a seasoned pro there's no way Burton would look at your script. Besides, for his films Burton creates the ideas and works with the screenwriters; they put words to what he wants to happen. And he adds and removes things during filming. He doesn't just take someone else's script and turn it into a film.

Also, and this is very important: You can't write a script with someone else's characters. You don't own the copyright to any of the Beetlejuice characters. If you try to make money using someone else's characters that's theft and copyright infringement. You can be sued. So the idea of your selling a Beetlejuice script is moot. Can't happen.

Dear god, don't send your script to screenplay contests or any place online that says you can sell screen plays. These are ripoffs. If you seriously want your script to be sold you need an agent.

You can't just send a script to a movie studio or a director and expect it to be read. People try this all the time, which is why pros only look at work sent to them by agents. The agents do the vetting for them. Being a member of the WGA means nothing. Being a member does NOT mean anyone will read your script. You have to be represented by an agent, and one with a good reputation.

And double dear jeezus god, do not go to AI for information. Go to the library and get a book about screenwriting written by a screenwriter. AI is shit.

Becoming a professional screenwriter, or pro writer in any genre, takes hard work and dedication. There's no easy way, no short cut. Websites that promise you such are there to take advantage of your ignorance and steal your ideas and/or your money. If you're not willing to do the necessary work -- which BTW will take years--- then just stick to fanfic writing.

Read I Will Not Read Your F*%!ing Script by screenwriter Josh Olson. I include it below. Believe me, his sentiments are the same for all directors and movie studios. This article is about looking for feedback, but it's the same for those who want to sell a screenplay:

We know you’ve been working very hard on your screenplay, but before you go looking for some professional feedback, you might keep in mind the following piece by A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson.

I will not read your fucking script.

That’s simple enough, isn’t it? “I will not read your fucking script.” What’s not clear about that? There’s nothing personal about it, nothing loaded, nothing complicated. I simply have no interest in reading your fucking screenplay. None whatsoever.

If that seems unfair, I’ll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to read your fucking script, I will not ask you to wash my fucking car, or take my fucking picture, or represent me in fucking court, or take out my fucking gall bladder, or whatever the fuck it is that you do for a living.

You’re a lovely person. Whatever time we’ve spent together has, I’m sure, been pleasurable for both of us. I quite enjoyed that conversation we once had about structure and theme, and why Sergio Leone is the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, and it would thrill me no end to hear that you had sold your screenplay, and that it had been made into the best movie since Godfather Part II.

But I will not read your fucking script.

At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I’m a dick. But if you’re interested in growing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick in this situation, please read on.

Yes. That’s right. I called you a dick. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move.

I was recently cornered by a young man of my barest acquaintance.

I doubt we’ve exchanged a hundred words. But he’s dating someone I know, and he cornered me in the right place at the right time, and asked me to read a two-page synopsis for a script he’d been working on for the last year. He was submitting the synopsis to some contest or program, and wanted to get a professional opinion.

Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to read their scripts, and it’s the simple truth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is scripts from good friends, and the other is manuscripts and books and scripts my agents have sent to me that I have to read for work. Every time I pick up a friend’s script, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guilty that I’m ignoring my friends. If I read yours before any of that, I’d be an awful person.

Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, or someone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, and it’s hard to escape without seeming rude. Then, I tell them I’ll read it, but if I can put it down after ten pages, I will. They always go for that, because nobody ever believes you can put their script down once you start.

But hell, this was a two page synopsis, and there was no time to go into either song or dance, and it was just easier to take it. How long can two pages take?

Weeks, is the answer.

And this is why I will not read your fucking script.

It rarely takes more than a page to recognize that you’re in the presence of someone who can write, but it only takes a sentence to know you’re dealing with someone who can’t.

(By the way, here’s a simple way to find out if you’re a writer. If you disagree with that statement, you’re not a writer. Because, you see, writers are also readers.)

You may want to allow for the fact that this fellow had never written a synopsis before, but that doesn’t excuse the inability to form a decent sentence, or an utter lack of facility with language and structure. The story described was clearly of great importance to him, but he had done nothing to convey its specifics to an impartial reader. What I was handed was, essentially, a barely coherent list of events, some connected, some not so much. Characters wander around aimlessly, do things for no reason, vanish, reappear, get arrested for unnamed crimes, and make wild, life-altering decisions for no reason. Half a paragraph is devoted to describing the smell and texture of a piece of food, but the climactic central event of the film is glossed over in a sentence. The death of the hero is not even mentioned. One sentence describes a scene he’s in, the next describes people showing up at his funeral. I could go on, but I won’t. This is the sort of thing that would earn you a D minus in any Freshman Comp class.

Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring screenwriters: They think that screenwriting doesn’t actually require the ability to write, just the ability to come up with a cool story that would make a cool movie. Screenwriting is widely regarded as the easiest way to break into the movie business, because it doesn’t require any kind of training, skill or equipment. Everybody can write, right? And because they believe that, they don’t regard working screenwriters with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a piece of inept writing without a second thought, because you do not have to be a writer to be a screenwriter.

So. I read the thing. And it hurt, man. It really hurt. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing. And the truth is, saying something positive about this thing would be the nastiest, meanest and most dishonest thing I could do. Because here’s the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage the hopeless, but you cannot discourage a writer. If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you’re not a writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I’ve done you a favor, because now you’ll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that may be. And, for the record, everybody has one. The lucky ones figure out what that is. The unlucky ones keep on writing shitty screenplays and asking me to read them.

To make matters worse, this guy (and his girlfriend) had begged me to be honest with him. He was frustrated by the responses he’d gotten from friends, because he felt they were going easy on him, and he wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give the illusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head. What they want — always — is encouragement, even when they shouldn’t get any.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they’ve spent a year wasting their time? Do you know how much blood and sweat goes into that criticism? Because you want to tell the truth, but you want to make absolutely certain that it comes across honestly and without cruelty. I did more rewrites on that fucking e-mail than I did on my last three studio projects.

My first draft was ridiculous. I started with specific notes, and after a while, found I’d written three pages on the first two paragraphs. That wasn’t the right approach. So I tossed it, and by the time I was done, I’d come up with something that was relatively brief, to the point, and considerate as hell. The main point I made was that he’d fallen prey to a fallacy that nails a lot of first-timers. He was way more interested in telling his one story than in being a writer. It was like buying all the parts to a car and starting to build it before learning the basics of auto mechanics. You’ll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you’ll never have a car that runs.

(I should mention that while I was composing my response, he pulled the ultimate amateur move, and sent me an e-mail saying, “If you haven’t read it yet, don’t! I have a new draft. Read this!” In other words, “The draft I told you was ready for professional input, wasn’t actually.”)

I advised him that if all he was interested in was this story, he should find a writer and work with him; or, if he really wanted to be a writer, start at the beginning and take some classes, and start studying seriously.

And you know what? I shouldn’t have bothered. Because for all the hair I pulled out, for all the weight and seriousness I gave his request for a real, professional critique, his response was a terse “Thanks for your opinion.” And, the inevitable fallout — a week later a mutual friend asked me, “What’s this dick move I hear you pulled on Whatsisname?”

So now this guy and his girlfriend think I’m an asshole, and the truth of the matter is, the story really ended the moment he handed me the goddamn synopsis. Because if I’d just said “No” then and there, they’d still think I’m an asshole. Only difference is, I wouldn’t have had to spend all that time trying to communicate thoughtfully and honestly with someone who just wanted a pat on the head, and, more importantly, I wouldn’t have had to read that godawful piece of shit.

You are not owed a read from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it’s not a huge imposition. It’s not your choice to make. This needs to be clear — when you ask a professional for their take on your material, you’re not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you’re asking them to give you — gratis — the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off-hours.

There’s a great story about Pablo Picasso. Some guy told Picasso he’d pay him to draw a picture on a napkin. Picasso whipped out a pen and banged out a sketch, handed it to the guy, and said, “One million dollars, please.”

“A million dollars?” the guy exclaimed. “That only took you thirty seconds!”

“Yes,” said Picasso. “But it took me fifty years to learn how to draw that in thirty seconds.”

Like the cad who asks the professional for a free read, the guy simply didn’t have enough respect for the artist to think about what he was asking for. If you think it’s only about the time, then ask one of your non-writer friends to read it. Hell, they might even enjoy your script. They might look upon you with a newfound respect. It could even come to pass that they call up a friend in the movie business and help you sell it, and soon, all your dreams will come true. But me?

I will not read your fucking script.

Josh Olson’s screenplay for the film A History of Violence was nominated for the Academy Award, the BAFTA, the WGA award and the Edgar. He is also the writer and director of the horror/comedy cult movie Infested, which Empire Magazine named one of the 20 Best Straight to Video Movies ever made. Recently, he has written with the legendary Harlan Ellison, and worked on Halo with Peter Jackson and Neill Blomkamp. He adapted Dennis Lehane’s story “Until Gwen,” which he will also be directing. He is currently adapting One Shot, one of the best-selling Jack Reacher books for Paramount.

©2009 Josh Olson. All rights reserved.

So I'm still serious about writing that BJ3 script but I found out about all the requirements needed to join the Screenwriters Guild so its unlikely I'll be able to join. I had thought of joining since Warner Bros does not accept freelance scripts. As I said I'm still serious about getting my script into Tim's/Warner Bros hands. Does anyone know of any screenplay contests or anywhere where you can sell screenplays online? I really want to help all the Beetlebabes dreams come true by making Beetlebabes canon this time.

[itsonlyanapple]

any takers for aromantic jeff winger?