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xximpressions · 2 years ago

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Heir to Valyria (7)

Daemon Targaryen x Valyrian!reader

Series Summary: What if the Targaryens survived the Doom of Valyria only to discover three centuries later that they were not the only family to have made it out? When such news comes to light, the Rogue Prince may be the only one to keep this new House as a friendly ally rather than as a deadly enemy.

Chapter Summary: The Hand has escaped

Word Count: 1,062

House of the Dragon Masterlist

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You could say Lord Hightower was not entirely prepared to be on the run having anticipated your arrest and not his own.

For one thing, he only had the clothes he was wearing as it would have been foolish to return to his chambers to gather anything else.

For that same reason, he only had access to the few gold coins he kept on his person since he knew going back meant being captured.

With those facts in mind, the disgraced Hand headed directly toward the beaches in the hopes of absconding with a boat that had possibly been left behind.

A feeble plan, but a plan nonetheless.

Looking back several times to ensure he was not being followed, Otto hurriedly made his way down one of the sand dunes that led to the water.

And just as he prayed for, an abandoned fishing boat was flipped over inches away from where the tide met the shore.

Letting out a small, delirious laugh at seeing his escape laid before him, Lord Hightower kicked up both dirt and water as he made a break for his salvation.

He had been mere steps away when the wooden vessel suddenly burst into flames!

Skidding to such a halt that he fell on his backside, the startled man quickly raised his hands to cover his ears when a sudden screech made them ring.

Frantically trying to make sense of what had happened, Otto’s eyes darted back and forth until they landed on a sight that made his heart stop.

“Greetings, Hightower.”

Your husband said as he commanded Caraxes close enough to the advisor that he felt the rumbles of the dragon’s landing shake his very bones.

Swallowing thickly, Otto made sure to keep his eyes on the vicious beast and its rider as he made his way to his feet with a slow precaution.

Once at full height, his gaze locked onto the mounted man in front of him while he huffed out his reply,

“Prince Daemon.”

The conniving creature said his name with just enough defeat in the hopes of getting his adversary to lower his guard the slightest bit.

If he succeeded, he might be able to get to the dagger he kept tucked away in his robes. And with that in hand, the playing field might tilt a little more in his favor.

This was a desperate thought of course, but given how probable his capture was becoming, the doomed Hand was willing to try anything.

In an attempt to distract the Prince while he discreetly sought the blade, Otto instigatingly sneered out,

“I am surprised your wife was not the one to intercept me,” he said, spitting the word. “I suppose she is not as clever as she thinks she is.”

Because his mind was celebrating the new grasp his hand had on the hilt, he did not register the growing smirk that appeared on Daemon’s face as he casually replied,

“Oh, I would not say that. After all, she managed to sneak up on you without any issue. Is that not right, my Darling?”

Within the same day, Lord Hightower was feeling the cold tip of a sword being held to his neck for the second time. And he could not help allowing it to freeze the blood in his veins as he went still once again.

“It was not very hard, my Love.”

You said with a condescending tone as you stood behind the man with your arm and blade extended.

To add insult to injury, you finished announcing your presence by saying,

“It is not like the Hand ever had the reputation of being observant.”

Despite how reluctant he was to do it, Lord Hightower slowly turned around in order to face you. In doing so, he also saw the regiment of guards he had commanded not even hours ago now focusing on him as the threat.

With an expression that can only be described as satisfied, you called out to the men who would have once taken you prisoner.

Looking directly into the condemned advisor’s eyes as you smirked with triumph, you happily gave the following order:

“Arrest Lord Hightower.”

As the reality of his situation hit, Otto finally pulled his dagger out as his rage boiled over.

Using it to strike your extended sword away from his body, he took the opportunity to quickly rush at you and end this once and for all.

But the momentum given to you by his push resulted in a spin that helped you to dodge the first stabbing thrust of his blade.

When you had to swiftly spin back the other way to avoid another fatal blow, your sword glided through the air with you. The world became still when you came to an abrupt halt while facing away from your attacker.

For a few moments, all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing as you waited for your survival instincts to calm down.

But soon, your ears picked up on the sound of Lord Hightower’s knees hitting the beach.

When a following thump was heard, you knew you did not have to be facing the other way to know that Otto was now laid out on the sandy ground.

What else was to be expected when his body no longer had a head?

Without a backward glance, you commanded the guards.

“Collect him and inform the King that the Hand is dead.”

Nodding their acquiescence, the guards set about following your orders while the Prince dismounted from Caraxes and hurriedly made his way over to you.

“Wife, are you alright?”

His hands were flying over your body in search of any hidden injuries when he asked this question. You grabbed and comfortingly held them close to your chest before saying,

“I am alright, Husband. But I need to see my mother now that this is over. I must know if she plans to retaliate.”

Understanding that Valyria would be well within their rights to do so, Daemon nodded and said,

“Of course.”

Using one of your hands to guide you back to his dragon, the Prince climbed on first before reaching down to pull you into the saddle.

Once you had a secure hold on his waist, Caraxes took off in the direction of the castle where the fate of both countries was to be decided.

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A/N: Thoughts? Comments?? Questions??? Concerns????

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#hotd #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x black!reader

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thevisibilityarchives · 8 months ago

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Dune: Part Two (2024), Denis Villeneuve

BIPOC

Dune: Part Two and the Discussion of MENA Representation

Review Link: https://www.rottentomatoes.com/profiles/ratings/WYdFQDHR9tGJf9wiWXh8ZFR8iGGCaLHwBhawIZ0ubbCexiapiJVTWOFeeCzdIpjhmXFp4u11CYNTl4fOPSWQfkWC6bIb6SyBFVXfO4TZzc4m/movie

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Following its much-anticipated release, the long-awaited second installation of Denis Villeneuve’s Dune adaptation has proven itself a sci-fi spectacle that must be experienced to be believed.

It’s an outrageous combination of awe-inspiring cinematography, adept writing, and the talents of an all-star cast topped off by a score by veteran composer Hans Zimmer. The result: a feast for the senses that presents the stark realization that films on a scale this epic only come around once or twice a generation.

For those unfamiliar with the source material, the full extent of how truly epic this is may be lost. Part of the beauty of Dune is that Villeneuve simplified the story in such a way that it can be understood by moviegoers with no connection whatsoever to author Frank Herbert’s novel, or ever-having-seen the adaptations by David Lynch or SyFy (f/k/a Sci Fi). Within this simplification, the story of Dune doesn’t become reductive, nor are essential plot points lost. Like all adaptations, there are components lost, however even compared to Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings it can be argued that fewer creative liberties have been taken, and the ones that have been are worthy of discussion.

Some of these changes are adaptations inherent to the modernization of source material written by a white man in the 1960s. While science fiction has arguably been a haven for progressive ideas, it still faces the limitations of the author's society and the popular sentiments of their time.

Environmentalism, non-traditional relationships, the loss of innocence, and the power of femininity are all topics brought to life by Frank Herbert in his original novel–adeptly at times, sloppily in others. Decades later, Villeneuve irons out some of the flaws: the white savior narrative, the depiction of women, and the dreadful attempts to depict witch children.

These changes along with the skillful dedication to a remarkable piece of science fiction create what will undoubtedly be looked upon as a classic in due time, yet has been met with some degree of controversy for its depiction–or lack thereof of one group.

Created in their image, the Fremen were shaped after those of the Middle East and North Africa (MENA), with the Islamic faith making up aspects of their religion and the Middle East serving as the very essence of Arrakis. Yet in casting, MENA actors were notably absent from these roles, and the focus on much of the Fremen culture was notably absent, leaving many to question why.

Dune’s Roots in the Middle East

Written in 1965, Dune is considered one of the most remarkable science-fiction books of all time. Part of this significance is because, in 1965, it was a book that attained popularity while being so fervently against the cliches present in normal bestsellers: moral absolutes, Eurocentrism, and Western imperialism.

For over a decade, we have now come to cherish and normalize media that centers around morally gray and ambiguous characters. We actively seek out things that de-center white, straight, and cisgender narratives. Yet in 1965, a world wherein the United States had barely de-segregated, homosexuality was outlawed across most of the world, and Christian colonialism efforts still ran rampant across many nations? A book challenging the status quo was impactful.

The representation of MENA culture is intrinsic to everything that Dune is, from its language to its scenery to the music present in Villeneuve’s adaptations. Set primarily on the desert world of Arrakis, Herbert based the topography of the planet on regions of the Pacific Northwestern United States, yet its allegorical implications are clear.

Arrakis is home to melange or “spice”, a heavily-coveted resource that grants extended longevity, bestows metaphysical abilities, and fuels interstellar travel. The latter is perhaps the most commercially beneficial of the three, and drives colonization of Arrakis, as well as the oppression and subsequent eradication of its Indigenous peoples.

Within his writing, Herbert created a clear mirror of our own world: a desert region, plagued by war, aggression, and despoilment of the environment all for the sake of natural resources. In our own world, that resource is oil, and our Arrakis is the Middle East.

Arriving just as environmental advocacy began to take off in the 1970s, The History Channel states “Many environmentalists interpreted Dune as a critique of the oil industry, with Herbert’s friend Willis E. McNelly writing that the empire’s reliance on spice can “be construed as a thinly veiled allegory of our world’s insatiable appetite for oil and other petroleum products” (Greenspan 2024). Perhaps more salient are the linguistics of Dune, which are directly composed of Arabic words. Throughout the book, both the Fremen, the Indigenous peoples of Arrakis as well as other factions of the world are described using Arabic language. Manvar Singh writes:

“The language with the greatest influence in “Dune” is Arabic. In the novel, the Fremen use at least eighty terms with clear Arabic origins, many of them tied to Islam. The Fremen follow istislah (“natural law”) and ilm (“theology”). They respect karama (“miracle”) and ijaz (“prophecy”), and are attentive to ayat (“signs”) and burhan (“proof”) of life. They quote the Kitab al-Ibar, or “Book of Lessons,” an allusion to the encyclopedia of world history penned by the fourteenth-century Arab historian Ibn Khaldun. Central characters are dignified with Arabic names. The colossal sandworms are called shai-hulud (“thing of eternity”). Paul Atreides’s sister is Alia (“exalted”). Paul himself is known as Muad’Dib, an epithet that resembles the Arabic word for teacher (mu’addib), and he is fabled to be the Lisan al-Gaib, translated in the book as “Voice of the Outer World” but which, in modern Arabic, means something closer to “Tongue of the Unseen.”

Then of course comes the music, composed by industry titan Hans Zimmer who broke his longstanding alliance with director Christopher Nolan to focus on Dune and Dune: Part Two. In creating his score, Zimmer explored a full range of instruments in a way he claimed he had not since scoring The Lion King. Utilizing vocalists, an array of culturally diverse instruments, and spending ample time listening to the sounds of the desert, he synthesized the music together to intentionally create a soundtrack intended to mimic the experience of a spice-induced trip in a desert sandstorm, embraced by the energy of the divine feminine.

An Absence of MENA

With the depth of these roots in Middle Eastern culture, it would stand to reason that Dune would feature a sizeable cast. In addition to the Arabic language, Fremen religion heavily mirrors Islam, and while there are certainly Caucasian converts–we are focusing on a war for Arrakis and its Indigenous peoples.

Upon first glance at the Fremen in the first installation of Dune, we see a spattering of brown and black faces. Most notable are actress Zendaya who is biracial, and Javier Bardem, who is Spanish. Further introduction to the rest of the Fremen reveals similar casting choices among billed actors.

It’s straightforward: “Despite the film's obvious inspirations, there are no leading actors of Middle Eastern or North African heritage.” (Shah, 2024)

And why does this matter? When we beg the question of the difference between appropriation and appreciation, the deliberation includes questions about participation. Without the participation of the cultures involved, representation warps into fetishization at best, and appropriation at worst.

Dune is a tale that warns us about the harms of colonialism, environmental despoilment, and religious extremism. Villeneuve’s version takes care to approach the topic of colonialism with extra caution, approaching painting the Fremen not as a singular unit that can easily be converted by the right white savior, but as a multitude of people with different beliefs. Some fundamentalists believe deeply in their faith and follow the direction of Paul and the prophecy instilled (falsely) by the Bene Gessirit. Then there are the detractors like Chani who have seen attempts at colonialism before, and who shy away from religion for that exact region. They reject Paul’s so-called place as the Chosen One–and any outsider who should lead them.

To make these changes shows consideration on Villeneuve’s part. To fail to recognize the importance of casting actors of Middle Eastern and North African descent in a story directly inspired by a culture based on the Middle East and North Africa shows a distinct lack of it.

A New Decade of MENA Representation

So, why such a prolific absence of MENA representation when it would truly make an impact? We need to examine two factors 1.) the overall distancing from Islamic culture within Villeneuve’s adaptation, and 2.) how filmmaking in a post 9/11 world has changed the representation of Islamic characters.

As an adaptation of Herbert’s novel, Villeneuve takes the traditional liberties with the source material that a director is known for in bringing a book to the big screen. The core tenants remain, and many of the most important phrases and elements are retained. Yet to make the adaptation accessible to audiences unfamiliar with previous adaptations or the book it has been simplified.

This simplification allows Villeneuve to pour energy into enhancing other aspects of the film. He drastically expands upon the female characters within the film, giving them purpose outside of appeasing Paul, bewitching men, or narrating his life.

With adaptation comes a loss of the “finer details”. In addition to the distinct lack of MENA actors, there is a drastic reduction in the language, and of course, scenes depicting Fremen's way of life and culture. These include rites of inheritance, polygyny (not to be confused with polyamory), and the decidedly not-Islamic-inspired ritual orgy that occurs following Jessica’s confirmation as the new Mother Superior of the tribe.

These departures (the orgy notwithstanding, undoubtedly shed without a thought to maintain the film's PG-13 rating) are but a few of the cultural aspects sanitized from a story showcasing Arabic inspiration. Though it’s impossible to diminish it completely. Looking back through Villeneuve’s background, we can speculate on his reasons for this and perhaps consider whether it was done with intent.

Following the September 11th attacks, Hollywood faced years of missteps in the representation of MENA characters onscreen, who were then stereotyped in the roles of jihadists, an imminent threat to the West for years to come. It didn’t matter whether the film took place in the past or present, the ideals were functionally the same.

A notable example is Zack Snyder’s 300, adapted from Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name. Published in 1998, Snyder brought the film to life in 2006, where it received mixed critical reviews, and uproar internationally for its depiction of Iranians in the Spartan and Persian Battle at Thermopylae.

Brazilian actor Rodrigo Santoro portrays the antagonist King Xerxes as an effeminate gold-painted and pompous self-proclaimed God-king who seeks to drive forward a kingdom of sexual slavery. Leonidus, portrayed by Gerard Butler and his 300 men stand fierce to beat back Xerxes' soldiers and defend the good people of Sparta from slavery, the injustice of war, and the bleakness of what Xerxes promises.

Yet the historical inaccuracy is ripe, and rewritten to appeal to Western notions of glory and sentiment. Historian Gary Leupp of Tufts challenged the film, explaining” In short: 300's depiction of the battle of Thermopylae is not merely inaccurate, as any film adaptation of a graphic novel has the perfect right to be. It's what the Iranians say it is: racist and insulting. It pits the glorious Greeks with whom the audience must sympathize against a "mystical" and "tyrannical" culture posing an imminent existential threat. It is, de facto, an anti-Persian/anti-Iranian propaganda film” (2007). In his statement, he explicitly breaks down the inaccuracies regarding the history of Xerxes and Persia versus the representation seen onscreen, which can be found in the citations link below.

300 was but one example on the big screen. The late ‘00s/early ‘10s was the period of high-stakes television and as well. Shows like Homeland brought A-list performers like Claire Danes onscreen and normalized Islamophobia. Numerous forms of media following the attacks have depicted Muslims as “extremists, barbaric, insidious, and untrustworthy”.

What many of us forget about is the very simple passage of time and the birth of new generations. Within a few short years, Gen Z has arisen, all but forgetting the pain and anxiety born of the September 11th attacks and seemingly everything that came with it–after all, none of them can even remember the day.

In addition to that they are a generation born amidst an era of rapid information cycling and trend generation, and place an importance on publicly presenting their morality on their sleeve. All of this combined means the lessons, hardships, and mistakes of the past–can be forgotten quicker than we can imagine, and expectations to adhere to newly defined ideals of what is politically correct are defined seemingly overnight.

It can be hard to keep up with. Especially if one is still concerned with the trials that seemed so important–and still are–ten years ago. Given the thought Villeneuve put into expanding upon aspects of Dune, it is difficult to imagine he didn’t put thought into how issues of problematic representation of MENA could arise.

Ali-Karjoo Ravary writing for Al Jazeera pointed out during the release of the first installation of the film that the brand marketing changed up some of the wording of the film, stating “a crusade is coming” which marked an intentional difference from the book’s statement of “a jihad is coming”. Wording matters, as “Herbert’s nuanced understanding of jihad shows in his narrative. He did not aim to present jihad as simply a “bad” or “good” thing. Instead, he uses it to show how the messianic impulse, together with the apocalyptic violence that sometimes accompanies it, changes the world in uncontrollable and unpredictable ways.” (2020)

Of course, Herbert’s interpretation is an empathetic view and not one shared by many people with biases against those who pray to any god without white skin. While he tries, Paul ultimately succumbs to his will and manipulates the Fremen into following his aims to declare war on the galaxy. As the Fremen are proven to be some of the most formidable fighters we have seen and Paul’s manipulations are aided thanks to religious seeds planted by his mother’s order, this becomes a jihad in every way. He is the prophet. They are his holy avengers.

To cast MENA actors in these roles would once again fill slots of extreme religious fundamentalists, and this time, ones following a white man–no matter how nuanced the film has been made. Granted, as actors, they have a choice. Choosing representation is better than having none, however, if they had the conversation would likely then become “Dune: Part Two is a stereotype of MENA actors”.

Is there a middle ground? There is of course, and this is where we notice the overt failure of casting directors in Hollywood. Following the criticism of the first film, Part Two touted its hiring of Swiss actress Souheila Yacoub who is of Tunisian descent. She played the role of one of the Northern Fremen, who stand against Paul’s attempts to co-opt their culture. Yet from the beginning, why not more featured characters? Why not Stilgar, Chani, Jamis, or even a surprise role similar to the one Anya-Taylor Joy played?

While post-9/11 Islamophobia may have ebbed before the War on Gaza, we’ve entered a time where even the Hollywood excuse for “star power” fails when we remember the global world we now live in. Whether they are stars in their land or Americans with parents or religious heritage, there’s little to no excuse for the continued erasure and diminishment of culture onscreen–and in time Hollywood will come to know it.

Citations: https://www.rottentomatoes.com/profiles/ratings/WYdFQDHR9tGJf9wiWXh8ZFR8iGGCaLHwBhawIZ0ubbCexiapiJVTWOFeeCzdIpjhmXFp4u11CYNTl4fOPSWQfkWC6bIb6SyBFVXfO4TZzc4m/movie

1. Maxwell D. Post-colonial Christianity in Africa. In: McLeod H, ed. The Cambridge History of Christianity. Cambridge History of Christianity. Cambridge University Press; 2006:401-421.

#thevisibilityarchives #tva #bipoc #mena #islam #arabic #dune #dune 2 #frank herbert #sci fi #movies #films #essays #diversity #representation matters #Youtube

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ramblings-of-lola · 1 year ago

Note

4, 5, 17, 19, and 25 here's the link

Thanks for the ask!!!

4. An author I always recommend

Maybe Leigh Bardugo? I've gotten multiple people in my life to read her books based on my recommendation.

5. A book / series I DNF'd

I have a lot of these. I think the most popular series I've quit are Caraval, Mistborn, Red Queen, Throne of Glass, Shatter Me, and The Inheritance Cycle (some of them I do want to try again)

17. My comfort read / character

Six of Crows and Lord of the Rings. Both of the series and characters just feel like home.

19. My favorite book to movie adaptation

Lord of the Rings and Dune. Both are amazing in terms of bringing a complex world to life and staying true to the book for the most part.

25. My bookish goals for the year

My goal was to read all off Rick Riordan's main series this year before the PJO show comes out but then college started and my reading pace has slowed down a lot so I don't think I'm going to be able to met that goal

#nerdygirlramblings asks

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lorbanery · 7 months ago

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I can't speak to Dune because I've never read it or watched any of the adaptations, but I want to add another point to the "movies/media should have SOME humor in them" Discourse.

Having characters joke around with each other, even in tense moments, even in genres that are about tension, even in Very Serious Pieces of Media, gives your characters a sense of camaraderie. And the type of joking they do can get across to the audience how well they know each other and what their relationship is without saying it (or can back up what they say). If they're actively teasing each other and making in-jokes about shared experiences, it shows/reinforces that they're friends or partners who've known each other for a while, they feel comfortable lightheartedly ribbing each other, and they have a deep well of embarrassing/funny moments to draw from. If they're making more general jokes that aren't about the person, but still referencing shared experiences, they may have known each other for a while, but aren't necessarily friends, maybe they're coworkers or classmates or a regular at a restaurant and their preferred server. If they're making more general jokes without references, they probably only recently met and have had generally positive interactions, or they might be complete strangers who are just trying to break the ice.

Going back to the "friends who have known each other for a long time and are comfortable ribbing each other and have a lot of material" for a moment, specifically in the context of things like horror and dramatic epics like I understand Dune to be? When you have characters who joke around with each other like that, when one or both of those characters stop joking? It can also help prime the audience to understand, "Oh shit, shit's getting real now."

Like, think about Merry and Pippin in Lord of the Rings. Both of them spend a lot of time joking around with each other and the other characters, even when they're on their way to Mordor. Both of them lose the jokes the moment things get dangerous, but are back at it when the tension's released again. In Fellowship, the jokes pretty much stop the moment they get chased into Moria and don't come back until they've come to terms with Gandalf's death enough to move on from Lothlorien. They're back to it until they get attacked by the Uruk-hai, then back to their shared mischievousness again once they once they figure out how to convince Treebeard to rally the Ents and attack Isengard and are fully joking around again by the time Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli catch up with them in the aftermath of the battle.

Then, everything goes to shit. Pippin consistently shows himself to be the kind of person who doesn't quite grasp the potential danger of things and places that he hasn't experienced himself. The combination of that alongside his natural curiosity leads to things like him fiddling with the arrow in the dwarf skeleton that overbalances it into the well it was perched on, alerting the goblins and balrog to their presence. And to him sneaking a peak at the palantir. In the moments after, when Gandalf is readying things to take Pippin with him to Gondor, Merry, who's been able to, if not fully grasp the gravity of what they've been doing, at least trust their companions' assessments, listen to what their saying and read between the lines. And we finally see the seriousness and danger of the situation really sink in for Pippin.

He's seen Sauron, had him in his head, he's not just a vague concept of a Bad Guy off in a part of the world that may not exist for all that it's effected Pippin before leaving the Shire. He's seen how scared Frodo's been, seen the danger he's been in because of the ring, and now there's a possibility that Sauron thinks Pippin has the ring. Even when they left their home, Pippin still had Merry and Frodo and Sam. But then things got too dangerous for Frodo to stay so he left and Sam went with him. Now, things are so dangerous, that Pippin has to leave his very best friend and, after all they've been through, it's hitting him that he might not ever see any of them again.

This is the moment where all the jokes stop. Pippin has moments of joy and happiness and relief and satisfaction. But we never get to see being that mischievous little jokester again. I hesitate to call it character growth, because that phrase usually implies a positive change from immaturity and/or selfishness into a character with more empathy and a sense of responsibility towards other characters. Because I would argue that Pippin already had those traits. He saw that Frodo and Sam were in trouble literally moments after he and Merry ran into them leaving the Shire and he didn't hesitate to help them escape. He fought his best in every battle he found himself in, attempted to avenge Boromir against enemies he knew far overpowered him. The change from the beginning of Fellowship to the end of Return of the King wasn't character growth, it is, and was framed as, a young man forever changed by the horrors he witnessed and experiences, horrors he never could have even imagined before leaving his home, but now weigh in his memories for the rest of his life.

And you get that narrative because of the way the humor is used in Lord of the Rings.

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lex-the-flex · 3 years ago

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Loyalty and Mercy

Summary: When you met Lady Jessica, you took an oath of allegiance to become her son’s personal guard. Now, just as Duke Leto accepts the Emperor's treaty to bring peace to Arrakis, your own life is put on the line.

Word Count: 825

Warning(s): Fluff, angst, and descriptions of injuries.

A/N: Good Lord it feels like I haven’t written anything for about a month, when it’s only been a few weeks! Gotta give Paul and the Dune fandom some more love! Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!

Peaceful breezes of the cool salty sea air wisp through the then silk curtains leading into Lady Jessica’s study. Glancing out the circular window, your sharp y/e/c eyes dart around the beaches to watch each of the rough waves crash along the shoreline.

A light touch to your right ear startles you, breaking your daydream. Standing by your side, the Duke’s concubine, Lady Jessica, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Did I startle you?” She asks, with a smile overtaking her lips.

“A little. I’m sorry, M’lady. I was daydreaming.” You apologize.

“Don’t be sorry. Caladan has that effect on people.” She replies, carefully placing a Hawk ring inside the inner lobe of your ear.

Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you silently peer at your reflection, as you’re adorned in a gorgeous emerald green dress supported by silver rings at your shoulders. Whilst your eyes studied the beautiful fabric, you remembered what these colors meant to the Atreides family.

Loyalty and Mercy.

The family and all who served the Atreides followed the code with the best of their abilities. As did you.

“I still don’t understand why I have to join you for the treaty. I’m not an Atreides.” You say, trying not to fidget in the fitted gown.

“You may not carry our name, but you’re loved by this family. I know you’re different, Y/N. And as much as I would’ve loved you to serve the Bene Gesserit, I know you cannot.” Jessica explains, placing a few silver and gold rings on your fingers.

“It’s quite difficult for me. Especially since I can’t produce an heir.” You reply, lowering your head in embarrassment.

“I know, Y/N. But my husband chose you. You grew up with my son. So it’s fitting that you become his companion.” She answers.

Nodding as an answer, Jessica takes your chin in her hand, and brings you up to her eye-line.

“Besides, I know Paul would choose you any day over Princess Irulan. Even if she considers it a competition.” Jessica continues, squeezing the end of your chin.

*****

A thin layer of overcast decorates the sky above the landing courtyard. Standing next to Paul, he holds a matching hat with his uniform. With your hands at your sides, you can barely feel Paul’s fingers trace over your knuckles.

“Smile Gurney.” Duke Leto instructs the war master.

“I am smiling.” Gurney immediately answers, with quite a firm rude tone.

Surprised by the man’s remark, you, Paul, and Lady Jessica turn to glance at Gurney. Raising your eyebrow his way, Gurney gives you a polite nod. Embarrassed by the interaction, Paul removes his hand from yours.

Welcoming the individuals from the Padishash Empire, Duke Leto stands tall, and proclaims his allegiance to the treaty.

“The Emperor has asked us to bring peace to Arrakis. House Atreides accepts!” Leto exclaims, taking hands with the Padishash official.

Smirking at the transaction, Paul interlocks one of his fingers around your thumb, making you briefly gasp in surprise. Suddenly, one of the many Spice Guilders releases a Hunter Seeker, and whispers a command into the tiny machine.

The small syringe like device darts for the Duke, as well as his son. Jumping forward, both you and Gurney rush to protect the family, as you nudge Lady Jessica away. Shielding himself, Paul leaps for you. Catching you in his arms, the boy takes the majority of your fall on the stone ground.

Holding you in his arms, Jessica kneels by your side, and proceeds to rip the Seeker from your hip. Letting out a small shout, Leto picks you up in his gentle grasp. Leading you to safety, your vision becomes blurry, just as Leto shouts for someone to prepare the medical unit.

*****

A wave of soft music plays from a golden harp in the corner of the large medical unit, slowly waking you. A crease fills the space between your brows while you open your eyes. Looking around the room, your vision comes too with the presence of Paul sitting at your side.

“Paul?” You ask, and your voice croaks at the question.

Setting his book down, Paul takes your hands in yours, delighted to see you.

“It’s me. I’m right here.” He says.

Gazing into Paul’s soft hazel eyes, the events from earlier in the day rush through your mind all at once. Moving to sit up, the cushioned bedding supports you.

“You could’ve…died. If I hadn’t been there.” You try to explain, at the same time that tears begin to stream down your face.

“Hey, hey. But I’m alive, thanks to you. My mother was right. We don’t deserve you, Y/N. But I’m so glad to have you here.” Paul replies, wiping your face.

Smiling at his declaration, Paul takes your chin in his hand and leans closer to you. Once his lips meet yours, it seems that all your worries leave you behind, and fade in the air.

Tagging ~

@visionsofsweettea

@dreamliners

@callmemoonlight123

@sunflowergurl98

@chaoticbucky

@beautifulsoulsublime

@bonky-n-steeb

@teebarnes

@dramanut98

@reader101k

@bibbidibobbidibucky

@halietigges

@jbarnesss

@euphoniumpets

@awkwardharpy

@reblogsfandom

@philosophisingss

@ikaris-whore

@viscountmelbourne

#paul atreides #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x you #timothée chalamet #timothée chalamet imagine #timothée chalamet x reader #timothee fanfic #timothee blurb #timothee chalamet x you #dune #dune film #dune 2021 #dune 2020 #lady jessica #rebecca ferguson #duke leto atreides #Oscar Isaac

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harrenhalyuri · 3 years ago

Text

for us, the wounds kissed long before the lips

23rd of Sun's Dawn, 1E 461, Alessian Empire.

During the coronation of Emperor Gorieus, the Hortator and the head of House Dagoth steal a moment for themselves.

tags: drinking & talking; angst; one-sided relationship; attempt at worldbuilding

ao3 version here

They stumbled forward laughing and shushing one another as the heavy oak doors closed behind them - the warmth and merry of the coronation feast left behind as the two stepped out into the garden.

Nerevar recalled walking the streets of Nirnbuldihr - the cyan glow of the giant mushrooms reflecting on the windows of several shops. One in particular caught his eye, and he crossed the cobblestone sidewalk to inspect it more closely. Blown glass sculptures, colorful and intricate in the way the dwemer favored.

His favorite had been a piece hidden in the back of the window, as if outshined by more complex, elaborate pieces upfront. It had been a white glass diorama, depicting a cottage surrounded by trees swaying in the breeze - the sort of simplicity the dwemer had no interest in.

The garden reminded him of that diorama - covered in a blanket of snow, completely undisturbed by the world around it.

Voryn pulled him under the arches that covered the path to the guest wing, but the Hortator held him back.

“No, let us stay for a bit.” He answered, arm still draped around the back of his friend’s neck as he stepped on the soft snow. Voryn sighed, yet allowed Nerevar to lead him.

“Frolicking amidst the cold? Do you plan on inviting the Nords to join us?” The head of House Dagoth said snidely as he crossed his arms to warm himself.

Nerevar laughed and shoved him away.

“The snow never belonged to those s’wits, you’re simply thin-blooded from living under the shadow of a volcano.”

“Perhaps, and rightly so.”

The snow softly crunched under their boots as they wandered near a tree - now completely stripped of leaves, its gnarled branches seemed to reach towards the sky.

“It always snows in Akamora.” Nerevar inhaled deeply, enjoying how his lungs burned as he took in the crisp, cool air. “In the mountains, at least. The paths are sharp and winding, and it freezes over during winter. No caravans may come or go, not until Sun’s Dawn.”

The Hortator grabbed a handful of snow, the ice leeching the warmth of his skin through the kagouti leather gloves. Absent-mindedly he shaped it until a white sphere rested on his palm. Secunda and Masser bore down on them - the moon glow glinting on the high windows of Skingrad’s castle.

Nerevar recalled the moon glow glinting on the tip of ice spikes, sharp enough to be spears, at the highest peak of Akamora.

Azura had come to him then, for the first time, to bestow Moon-and-Star upon the captain - his fingers had been so stiff from the cold that he could barely feel them anymore, the goddess’s touch as foreign as the ring she had slipped on his finger.

When he came down from the mountain, the first ashlanders had hailed him Hortator, and it had felt just as foreign as the ring on his finger.

“It must be rather grim.” Voryn commented, the cyrodilic brandy swirling inside the bottle as he brought it to his lips. The distaste in his face was plain to see - it couldn’t hold a candle to the Dagoth brandy.

Nerevar smiled, his short-lived melancholia forgotten.

“How can you say that? Short-tempered caravan masters, cheap mazte and all the comforts of a straw bed...” The captain delighted at Voryn’s growing distaste as he spoke. The head of House Dagoth was a creature of comfort and status, something that had made the duo different as the sun and the moon.

"Lovely, I'm sure." Voryn replied with a sour expression. Nerevar laughed.

"For a researcher, you spent far too much time cocooned up in Kogoruhn." The Hortator recalled several jars containing fungi species and creatures preserved in a strong alcoholic solution, one more outlandish than the other. In his curiosity, the captain had pestered Voryn with questions until he nearly dropped one of the jars. The head of House Dagoth had snapped at him to stop before he accidentally unleashed a deadly plague and got them both killed.

That had been many years ago, before the war, when Nerevar was still seeking support from the great houses. The somber, willowy lord that had greeted him in Kogoruhn had been the first to join him - his support had been won easily, but his friendship had not.

"And due to that, couriers are eternally indebted to House Dagoth. Why would I waste my precious time wandering through mud in a thrice-damned swamp?” The councilor huffed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Nerevar laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“And what if your Hortator commanded you to?”

The previous distaste vanished in a second as the sharp, haughty aristocratic features softened; the ruby-colored gaze meeting his, warm as the liquor sloshing inside the bottle.

“I’d wander until time itself ceased to be if Muthsera willed so.” Despite the devotion, the lord councilor had steel in his voice; unwavering as the very core of Nirn.

Nerevar let the snow sphere fall to the ground, the reverence in those words overwhelming as he broke his gaze away, before joining the councilor on the stone bench. The orange glow of a candle reflected on the windows above; a small flickering flame moving as a servant crossed the corridor. The former captain followed it until the speckle of light vanished behind stone walls.

“I miss it.” He blurted out, seized by a deep longing as the world seemed to be reduced into that snow-covered, unperturbed garden; as if its two occupants were the only souls in Nirn.

“By the Three, how I miss it! To Oblivion with those titles and thrones and crowns; I miss the road, I miss the ache after a long day’s march and falling on the straw at night too tired to think.” Nerevar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands. Azura had blessed him with the strength to carry the title of Hortator, yet he craved the simplicity of being nothing more than a captain, with no past nor future beyond the next town.

The Hortator missed walking through the crowded streets of the bazaars; the cramped food stalls with ill-tempered merchants that served meals with enough spices to burn his tongue; the shady cornerclubs where you had to watch both your tongue and your coin purse.

Now he signed papers, spoke with lords, and followed the proper etiquette befitting his rank; he watched the streets through the high windows of his palace, as if his brethren were tiny ants. The former captain pulled his hands away and felt a tear roll down the bridge of his nose; the liquor was truly getting to his head. He placed a hand on his councilor’s knee; the several layers of red wool soft under his glove.

“Let’s leave - just the two of us and the road ahead, like it was before the war. We’ll name ourselves whatever we wish, we’ll sleep under the stars and chew on marshmerrow pieces as we travel.”

“Where shall we go, sweet Nerevar?” The young lord played along; his voice soft as a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness around them.

“Wherever you desire - do you still wonder about Hammerfell? I’ll take you to see the dunes that stretch as far as the sun, you’ll study their beetles and giant scorpions for as long as you wish, then we can drink qishr and break bread with the nomads.” Nerevar found himself smiling as he recalled the heat of the desert and the loose, colorful fabrics the natives wore.

He turned around and reached for the bottle, fingers brushing against his confidant’s. Only then, Nerevar realized his councilor had forgotten his gloves inside the hall; the golden skin contrasting against the snow, the long, elegant fingers trembling with the cold.

“Oh, Voryn.” The former captain frowned, quickly pulling his own gloves off and taking hold of the other’s wrist; the scarlet nails vanishing into the supple leather as he adjusted the glove.

“Remember when you fell sick, five days after we departed Kogoruhn? We had to-” The sentence fell on deaf ears, vanishing under the branches heavy with snow as lips met his, swallowing his words with hunger. A hand connected with his chest, closing into a fist as Voryn pulled him closer; as if it weren’t enough.

Distant and haughty Voryn, who ate sparingly and never smudged the red paint he wore on his lips, bit the Hortator’s lower lip before pulling back; eyes half-lidded as he brushed the tip of his nose against Nerevar’s in a silent plea.

The ink-colored hair contrasted against the pale golden skin; the black fur collar brushing against the captain’s chin; a pale pink blooming on his cheeks, either from cold, the brandy, or something else-

Heart hammering against his ribcage, blood drumming on his ears; it was the slightest tilt of his face that thrice-damned him as Voryn’s lips smashed against his; a devotion he was unworthy of every time their tongues met; muffled prayers in form of sighs and whimpers.

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. A voice whispered in his mind, taunting him; in his mind’s eye he saw peach-colored lips curled in derision, teeth bared like a wolf’s. Almalexia’s snarl.

Somewhere, a door groaned open and the sounds of the feast reached the garden, shattering their sanctuary; the weight of being Hortator came crashing down on his shoulders. Nerevar pulled back as if he had been burned, his palm on the young lord’s shoulder firmly holding the other back. He looked down, unable to face the confusion, the longing. Too much, it was too much. His hair was disheveled, pale strands falling against his face and he felt grateful for the cover.

“Nerevar-” The head of House Dagoth began, voice hoarse and breathless.

“Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, I’ve wanted-”

“It was a mistake.”

“Oh.” Voryn inhaled sharply as if his lungs had suddenly been emptied.

“I’ve...I drank more than I should have. We both have.” His words feel hollow, and he can no longer tell if the bitter taste on his tongue belonged to the brandy, or the shame. The silence stretched; neither dared to move.

“I see.” His voice is flat, devoid of emotion; the usual aloofness reserved for others. Out of the corner of his eye, Nerevar watched him straighten his posture; the dark hair falling like a curtain, obscuring half of his face.

Other guests left the feast; their chatter and laughter permeated the garden as they walked down the path to the other wing of the castle. Nerevar felt the red gaze pinned to his back, yet no words left his lips. He watched the snow under his boots; watery and muddy as it mixed with the dirt below.

At last, he heard the rustling of fabric as Voryn rose to his feet; impeccable posture as he towered over the Hortator.

“May this servant be excused, Muthsera?” The words rolled easily off his tongue; the sharp formality of it made Nerevar wince.

The Hortator forced himself to lift his head and face his long-time friend; clad in red wool and black fur, the snowflakes melting on the long, inky hair; the blank expression betraying nothing, except for his lips; the red paint had been smudged, contorting their shape.

“Yes.”

From the cradle, the heir of House Dagoth had been taught the games of persuasion and deceit; a master in concealing his thoughts behind a mask.

Nerevar took a hollow, cowardly comfort in it.

Voryn Dagoth bowed before him, as etiquette mandated, before vanishing into the corridor; the sound of his footsteps hammering inside the Hortator’s head until they vanished, leaving him with nothing but a headache and the cold.

After finishing the bottle by himself, the former captain laid in bed, watching the moons slowly crossing the sky through the windows; his dreams haunted by both his closest friend and his wife; one seeming to shift into the other as they pinned him against the sheets; ever-hungry as they sought out his lips.

It was late morning when he rose; mouth dry and head throbbing like it had been split open with an axe. The hearth had been tended to recently, the fire crackling as it consumed the logs. He turned in bed, still wrapped around the sheets.

Voryn will understand, he understands the importance of duty better than anyone. He reasoned with himself.

A single kagouti glove on the floor, as if someone had pushed it under the door.

Across the hallway, a lord painted his lips red; immaculately framing the natural shape of his lips. His unbalanced emotions shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces when his fingers trembled for a second and a smudge appeared.

Duty, he’s devoted to duty, the lord repeated mentally, as he collected the shards.

#voryn dagoth #indoril nerevar #nerevoryn #one writing tag to rule them all

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axther · 4 years ago

Text

hero of many, princess of none

in which Bakugou and Kirishima, trying to attempt a quest, meet a strange young woman. for @reddriot

Life in the borderlands was not easy.

It was long and toiling, with the twin suns making the days hot and the years long. The sea of sand that stretched across half of the planet could turn into tundra in a day. There used to be kingdoms built on top of kingdoms on top of kingdoms, but they were all sent to dust and to pain.

And alone survived a girl.

She was a child. She alone survived the ruin of a thousand empires, waiting above the sand and snow. She alone was the last heir of a kingdom that never was. Even when the wind ripped off the skin of lesser men, she did not die.

The little princess walked in a state between heartbreak and duty. Why did it happen this way? Why her? Every question was raised. Every god heard a plea. But none answered.

So, the little princess wandered the borderlands, lonely and divine. And through the years, she grew, with skin like armour and eyes like a stone. She could look out at the great dunes like a hawk and see a single creature. She was armed to the bone, no inch of her left open. She was weary, but stood for those that had no king or knight to protect them. Those that abused what they had were forced to face her dark fury. She became the Mirrored Darkryder, for the fleeting steps in the night that forced the hand of her enemies and the mirages that she seemed to leave in her wake.

She was the hero of many, and princess of none.

Good inns were rare.

Bakugou Katsuki sat at the bar of an inn, with his best friend and dragon shifter Kirishima. They were off on some quest that his mother made him do, after a day of barking at each other, and was told not to come home until it was done. It was something about a bear, blah blah blah, Bakugou really didn’t care. He just wanted to get it over with so he could go back to fighting the enemies of his people and essentially becoming a war hero. But here he was. In an inn, trying to figure out where said bear was.

Kirishima was chatting happily with the bartender and no less than three patrons, waving his hands about and laughing freely. Bakugou felt sour. He wanted to kick everyone in the room and make them shut up. But alas, he needed information, and inns were the only place to get it.

“Hey, dumbass.” Bakugou hissed, nudging Kirishima’s shin with his foot. “Ask them about the bear.” “Oh!” Kirishima looked at Bakugou with a huge grin. “I already did! They said there is no bear like that.” “What?!” Bakugou barked, rising from his seat, fury welling up in him. “What the hell do you mean?!”

“Apparently there’s no bears around here.” Kirishima shrugged. “Only wolves.”

“That doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense!” Bakugou looked at the bartender, gritting his teeth and almost frothing at the mouth. “We’re looking for the White Bear!” “White Bear?” The bartender winced, and Bakugou realised the whole bar started going quiet. The conversations went null, all eyes on them.

“White Bear…” One of the young ladies said in a hushed whisper. “He’s our lord.” “A thief,” An older man hissed, gripping the table under his worn hands. “He steals our crops, our women, our animals. Our way of life.” “You won’t have to worry about him.” The bartender leaned back, beginning to wipe down a glass. “He’s being taken care of.” “What?” Kirishima leaned in, curious. “What do you mean?” “The Mirror Darkryder,” The girl whispered with reverence. Heads bowed down, and the candles in the room seemed to flicker. “She acts for the people. We asked…” “She will save us.” A youth, maybe Bakugou’s age, rose with a justice-ridden look. Kirishima seemed wholly into the mysterious saviour thing the village had going on, but Bakugou scoffed.

“What, you hired an assassin?” “She’s no assassin.” The bartender hummed. “Some say she was born out of the sands of the Borderlands. Others think she’s some sort of...god. I dunno. But she’s the protector of the people. If someone sends a messenger into the Tenebris Woodland with a plea for help, the plea will be answered.”

“We hope that the White Bear will be better, in some way.” The girl sighed, having the last word. “In death, or in life.”

Bakugou felt his blood chill, and he turned to Kirishima. He seemed almost awestruck, with a gaping mouth and wide eyes. There was a moment of pure reverence before a traveller walked through the door, breaking the tension. It was raining like hell outside, and when the figure walked in, they were soaked through. A certain air made them feel almost dangerous, like a plague in human form. They seemed weary, sighing before plopping into a chair next to Bakugou. The inn went back to its loud state and the lights went bright again as if nothing had happened at all. Kirishima looked around in a bit of confusion, raising his eyebrow.

“Huh? That was weird.” “How can I help you, stranger?” The bartender talked over Kirishima, leaning over to the traveller. They lowered their hood with a tired sigh, shaking their head to reveal a young woman. She was beautiful, even in her exhaustion, and the bartender swallowed a bit. “Miss?” “Right, uh...whatever is filling.” “Of course.” The bartender left to go get something, leaving her with Bakugou and Kirishima. He leaned over Bakugou to give the traveller a toothy grin.

“Hi there! Are you visiting?” “Hm?” She looked at him with a surprised glance. “Oh, yes. I’m just passing through.”

“That’s awesome! So are we!” Kirishima skedaddled around Bakugou to squeeze between the two of them. “What’s your name?” “I’m YN.” She smiled softly, tilting her head. “And you?” “This is my bro, Bakugou!” Before Bakugou could protest, he was tucked under Kirishima’s overenthusiastic arm and noogied.

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t you fuckin-!”

“He’s my best friend!” Kirishima grinned, letting go of Bakugou. “And I’m Kirishima. Dragon shifter extraordinaire!”

“Don’t just tell anyone that-!” “Neat!” YN grinned, lacing her hands. “I’ve only met a handful of dragon shifters before.” “Wait! You’ve met any at all?!” “Why, yes!” She nodded fervently, giddy. She seemed like a total sweetheart, as opposed to the initial aura of “don’t interact or else I’ll kill you”. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the candlelight, and when she leaned into her hand, her cheek was squished. There was a kind glow about her, and Bakugou felt his unease slowly melt away.

“When?” His words were less suspicious, and more inquisitive. “Was it with the nomads?” “Oh, no.” YN shook her head happily. “It was in the mountains, a small family of them. The children were such small things! Their scales hadn’t even shed yet.”

“Oh!” Kirishima had a hand over his heart, seeming almost faint at the idea. “That’s so cute! Bro, bro, remember when we were kids?!”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou rolled his eyes, peeling away from Kirishima’s side in embarrassment. “I don’t fuckin remember.” “C’mon, you still have my scales on your armour!” “Shut up!” YN started laughing, and the sound was whole. It was peace, welcome changes, the twin suns through the green trees. Both Bakugou and Kirishima paused, leaning in and going quiet to listen. It wasn’t like bells in the noise, but in the motion; pealing, tumbling, ringing everywhere. When she laughed, the whole world stopped to listen. And the two stared.

“So.” Bakugou broke the silence as soon as she stopped, not wanting for the conversation to go dead yet. “What are you in town for?” YN tilted her head again, and pursed her lips. She seemed to be in thought for a second, before nodding. “I’ve been taking odd jobs through the Borderlands and the Meseta. The sort of stuff people wouldn’t do...normally.” “Like…?” Kirishima paused, trying to make sense of it. “Like...yanno…” “Oh! No! Not like that!” YN waved her hands, flushed before taking a sip of her drink. “Not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Bakugou frowned. Before he got his answer, there was a yell from outside, and everyone looked towards the door. YN seemed to have a dark sparkle in her eye.“Neither of you are grossed out by blood, right?” “Huh? No. Why?”YN rose from her seat as people began pouring outside, and Bakugou watched her go with a confused scowl. “What the fuck was that about?” Bakugou got up to leave and Kirishima followed, a cautious and curious glance in his eyes. They both stepped out of the inn, and saw everyone crowding the town square. There were double the people in the bar, and when Kirishima saw what everyone was looking at, he recoiled and grabbed Bakugou’s arm. In the middle of the town square was an elaborate sacrificial stand, with several spears placed in a circle. The two longest were in the centre, on a pyre that burned bright into the night. One had a long, dark cloak on it, which miraculously hadn’t caught fire yet and waved in the thick night wind. The other was the head of a grisly young man, with his eyes wide with fear and tongue lolling out. He still had colour in his face, but the blood was trailing down the spear and onto the pyre. It was a morbid sight, but villagers were dancing around it in joy.

“He’s dead! The White Bear is dead!”

“She did it!”

Though the sight was one to behold, Bakugou and Kirishima both slowly relaxed once they realised that their work was done for them. Bakugou glanced over to see YN looking at the pyre with a satisfied look.

“Well, they’re happy.” She crossed her arms, looking at them out of the corner of her eye. Bakugou noticed that when her black cloak moved, it showed a whole set of weapons around her waist and thighs. One had blood on the handle; an embellished dagger with a white bear motif.

“It was you,” Kirishima whispered, clearly reaching the same conclusion as Bakugou.

“Maybe it was.” YN shrugged.

“You took his own weapon?” Bakugou couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I never said that.” Despite her refusing to answer, it seemed more out of obligation to keep her ‘identity’ a secret, as opposed to actually lying to them. “Wow.” Kirishima looked at YN with wide eyes. “So you...what, you go around saving people?” “Me?” YN turned back to the pyre, a smile on her face as she watched it burn. “I would never. That’s made for people who have far too much free time on their hands.” Bakugou scoffed. “Like the Mirrored what’s-her-nuts.” “Exactly.” YN sounded both ready to burst in laughter, and posh at the same time. “Like the Mirrored what’s-her-nuts.”

“Where will you go?” Kirishima’s voice was laced with concern.

“Oh, I don’t know. Wherever the sand and the dirt takes me, I suppose. Wherever the Mirrored Darkryder is needed most.” YN turned with a flourish, her cape flicking behind her as she slowly walked into the woods, fading into the dark with what felt like too sudden of an exit. Bakugou looked at Kirishima.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?” Kirishima sighed, eyes wide and looking at where she seemed to become shadow.

“No.” Bakugou shook his head, feeling as though the moment was something monumental.

“I don’t think we will.”

#bakugou x reader #kirishima x reader #bakugou x reader x kirishima #fantasy au #not your mother's bnha fantasy au #tw death #tw decapitation #tw blood #bnha x reader #fantasy

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anakinisvaderisanakin · 4 years ago

Text

Don’t Pray (aka Vader is the menace he was always meant to be during ‘the Purge’ oneshot)

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” the padawan whispered quietly; eyes squeezed tightly shut to block out the world.

The only sound was that of his own hammering heartbeats, hands clasped in a desperate prayer as he kept his head low; curled up in a tight ball with his legs to his chest in the cramped stowaway space behind the ventilator of his former master’s beat up space vessel. When he had docked on Illuna, he had expected the possible company of fellow runaway Jedi apprentices. Instead, he found the embrace of the Dark Side.

The presence that had greeted him so graciously was still palpable, still drawing ever nearer. The dark it brought with it like a sickness, like a plague shutting out any connections to the untainted living Force. Consuming its flame. The light flickering before the tendrils of darkness snuffed it out; successfully smothering it. Swallowing hard; a faint noise penetrated through the steady pulse ringing in his ears.

Artificial, mechanical. Periodic breathing. In, and out.

He felt like a caged animal; trapped as bait; prey left out for the predator approaching. He had been fooled, and now he was paying with his life. Naive, in his desire for company - his longing to be alone no more. He crept further back against the durasteel confines, his side pressed to the outer wall. As far from the tiny hatch to the hidden crawlspace as possible, making himself impossibly small.

Once again, he hoped to reach out with his mind; for help or guidance, he wouldn’t know. Yet, the only thing he could sense as a potential response was the thrumming of that inescapable darkness; an empty void of agony, threatening to grab hold of him and drag him asunder if he failed to stay alert. He toed the line, standing just at the threshold. Just shy of allowing the ill intent to devour him.

The padawan had been under the care of the Jedi Order on Coruscant for as long as he could remember, had been a promising padawan as his master had proudly proclaimed many times. It seemed like a lifetime ago. As if the happy days were but the fading remnants of a fever dream, as if the Empire and its rule was all there had ever been.

The Empire, and Vader.

Every Jedi he knew was either dead, captured, or lost. Missing without a trace. In hiding, some said. Perished, others whispered. At the hand of Vader, was the common consensus among fast travelling underground sources. The padawan had tried his best to hide, to keep out of sight, to cover up his tracks. For three years, he had been successful. For three years, he had managed to avoid the Jedi killer, and the relentlessness with which the Empire seemed to hunt down and destroy Force users. Align, disappear or die.

He was running out of time.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” he mouthed wordlessly, desperate to mask his hitching breaths and half sobs.

It was freezing.

He remembered the ice cold desert nights, accompanying his master on a week long endeavour hunting for a ancient Jedi artifact. Where had it taken them? Tatooine? Jakku? Geonosis? He couldn’t remember, every desert planet looked the same. Only endless sand dunes, and blistering blood red sun come day. Only starry deep blue skies, and cold nipping at any exposed skin come night.

He’d never forgotten the numbness of his fingers, his breath coming in heated puffs of condensation. He’d never forgotten the uncomfortable prickle of his skin, the chill of his weary, aching bones. How it seeped so deep into his core, that not even the scalding heat of first sunlight promising fire and brimstone could dissolve it.

The breathing.

Steady.

The predator toying with its prey, like a rancor enjoying the chase and dragging it out before pouncing and going in for the kill. Vader must know where he was hidden, must be able to sense his tangible Force signature. His terror.

The paralyzing feeling of torment Vader’s aura radiated rolled off of the man in thick waves; like the tide coming in, like the eye of the storm. Without mercy, without pardon. A force of nature, uncontrollable, unstoppable. Hands trembling, the padawan pressed them to his lips as he continued to mouth the same payer like mantra.

It would be in vain, yet it was the only link that remained to his master. The woman who had been gunned down in cold blood by her own troops, sending him off in a solitary escape pod towards fates unknown before sacrificing herself. She’d taught him the prayer, something to cling to in times of need. In times of fear, of hopelessness. He remembered her gentle brown eyes, her warm smile.

Footsteps.

Heavy, booted footfalls against the durasteel floor. Stalking in a slow, deliberate manner. The temperature seemed to drop for each one, as death traveled on swift wings ever faster.

The padawan could feel the stinging heat of salty tears behind his eyes, could feel them welling up at the corners of his eyes. Could taste their salt, smell his own fear. Shame accompanied the terror. His master’s act of self sacrifice had landed him stranded on an outer rim scrap station, only vaguely directed towards hostile but life sustaining planets where more Jedi may be in hiding; aided by a good natured sympathizer. Planets he’d never even heard of. People whose faces he would never know again, whose faces he had already forfotten as they blurred together. He had found none, no one to help him. No one to guide him, no one to come to his rescue now. He was alone, and he would die alone.

Only then did it truly sink in that he wasn’t going to leave this ship alive.

“I can sense you, child.”

A deep, booming voice.

Filtered through a vocabulator, it came off eerie and uncanny. Devoid of any scrap of human emotion; monotone and matter of fact. Loud, direct, and frank. Short and concise. How many others like him had met such a fate, the padawan wondered. How many others had perished at the hand of Vader? How many more would there be? Were there even any Force wielders left in the Galaxy for Vader to sniff out and execute? The age of the order was gone, why keep exterminating the few stragglers left behind? They could do no harm, make little noise.

“I can sense your fear,” the voice added after a moment's pause; and despite the same inhuman diction, there seemed to be something spiteful to the words.

The padawan had never known evil.

He and his master had taken down wild beasts, droid armies; they had even faced off against a stray misled Dark Side user. The droids had been man made machines, little more than gun fodder. The animals had followed only their hunger and ravenous nature, desperate to eat or be eaten. Lylacs, loth-wolves, rancors engineered to hunt. The Dark Side user had been conflicted, led astray by corrupt practices, as his master had put it.

This was different.

Vader appeared to be content, in a sense. No, perhaps not quite content as there seemed to be little joy or excitement to find in his Force signature. It was empty, a nothingness. Like a hole in the fabric of the Force itself, like someone had cut a piece out of a tapestry where only cold, and suffering could prevail.

Suffering; so unadulterated that it made the padawan’s body flinch and twitch with its shared torment. Vader was like a phantom, like a wraith; like a dead man walking. His aura revealed that he had nothing to lose, nothing to gain. No compassion, no forgiveness. No use in pleading, no use in begging.

A tear escaped the corner of the padawan’s eyes, rolling red hot down his stricken, pale face. The suffocating feeling of Vader’s presence sucked the air out of his lungs, making him feel lightheaded and short of breath. The steps slowed, calculating their path meticulously until they came to a sudden halt mere inches away from the trapdoor and its hatch. There came a protesting creaking of durasteel, of metal giving way to an unseen, powerful hand. A metallic shriek, a cringe and a whine as it began to bend to Vader’s will. The first beams of bright, fluorescent lights spilled in flickering patterns through the cracks torn open before the trapdoor was unceremoniously ripped off its hinges and flung across the cramped space of the vessel’s interior.

The padawan daredn’t open his eyes - the mechanic breathing was no longer muffled by a thin wall of durasteel; the thick aura of the Dark Side crashing over him like, biting and stinging at his nerve endings. Drowning him, as they left him overwhelmed, vulnerable and pitiful.

It hurt to breathe; hurt to think, his stomach churning and his throat constricting no matter how much air he attempted to gulp down. His lips moved on autopilot, still wording that same pathetic prayer but his voice had long since been silenced. There was no one to save him. No one to take his hand.

The tendrils of a twisted, warped, subjugated shadow of the Force the padawan knew as his ally burnt as they pierced his skin; invisible but unyielding. Like a million icy daggers, like sharp needles or broken glass. Another warm tear fell from his eyes, this time leaving a searing trail in its wake against his frost bitten cheek. He trembled when it dripped off his chin.

“You cannot hide from me, child. Your path ends here. There is no escape,” said the voice, so void of sympathy and remorse that it seemed inconceivable.

Were it not for the Dark Side, and the tainted, perverted use of the Force that Vader was guilty of; the padawan would have thought him to be fully inhuman. Rumours said Vader was once a man, now cloaked in a tar black suit of armour. Some said Vader was the creation of a malicious Sith Lord, calling upon mystical powers to build the perfect, loyal servant. Others said Vader may have once been a Jedi; a Jedi who’d fallen to the Dark Side in pursuit of power, and riches. How could a figure whose very existence seemed to serve as a harbringer of death ever have been live? How could a presence such as Vader’s ever have belonged to anything but a ruthless monster?

The padawan’s master had called many animals and creatures ‘monsters’. Some would deem Vader a savage beast, desperate for blood to quench his own thirst while they cowered in fear at the very whisper of his name. As if acknowledging his existence might conjure him. Yet, an animal would only follow its own basal needs and instincts; like the krayt dragons, or the lylaks, or the rancors. They were not monsters, they were simply part of the natural order. Predators necessary in a symbiotic cycle with their prey. Likening them to Vader was no fair comparison. Vader was sentient, aware of his actions, and committing heinous acts nonetheless. Purposefully, knowingly.

Animals were no monsters.

Vader was.

His eyes were still stubbornly clenched shut, perhaps seized up with terror as the frightened padawan cowered.

Still, they began to twitch little by little, opening as if that unseen hand guided by the Force was prying them open bit by bit. As if they were being peeled back, his resolute power of will beginning to wane. The padawan desperately attempted to keep them closed, to fight back. It was futile, as his watery eyes were uncovered against his will. Unable to blink, unable to stay blissfully unaware of the exterior that accompanied the foreboding phantom. His executioner.

In a snapping, jerking motion - the boy’s head was rapidly twisted sideways by the same invisible pull. The hold on his lithe, malnourished body was so strong, that the motion tossed him like a rag-doll as he was yanked out of the tiny crawlspace. He cried out in pain when his knee was torn open, by the jutting edges of one of the ventilator system’s metallic fans. Warm blood wet through the fabric of the padawan’s pants, the tang of iron stinging in his nostrils. Nauseating.

Tumbling haphazardly across the narrow walkway, the padawan whimpered as he momentum had him rolling around until he slammed forcibly into nearest cabinet. A nightmare come to life, he wrapped his uncooperative arms around himself to shield himself from the bitter cold, from the hatred, the rage, the ire.

It did him no favours, the sharp pinpoints and tendrils of the Dark Side burrowing into his chest like the fangs of a loth-wolf. Despite the struggle, the padawan found himself crawling to his knees, ignoring the searing pain of his gashed knee as if compelled to do so by some sort of beckon, taunting and mesmerizing in its lethal promise. For a brief moment, he thought he could hear his master’s familiar voice calling him.

The abyss lay ahead.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” the padawan croaked in a broken act of defiance.

“Your prayers are of no use.”

Then, he raised his head and his glassy eyes were set upon Vader. Frozen in place, as if fixed by the phantom’s own stare concealed behind the lenses of a black mask. Death in the flesh. Unkind. Unjust. Promising pain everlasting, overpowering.

Overwhelming, unbearable.

Inevitable.

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paversandplatters · 4 years ago

Text

||𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙|| (5/20)

Apocalypse! Au (TW! Minor gore and cussing)

Reader x multiple

Chapter 5: A Flock Found

They pack a wheel barrow to the brim with the newly acquired supplies they find not botheringing to leave behind much of anything, making sure to cop the twenty five gallon container of gasoline from the tool shed out back behind the building... Lord knows they'll need for the grand task ahead of them. By the time the light in the south western sky began to fade from a light gray to pink over the backwaters of the panhandle they're ready. They slip outside through the rectory's side door and creep single file along the edge of the property. Y/n takes the lead, periodically glancing over her shoulder for any sign of the herd that had crossed the highway or any sign of the group that occupied this space all too recently. She carries a glock with a full magazine just in case. The dusky air gets clammy and cool on the back of the stranger's neck as he follows them to the car. They climb in hurriedly, stowing their provisions in the rear cargo bay. Y/n kicks the engine on as the newcomer clambers into the passenger seat next to her- much to the dismay of the other two- unfolding an old dogeared map.

"They usually stick pretty close to the ocean." He says almost to himself, silently calculating the mileage between them and the gulf. "Probably should start down by Perry or Carwfordville." He senses movement ahead of them through the windshield and glances up in time to see a couple of jagged shadows emerging from the woods about a hundred yards away, drawn to the sound of their engine. Garbled growls can be heard over the drone of crickets. The trace smell of garbage on the breeze, the light and space of the outdoors is almost overwhelming to him. He feels like he's been asleep for a hundred years, locked away in that dank and dirty church- he starts to feel dizzy.

Y/n gooses the accelerator and the SUV lurches away. He sinks into his seat as they roar down the road, swerving to avoid the half dozen or so biters now skulking out of the woods blocking their path. They sideswipe one the creatures, ripping a chunk of its shoulder, splattering fresh gore across the glass of his side window.

"You get used to it." she states after he flinches in disgust. He just stares at the splatter, flecks of bone chips, and a long trail of black bile.

"I don't think anyone can get used to that ..." Nick mutters from the back seat.

Night falls and the darkness deepens behind the trees on either side of the road. Most of the streetlights in this part of the country have gone the same way as the internet or cable TV, so the road only gets darker and darker as they head south towards the steaming thickets and festering swamps of the coastal lowlands. The going is slow, most of the two lanes are crowded with rusted out wreckages ,the carcasses of cars and trucks so old now that the weeds and switchgrass have begun to grow up from their metal endoskeletons. The two young men in the rear breathe heavily, thickly, half asleep while Y/n drives and softly hums some forgotten tune. They had passed the jerky and water around a few minutes ago- their standard fare of supper- and now their bellies growl and their eyelids droop with exhaustion.

"You never gave your name..." His hushed voices rings out from the shotgun seat.

"Hadn't crossed my mind at the time, sorry about that... It's Y/n" She chuckles softly. "The one with the headband is Nick but goes by Sapnap, don't ask i don't know- the other one with the accent is George." he just simply hums in reply.

"What about you big guy? What do they call you?"

He takes a moment to regard the woman seated next to him; his head still trying to wrap itself around this complete stranger who's shown him nothing but kindness. On the one hand, she seems trustworthy enough, friendly, a good listener, courteous and capable of single handedly taking out an entire chapel full of reanimated corpses... On the other hand she seems like a walking time bomb. He'd seen her type before- they type that's too kind until something or someone breaks that trust. A hairline trigger. The sad fact is he doesn't have a large array of options. Staying in that hellhole of a church with those enslavers, listening to the groans of the dead, waiting for whatever those bastards would do next quickly loses its charm... Seeing the aftermath of her cleaning house with that knife had given him an odd charge- a cathartic release. He's also aware that he'd never be able to find the caravan on his own given the sorry state he's in. He really has no choice but to go along with her and her scruffy ass men and hope for the best.

"I don't have a name.. that is, one that I can remember.."

She desperately wants to pry, how could he not remember his own name? But the thousand yard stare and glassy gaze is enough to stop her from inquiring any further. "Well we've gotta call you something big guy." She's met with silence in response. "Alright, I guess Big Guy it is then." He offers only a meek hum in response. In an attempt to silence his own raging thoughts his eyes landed on the red bandanna tied to the rearview mirror for what was probably the hundredth time since he started on this way too long car ride.

"... What's that about?" He points to the red scarf.

"It belonged to a friend of mine a long while back, before Sapnap and George were a thing." Her hands tighten their hold on the wheel. "I was caught by 'traders' and he was stuck in the same hole as me... Couldn't have been any older than fourteen at the time. One night the compound was under attack, their front gate was breached- luckily we were kept at the very back end, so when the opportunity came we managed to escape our holding cell and I hoisted him over the wall. Told him to keep running, to not look back. He got away but I was caught again," She takes in a deep breath before resuming her story.

"I was quickly sold off to some asshole who had these two chained up for breaking into their stores... one thing led to another and we snuck out and snagged this ride... we've been moving around since." It was obvious by her tone there was a lot she was leaving out and probably for a good reason. Notably the two in the back seat were dead silent, so much so that it made the air feel heavy and dense enough to cut with a sharp enough knife. Suddenly he was wishing he hadn't bothered to ask in the first place

"That sign back there," He manages, desprate to break the heavy air "Said 'Cross city 12 miles" He glances up from the map in his lap, gazing out the side window at the stewing darkness of Dixie County Florida. "Got a feeling we're getting close."

The vast patchwork of wetlands passes in a blur on either side of them. The land oozing a low blanket of methane as gray as mold, clinging to the shadows of pine thickets and gullies like dirty lace. The air smells briny and rotten with dead fish. Every few minutes they pass the ruins of a small town or wreckage strewn trailer parks. No sign of survivors in these parts, though only the occasional silhouette of an upright corpse shambling by, it's eyes like twin yellow reflectors in the darkness.

"We can't just keep burning gas all night." Sapnap says from his place in the rear, his voice all cranked up with pain and panic "and we can't just go off of what you overheard those traders talking about- Much less go off of feelings.." Big guy just keeps a neural face.

"We're in the ballpark" He persists "Believe me they'll be hard to miss." Y/n grips the steering wheel, her jaw working overtime on a piece of gum, snapping and chewing complusively as she drives.

"How many vehicles do they have in this convoy?" George questions between wheezy breaths.

"No idea... but it's quite a few ."

"That's pretty general."

"They'll be easy to spot." He replies once more, gazing back out at the darkness. "Our best bet is to follow the coast, they like to keep close to the water.."

"Why's that?"

He shrugs. "According to those 'traders' they keep their eyes peeled for ships or any possible way they might get their asses the hell out of here. Most of the bigger boats around here have been destroyed by the hurricane that hit a couple years ago, so it's a long shot that they'll find anything..."

They're about to give up the search when they start to climb the gentle slope- at first so gradual it's almost unnoticeable - up the side of a vast malodorous landfill- the barren trash-strewn scrubland to their left reaches across miles of sandy berms, all the way down to the deserted ghostly boardwalks that wind their way along the beaches. The sky has begun to bruise pink with predawn light and Y/n has just started to say something when the Big Guy sees the first faint streaks of red dots in the distant haze.

"LOOK!" He points his large gnarled hand down at the far dunes of ashen white sand winding along the coast. The surface is so pocked and windswept it resembles the dark side of the moon.

"Where?" She cranes her neck, slowing the vehicle down to a crawl.

"I don't see anything."

"About Half a mile up there... Look at the tail lights!"

She takes a deep cleansing breath as she finally sees the caravan chugging along the coastal road in the predawn light, it looks like embers throwing up puffs of smoke in their wake.

"Holy shit, I see it." A big smile washes over her face, Glad she decided to follow through with this insane plan.

"What do you think of those boys?" The two young men in the rear lean forward, transfixed by the sight, each of them rapt and silent as they gaze at the convoy.

"What are you doing?! Blaster your horn at them," George stutters anxiously. "Don't let them get away !"

Y/n smiles to herself, in her former life she used to be fascinated by the wildlife shows, often catching them in the late night showings after work before she turning in for the night. She remembers one episode in particular, on the behavior of sheep vs the behavior of wolves. She remembers the flock mentality; the sheep moving almost as one, easily managed by a single sheepdog. She remembers the instinct of the Wolf, stealthy, patient as it and its pack creep up on the flock. She shoots a glance across the dark interior at the larger man sat next to her before turning her head to face the two sat behind them.

"I have a better idea."

Taglist

@the-wandering-pan-ace @hvrcruxes

#dsmp x reader #dream x y/n #dsmp tubbo #ranboo #sapnap x y/n #techno x reader #tommyinnit #dream smp x reader #dsmp #dsmp techno #georgenotfound #georgenotfound x y/n #philza x reader #the behavior of sheep

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anon-e-miss · 4 years ago

Note

OMG, that was such a sad mama!Prowl... poor thing I hope at some point you write a happier follow up to that fic. I hate seeing Prowl and Smokey so sad... I also look forward to this coming week! I hope you enjoy it.

Crosscut and Road Rage were dead. As much as Prowl loathed these mechanisms with every fibre of his being, he could not celebrate their demises. He remained in the nursery, the collection of rooms that had made up his existence for fifty-six vorns. Nothing had changed here, not yet. His elder creations needed help with their school work while their younger siblings needed support and attention as they learned numbers and shapes and speech. They did not appear to notice the loss of their progenitors but then Road Rage had never visited the nursery or seen the femmeling she had sired on Prowl, and Crosscut had come maybe four times in Smokescreen’s entire life. When he had deemed it time to put another newspark in Prowl, it had been Prowl who had gone to him. Those dark-cycles were the only times Prowl had left the nursery since kindling with Smokescreen where he had been bred in Crosscut’s berth and then sent on his way.

There was no relief in the knowledge that he would never go to that berth again. Prowl adjusted Bluestreak against his chassis as his newest creation lost his latch and complained bitterly for it. His protoform was still thin and soft. Prowl had only given him emergence the previous quartex, only an orn before he had learned of Crosscut and Road Rage’s deaths. He was reading the younger sparklings, Flash, Streetstar and Strongarm a story as the elders worked on their coursework. Smokescreen was a good help with Camshaft’s math and Downshift’s reading. He had become a singularly dutiful brother and creation and Prowl felt guilt for depending on him. It would not be much longer now. When he received his youngling upgrades, Smokescreen would leave the nursery, and he would not come back. The grand door opened and Prowl’s mouth went dry. Smokescreen was still a six quartexes from his emergence-cycle. He still had six quartexes in the nursery.

Prowl recognized one of the mechs, Sideways was his brother in law. He suppressed a shiver of revulsion. Crosscut’s ownership of Prowl’s fertility would have been passed to his brother by Praxian inheritance laws. They had met before Prowl had been bought and sold, during that brief period of Prowl’s life when his path had been his to choose. Sideways had been the model for every negative stereotype one might have of an enforcers, and Prowl doubted anything had changed. Though he actually did not know. Crosscut had never shared gossip with him. His time in Crosscut’s presence had served one and only one purpose. There had hardly been any talking. The things said had not been things Prowl had wanted to hear. Just demeaning scrap that had filled Prowl with impudent hate.

Seeing Sideways exhausted Prowl. He found himself mentally cursing at the prospect of laying under this mech and bearing him creations with even more fervour that he had Crosscut. For all he had hated that mech, he had been the devil he had known. Now Prowl was in the merciless servos of fate and he did not enjoy it. This was not the life he wanted, to be passed on to the beneficiary of Crosscut’s estate, and perhaps then on to the next. Prowl had take great care to hide his receptive status from the moment he had learned of it. If he had never been shot, the medic would never have had cause to look and Prowl’s life would still be his own.

“Start packing,” Sideways said. No greeting, no exchange of sympathy. None of that was especially startling, but the order was.

“Why?” Prowl had never learned to stop asking questions. He had never learned to serenely embrace his fate. It did not matter how many times his ownership changed servos, Prowl did not believe he would ever know that kind of serenity.

“You’re being passed to the Warlord of Polihex to pay my brother’s energon debt. Pack up whatever you can transport. The caravan will here in three mega-cycles.”

“What about my creations?”

“They’re going with you,” Sideways sneered. “I sure as Pit don’t want them.”

***

This would have been the perfect opportunity to make his escape, but Prowl looked around the opulent trailer letting his optics fall on each of his creations. He had not wanted to carry even one of them, yet he could not imagine leaving them. Even though he had struggled to bond with Bluestreak as he had carried him in his forge, Prowl could not imagine pulling the newling from his line and jumping from their transport and fleeing across the dunes. The love he had for them was a cage he could not break free from. Acknowledging the reality only depressed Prowl further. He stared out at the dunes as he and his creations were carted off into the unknown.

It was a long journey, and his sparklings grew quickly tired of their confinement. Their whole lives had been the nursery, and the little high walled garden off of the patio. But this trailer was a fraction of the size of their nursery had been and they were chomping at the bit to be freed. They would not be free until they were grown, and even then the course of their lives would be written upon the reading of their sparks. That at least would have been the case in Praxus. Perhaps Polihex, a land of brigands and nomads, offered mechanisms more freedoms, or perhaps their receptive mechanisms spent their entire lives in red tents.

As the sun set and the moons rose Prowl watched as their caravan rolled up to another with carpets spread out over the sand, tents set up in a ring, and a great many fires burnings. His creations all but covered him. They had fought and they had cried but eventually they had become too tired and too bored to do anything but recharge. The trailer rolled to a stop. His sparklings stirred but remained in recharge. Prowl crained his helm to look out the window. He watched as mechanisms rose up from the carpets and spoke with the caravan’s driver. Fireflight cast interesting shadows on the faces of the mechanisms who had been disturbed from their rest.

Tent flaps were thrown open and a newcomer approached. Everyone inclined their helms to the yellow and blue mech. Prowl turned his helm as Smokescreen sat up, and then knelt on the bench to look out the window with him. When he looked back, he locked optics with the newcomer. A klik later the doors to the trailer were thrown open. The sparklings woke with a start. They clung to him as the newcomer stepped into the trailer. Prowl rumbled his engine in a low decimal level in hopes of soothing them without drawing unnecessary attention. The yellow and blue mech stared at him.

“How many o’ these bitlets were stolen from their origins?” The mech asked in thickly accented Neo Cybex.

“None,” the driver said with surprise. “The prize is the origin.”

“Ya adopted any o’ these bitlets?” The newcomer asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. Faintly surprised that he himself had been asked the question. “I carried each of my creations.”

“Six” The mech said after he counted the mechlings. Then he corrected himself. “Seven... That is... something.”

Prowl did not flinch at the mech’s tone though he bristled internally at the judgment in it. Bearing seven creations had not been his choice, and he did not appreciate being spoken down to for this lot. At Prowl’s side, Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched up and Prowl rumbled his engine again. The low octave tone still at a soothing effect on Smokescreen. Would it after he got his upgrades? Prowl did not know. It was all he could do to hope he would have the opportunity to find out.

“Lord Straxus was real excited ‘bout that,” the driver revealed. “He only e’er sired the one off his harem ‘n that wasn’t for lack of tryin’.”

“Of course,” the newcomer sneered. “Well, get up. Easier to recharge if you stretch your legs a bit.”

“This one’s run before,” the driver argue as he stretched out his arms to ensure Prowl did not get by him, not that he made any attempt. “Straxus don’t wanna lose’m to the dunes.”

“Straxus is dead,” the yellow and blue mech replied. “Jazz is Warlord now, let’em off.”

“But...”

“Are ya really gonna tell me ya think ya know better what Jazz would want?”

“No... no Punch.”

“That’s what I thought. Come on, off, the lot of ya. Let’s get some fuel in ya.”

Prowl did not know who Jazz was but he sounded infinitely better than Straxus. Though that could have been nothing but a naive hope. The nap his sparklings had taken would make it difficult to get them down again, some exercise would do them could, some fuel as well. They had not been given energon for a few joors; the driver did not like stopping so the sparklings could relieve their waste tanks so he was sparing with fuel. Smokescreen picked up Flash. The youngest of Prowl’s sparklings was too wild to be trusted. Prowl cradled Bluestreak to his chassis and extrended his servo to Camshaft. Camshaft held Downshift’s servo, and Downshift, Streetstar’s and Streetstar, Strongarm’s. Prowl watched as the mech the driver had called Punch helped Smokescreen down. Though Prowl was anxious to do it, he allowed Punch to lift each sparkling down, after he told them to stay close to Smokescreen. Their optics were all wide and owlish. They would likely have stayed close even without Prowl’s instructions.

“Watch yer step,” Punch cautioned Prowl. “Y’ll sit wit me by the fire.”

It was a command rather than a request. Prowl acquiesced because he was much too happy to be out of the trailer to argue with Punch. A new fire was lit by the carpets stretched out in front of the tent Punch had left. Before they could even reach it, a mech left a trailed filled with fuel on the carpet. There were no plates, Prowl imagined they were meant to share. Certainly it was different than anything that would have been tolerated in Praxus but Prowl was not inclined to judge the Polihexians for it. He was grateful for this small taste of freedom, to sit on a carpet in the wilderness without a single wall around them. It would only be a brief reprieve but it was more than he had had in vorns.

“Take whate’r ya like,” Punch ordered. “There’s lots to share”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Prowl said. “We have not left the trailer for more than a few kliks in many mega-cycles.”

“Y’re welcome,” Punch said. “Will ya tell me yer designations?”

“I am Prowl. My eldest is Smokescreen. These two beside me are Camshaft and Downshift. My twins are Strongarm and Streetstar. My little one is Flash and my newling is Bluestreak.”

“Ya have a strong spark to carry so many, and close together at that.”

“I suppose.”

Smokescreen served as gopher for his siblings and origin. He handed out gelled fuels and candied crystals before he took any for himself. The sparklings ate, they were hungry as they had the right to be. They took their time, distracted from their fuel to some extent by the strange sights and smells. When Smokescreen looked up at the stars and say transfixed at the sight of the constellations, Punch told him what the Polihexians called them. The younger sparklings followed Punch’s digit as he pointed up at the sky and told them stories. Bluestreak woke and immediately went for his origin’s well, Prowl bared it for him.

As his newling nursed, Prowl listened to the stories. Some of the constellations had different names in Prowl, but he had never seen them this clear. It was pleasant to sit back and listen to the stories. Though Bluestreak could not possibly see the constellations, Prowl cradled him so that he could star watch like his siblings once he had drunk his fill. Shrill cries broke their peace. Punch rose quickly and returned to his tent. The sound had Prowl’s chassis throb and his drained fuel lines fill. It was a familiar sound.

Punch returned a short time later, two newlings similar in age to Bluestreak in his arms. He seemed weary as he cradled them on his lap and tried to convince them to latch on the nozzles of bottles filled with pink fuel. In the glow of the fire they seemed ashen to Prowl, sickly and weak as they waved their servos and cried. Punch crooned at them in a dialect that Prowl did not understand. He sounded anxious to Prowl, though he could not be certain. With each passing klik they refused the bottles, and Prowl’s chassis became painful full.

“They do not like bottles?” Prowl asked, tentatively.

“Less the bottles ‘n more the machadron energon,” Punch replied. “But it’s all we got for ‘em. Their origin was dead before I found’m. Straxus didn’t get’m a medic when the evacuation went wrong. Rust took’m. Or that’s what the guards told me when I found’m.”

“I am sorry.”

“That’s why Straxus’ dead. Because he botnapped Free Wheeler ‘n let’m die. Jazz is half mad as it is, I don’t wanna tell’m I couldn’t save his bitties too.”

“Give them to me,” Prowl said, laying Bluestreak in his lap. “I have fuel enough in my well.”

“Please,” Punch replied. “No one in the camp has a drop to give’em. Mine dried up vorns ago.”

Gingerly he gave the sickly newlings to Prowl, one at a time. It took surprisingly little effort to convince the first, a red mechling to latch, though only weakly. As he suckled, energon flowed through Prowl’s nozzle and into the newling’s mouth and he suddenly suckled harder. Prowl took the second. This was had no use for him, but Prowl was patient. He rumbled his engine in that low octave purr he had learned with Smokescreen, and as the yellow newling’s temper was soothed he started to suckle, and energon flowed into his famished little frame. As they nursed, Prowl stroked their helms and crooned softly at them, and patiently endured their frantic suckling.

“Y’re a miracle from Primus,” Punch declared. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Tell me what you know of Jazz?” Prowl asked as he glanced up from the newlings. His sparklings crawled over to look at the strange newlings. The sight of their origin nursing a newling was common place for them, but the newlings had only ever been their siblings. Smokescreen took Bluestreak from Prowl’s lap so he could relax a little more and rocked his littlest brother. He looked to Punch as Prowl asked the question. His answers would affect all of them.

“He’s a good mech,” Punch replied. “I see why ya’d have a need to know. I spose ya were promised to the Warlord, ‘n not just Straxus himself.”

“I was told I was being given to the Warlord of Polihex to pay restitution for Crosscut’s misdeed. I never heard a designation mentioned. I do not know that Sideways would have bothered to know it.”

“This Crosscut was yer Conjunx.”

“We were not bonded,” Prowl replied. “Crosscut owned my fertility, that is all.”

“I don’t understand,” Punch said.

“Bondings are reserved for receptive mechanisms who accept their duty. They are afforded some freedoms, the ability to walk the streets, to visit shops and theatres. I forged my medical records, and hid that my spark is receptive for many vorns. My deception was uncovered and my fertility was bought and sold. As I needed to be compelled to do my duty, I was not afforded the dignity of bonding.”

“‘N they call us savage,” Punch hissed. “Love, ya won’t be caged here. That ain’t our way.”

“You cannot speak for Jazz.”

“Oh, I can, to a point. He’s my bitlet ‘n I know his spark as only an origin can.”

“You are his origin? You run this caravan?”

“Bein’ receptive, bein’ an origin don’t cost ya yer freedom here, Prowl. Payment or no, ya won’t be a breedin’ slave to my creation. That ain’t our way, ‘n it ain’t his way.”

#anon-e-miss writes #maccadam #tf prowl #tf punch #barbarian au #tw forced pregnancy #tw forced marriage #tw abuse #dark praxus #kid!fic #mechpreg

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biandnotinthemood · 5 years ago

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Anachronism

A/N: I wanted to try writing from Steve’s POV. It actually ended up being pretty challenging, but overall, I’m pleased with the result. Obviously, spoiler alert for seasons 2 and 3, but no trigger warnings this time except for very general references to Billy’s abusive home. Enjoy! xx

Summary: Anachronism is derived from the Greek word anachronous, which means “against time.” Therefore, an anachronism is an error of chronology or timeline in a literary piece. In other words, anything that is out of time and out of place is an anachronism. (x)

“We would go back and maybe not say that thing to our dad that we said, or maybe be a little nicer to someone who we cared about and had a relationship with when we were young. You know, they're subtle things, but we carry those with us forever. And I think that regret and time travel are intrinsically linked to me.” -Colin Trevorrow

All of a sudden, one day, he was wide awake in the middle of the high school cafeteria. His name was Steve Harrington and he’d been here before, under different circumstances. He glanced at Robin sitting next to him eating her stale lunch bread. He’d been here before in a different life. Or a different time?

“What’s wrong?” Robin asked.

“I just woke up.”

She sighed. “Did you bring your special cookies to school again?”

He remembered everything. He’d always remembered everything, but now he was wide awake. In the end, it had just been him, Will, and El. The Upside Down had been leaking, but now the world was shiny and bright and new. The sun still felt warm and golden on his skin. He was outside all the time, sometimes with the naked wooden bat he’d bought at the hobby store on Main Street, sometimes with Robin and some weed.

Second chances were something he’d gotten a lot of last time, but he still had regrets. Sometimes he’d tell Robin about them, about Nancy “The Slut” Wheeler or that time he’d called Jonathan Byers a queer or even just all the little times he’d been so close to being honest but then he’d chicken out. They were always high when he got to talking about all that stuff and he could tell she almost believed him, but she was too smart not to be skeptical. He’d expect nothing less from her.

So much had changed with the reset, it was hard to prove it had even happened. There was only one thing that wouldn’t change, though. On October 15th, 1985, a guy named Billy Hargrove and his younger sister Max would arrive in the Hawkins High parking lot, “Rock You Like A Hurricane” blaring from his camaro’s stereo.

Before the reset, Steve had carried a portable radio in his backpack for El and sometimes it’d crackled to life all on its own. He’d lost track of how many times that song had played, always reaching into his guts and twisting him up inside until he’d reach over and turn it off. Other times, he’d hear panicked voices coming through or even other songs, like that one by Vera Lynn that his mom had always liked listening to when she’d get into her slumps. She’d put her old records on and lock herself in the library, spending the day drinking and thinking about “some sunny day”. When it sounded like a whole crowd was singing, he liked to imagine it was everyone they’d lost promising that they’d meet again. He’d spent a lot of nights living in the past back then.

When he gave Robin the date, she rolled her eyes, but still insisted on sitting outside that Tuesday. The moment they heard that engine revving and that song, her eyes widened and when their eyes met, she was white as a sheet. Steve took a leisurely swig from his water bottle.

“You believe me now?”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Yeah.”

She started asking questions all the time. How had they met, had she ever gotten a girlfriend, how had she died? There were some things he knew better than to answer. Last time, he’d dated Nancy but he’d been too still and small for her, and she’d outgrown him and dated Jonathan. Until he got too still and small for her, and she’d outgrown him too. She never outgrew Robin, though. The concept of soulmates was obviously bullshit, but they’d fit together so perfectly, it just felt real.

But this time around, Nancy and Steve had never dated. She was with Jonathan and there was no way to know when that would change, if ever, so why tease Robin with something she might never have? He remembered their talks when she’d first come out to him, about how she’d tried liking guys but they’d just bore her or make her feel angry in that sad, powerless way. She’d tried liking the guys she was supposed to like, then she’d tried the soft, sensitive guys who were a little different, and it was all the same. He and Nancy had talked one night so long ago and she’d told him something similar, too, like she’d just been following orders her whole life. Steve was the guy she was “supposed” to like, Jonathan was the guy who was sensitive and artistic and different, but it was all the same to her.

As for Robin’s death… He didn’t like thinking about it. She was always so sharp and loud and full of life, he didn’t like remembering how cold she felt in his arms or how Nancy covered her mouth and wailed and fell to her knees… She’d lost a lot of weight after that. Steve didn’t like remembering the end of any of their stories.

Billy had been the first and it was so hard to reconcile the force of nature patrolling the school hallways with the battered, broken body on the floor of Starcourt Mall. Steve had stared at it--at him, until he’d been taken away in a black body bag. The mall didn’t even exist now. Scoops Ahoy would never exist. Billy would never visit him after a lifeguard shift, demanding sample after sample, leaning over the counter into his space, tying cherry stems with his tongue and winking at him… But he reminded himself that this time it’d be different.

After all the nights he’d spent turning Billy over again in his mind, he was ready to stop regretting everything. He was ready for it to be warm and golden, like the sun, like Billy’s laugh, like Billy’s skin. He’d been waiting over a lifetime for Billy and when he stalked up to Steve and his little group during the Halloween party, Steve couldn’t help but laugh. He even offered Billy a cigarette.

It took time, but he was determined. He was already back to being friends with Dustin. The kid had even let him borrow the Lord of the Rings books. Back when everything was dark and cold, he’d promised himself he’d read all three. He knew they were some of Billy’s favorites. He liked Dune, too, and The Little Prince and Pictures of Dorian Gray. Once upon a time, he’d told Steve to “use that shriveled-up walnut you call a brain and read a damn book before Big Brother makes it illegal, Harrington.” God, what an asshole.

Still, whenever Billy would press up against him in basketball practice or kick the back of his chair in class or crowd into him and his friends in the school parking lot with a cloud of cigarette smoke, Steve would just grin like it was all one big joke. And in a way, it was. Thankfully, it was one of those jokes that’s funnier the second time around. The more he seemed not to care, the more Billy seemed determined to get in his space. It made him want to laugh. It made him want to get in Billy’s space too.

It made him want to grab Billy and shout at the top of his lungs, “you moron, I’ve been in love with you for over a lifetime! I know you! I’ve always known you!”

There was something beautiful about it, about the fact that some things couldn’t be changed by the destruction of the lab. Steve was still friends with Robin and Nancy and Dustin, Joyce and Hopper still looked at each other in a way that made their eyes glow, Billy and Max still moved to Hawkins… The only person missing was El. Her name was probably Jane, though. She was living a normal life somewhere with a mom who loved her. Nothing had been stolen from her this time--from any of them. It had never been shared trauma that kept them together. It was love. It had always been love. This new world was proof of that.

Before the reset, he’d tried not to talk about the past and all the people he missed. It’d been one of his rules for El and Will. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been able to go on. There’d been one night, though, when El had insisted and he’d let it happen because all three of them could be dead in the next 24 hours, so why not? Will had been asleep when she approached him like he was a caged, injured animal. She’d started asking him about who he missed. He’d missed all of them. So had she. He’d missed them all the same, but El shook her head at him when he said that.

“Billy.” That had been the first time someone other than Max had said his name out loud since that night at the mall. For a moment, Steve had forgotten how to breathe.

“Yeah. I miss him, too.”

“You miss him more.”

His mouth was dry. He instinctively reached up to rub at the pendant hanging under his shirt. Max had swiped it before the scientists took Billy away and she’d worn it all the way up until she had no use for it anymore. El still wore her old green scrunchie and red jacket, the one with the white stripes. “Don’t you miss Mike more, too?”

El had hesitated, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Not just Mike.”

He’d never really gotten a chance to find out who else El missed “more”, but he had a pretty good idea. Max was a cool kid. Whenever Steve and Billy found himself on opposite sides of a fight now, it always had something to do with her. Knowing why it was happening didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Max had the strictest curfew because she was Billy’s responsibility and Billy’s dad was a living nightmare. Getting rid of the lab hadn’t gotten rid of all the monsters in Hawkins, unfortunately.

It was a chilly night in January and Max had just finished screaming at Billy over the phone in Steve’s kitchen until her voice cracked, before slamming the receiver and storming out. None of the other teens liked watching the kids, but the parents trusted him and his house was always empty, so… Some things couldn’t be changed. This was just another night of him watching the kids. By the time he made it to the back door, Will was already comforting a sniffling Max on one of his white lawn chairs.

“He’s such a dick,” she gasped, fidgeting with the bright yellow knit hat in her lap.

“I know.”

“Why does he have to fucking act like that? What did I ever do to him? Y’know, I used to try to help him with--” She cut herself off, fumbling with the information she’d almost let slip. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

But Will could remember everything because he’d been there at the reset, just like Steve. “With your stepdad, right?”

“Y… yeah. How did you know?”

Will shrugged. “My dad was a bad guy, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was lucky. I had my mom and my brother.” There was a beat of silence between them before Will grabbed Max’s hat and pulled it onto her head. She huffed and wiped at her face with the sleeve of her green sweater.

“I feel so stupid. I mean, I know I’m not, but… I just wish things were different, y’know? I wish Billy would either be less of an asshole or just, like… fuck off.”

“Jonathan was different back when my dad was around sometimes, too.”

“How’d you deal with it?”

“I waited.”

Max scoffed. “That’s it?”

Steve already knew what Will was going to say before the kid even said it. It had always been his advice. The other kids didn’t call him Will the Wise for nothing. “I waited and I listened.” It took a few seconds, but Max nodded.

Waiting and listening was all well and good for them, but not for Steve. The moment he heard Billy’s car rumbling down the street, he walked out to his driveway and didn’t uncross his arms until Billy was finally standing in front of him. “Let’s talk,” he said, smiling tensely when Billy rolled his eyes. He’d had enough of the waiting. Last time, the only reason Billy had changed his tune was because Max had almost turned his dick into ground beef with a nail bat. Well, this time they didn’t have a nail bat.

“What the fuck do you want, Harrington? I’m kinda’ in a rush here.” Under the dim street lights, Billy just looked tired and haunted, like a skeleton. The bags under his eyes were even casting little shadows. His hair was all messy and he overall just looked like he’d been dragged out of bed, shaken until he popped, and thrown into his car.

“It’s 7:30. Max’s curfew isn’t for another two hours.”

“So what?”

“So you didn’t need to call and upset her, but you did.”

“Are you serious right now?” Billy’s voice pitched itself higher until he sounded hysterical. When he brought a hand up to rub his eyes, Steve caught sight of his busted knuckles along with the glint of the silver ring he always wore. “None of that matters. I need to get her home--now.”

“You really don’t care?” Regret flickered across Billy’s face like a shadow, softening the hard lines of his face for just a second. “You made her cry.”

“She cries all the time,” he muttered, patting over all his pockets. He pulled his cigarettes out of the right pocket of his denim jacket. Before Billy could grab his lighter, Steve offered him his. Billy snatched it out of his hand and glared at him as he lit his cigarette.

“Should she be crying all the time?”

“What’s your problem?” Billy jerked his burning cigarette into Steve’s face, ash flaking off and fluttering around them.

“My problem is that you’re being an asshole and I know you’re better than that.” Steve had months of anecdotal evidence to prove Billy was better than that, but if he never decided to live up to it, then what did it matter?

“You don’t know shit.”

“I do. Now come inside.”

“What?”

Steve pointed at Billy’s busted hand and he covered it immediately, his tired eyes suddenly big and wild and alert. “I have a first-aid kit in my bathroom.” Billy took a pensive drag, the red glow of his cherry bleeding onto his face.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked with a slow smile. “You won’t bother Max either?”

“No,” he spat, throwing his spent cigarette on the ground and crushing it under his boot as he walked past Steve and towards the front door.

Max didn’t end up leaving until around 9:15 and whatever hell they’d catch for it at home, Steve just hoped he wouldn’t have to fill his bat with nails to get Billy to be a better person. The whole night, Billy had kept squinting at him with this unreadable expression and calling him weird.

And after that, things did change--slowly, then a little faster. Like rolling down a hill. Robin already knew he swung both ways, just like he already knew she was a lesbian. Well, maybe not just like he knew, but close enough. What she didn’t know was that Billy had been the one who helped him figure that out. It had been a lifetime ago, literally. After an annoying shift at Scoops, he and Billy had been alone in his big, empty house and Steve had pulled out his dad’s expensive whiskey and well… they finally did what they’d been dancing around for months. That memory, the breathless way Billy gasped out his name, the heat of his hands clutching Steve’s sweat-slicked back, his blue eyes--clearer and more beautiful than they’d ever been--fluttering closed as his back arched, it was precious to him. It was something that was only his. It was something that never happened again.

But Robin was smart. Too smart, really. She got to understanding that October 15th wasn’t an important date for him just because it proved he wasn’t full of shit. She got to noticing how he hovered around Billy or gave him things or just stared, even when he didn’t mean to. He never really meant to, but fuck, it wasn’t like he didn’t know Billy was gay. What, was he supposed to just ignore it? Or forget? How?

He and Robin were smoking in the back field during lunch one day. It was something they did often that Nancy very vocally disapproved of. If only she knew the first time she’d gotten high, she’d ended up loving it and kissing Robin (and loving that, too). Billy had been sitting with them for a bit, taking a hit here and there while arguing with Robin about the significance of the beating heart in The Bell Jar, but he’d left a few minutes ago. Steve was still watching him walk across the field.

“Just ask him out already.”

“Huh?” He didn’t look away from Billy’s retreating figure.

“Did you know him before everything changed?”

“Everything didn’t change,” he said, taking another quick hit from Robin’s dark blue pipe. “And yeah, I did.”

“Is he gay?” she asked, gingerly accepting the glass pipe when Steve handed it back to her. “You done?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re done or yeah, he’s gay?”

“Both.”

“So ask him out.” Robin took a long puff, coughing like crazy when she pulled off.

“Not yet.” Billy wasn’t ready yet. Steve didn’t want to fuck him over like he’d done last time. After they’d slept together, Billy wasn’t even done catching his breath before Steve was practically shoving him out the door. And that was the last time they’d spoken, ever. That was the last memory Steve had to keep him warm at night back there, at the end of all things. Just another regret. And just because nobody could remember it didn’t erase the fact that it had still happened, that he had still done that. Even knowing everything he’d known about Billy’s pain and vulnerabilities, he’d still… And then he’d even had the nerve to be shocked and hurt when Billy hadn’t sauntered into Scoops Ahoy the next day with a sparkle in his eye and forgiveness on his lips. And then he hadn’t shown up the next day or the next or any day after that and before Steve knew it, he was staring at the empty, bloody patch of tiled floor in Starcourt Mall with a heart so empty, there was wind howling in his chest.

So really, maybe he was the one who wasn’t ready. But nothing could change the fact that he was drawn to Billy like a moth to a flame or maybe that guy Icarus to the sun. That was another thing that hadn’t changed with the reset.

As the weather got warmer, Billy shed his layers like a snake shedding its skin. He started coming around more often, but more and more it felt like he wasn’t just trying to be annoying but like he actually (gasp!) liked the company of Steve and his friends. Nancy might not have been his biggest fan at first, but she always got sucked into Billy and Robin’s conversations about different books. They liked recommending each other more shit to read and jesus, Steve had forgotten what a secret nerd Billy had been.

“You feeling this, Byers?” Steve asked Jonathan one lunch period when they’d been successfully iced out of a conversation about some very interesting lesbian book.

“I’m more into pictures,” he chuckled.

“Hey, you and I both.”

Jonathan and Billy would talk about music and concerts and they’d trade vinyls and tapes. Wow, was Steve really jealous of Jonathan Byers? It wasn’t like he even liked dudes. Billy fit so seamlessly into his life, it was like he was meant to be there. And he was. But every time those low-lidded, sleepy eyes landed on Steve, they turned bright and alert, pinning him in place like he was one of those butterflies in the frames his mom had all over the house. It was like Billy was studying him or something, and he didn’t know how to feel about it. It made him squirm.

Some nights, he’d show up at Steve’s house, either sweaty and crossfaded from a party or shaken up after a run-in with Neil (something Billy still hadn’t brought up). If his parents were home, he’d let Billy climb in through his window, trying not to remember all the times he’d stumbled into Nancy’s room the same way. Billy was more graceful, though, of course. What a prick.

It wasn’t until late April, when Steve was only about a month or so away from graduating, that Billy first showed up to him house perfectly okay and sober with just a baggie of weed and a pipe in his pocket. His parents were away for the next few days, but they still walked a little way into the woods before sparking up. Billy kept insisting on lighting it up for him, crowding in close until they were breathing the same humid air. More than anything, Steve just hoped that the glow from his lighter hid the blush climbing his cheeks.

It was mostly silent and the conversation didn’t really start until they were heading back. He was perfectly happy to just head back upstairs and go their separate ways because he thought that’s what Billy wanted, but then he collapsed onto one of the lawn chairs before Steve could say good night. He mumbled something unintelligible as Steve settled by the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water.

“What?”

Billy, ever the whiny little shit, groaned loudly before flopping onto his belly and gazing at Steve with a softness he hadn’t seen since before the reset. “You’re so fuckin’ weird, Harrington.”

“Thanks, man.” He turned back towards the water, the smell of chlorine mixing in his nostrils with the damp smell of the forest. It’d been drizzling all day.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you look at me like that? Like--”

“I’m not even looking at you.”

“Like you know shit I don’t or something.”

“I know you,” Steve said without thinking because it was true. He did know Billy. He’d known Billy for longer than he’d even really known himself. Nothing felt more true or real than that one simple fact.

“See?” Billy laughed wildly and when Steve looked over his shoulder at him, he was on his back with an arm covering his eyes. “Who says shit like that? Like, what does that even mean? Jesus.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t like it.” When Billy pulled his arm away from his face, he was cracking the knuckles in his hand one by one over and over again. The pops echoed in Steve’s head like little exclamation marks. “What do you know, Steve, and like, how the fuck do you know it?”

“You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” he mumbled, not really expecting Billy to hear him, but he must have because then he was sitting next to Steve with his sweatpants hiked up to his thighs and his legs in the water. Steve took in the smell of his floral shampoo with a jittery breath, glancing at his lips before refocusing back on the pool.

“Try me. I’ll believe you,” Billy said in the same low tone that had gotten him so much free ice cream last time. Steve had to take money out of the tip jar on more than one occasion back then because he just couldn’t say no to him, ever. All Steve wanted was just to give Billy everything he’d ever wanted, but how could he give him this?

“You don’t know that, okay?”

“C’mon.” He nudged Steve’s shoulder with his own but Steve refused to take the bait and look at him because then he knew he’d lose any and all control over his mouth the moment he did. His heart was already beating so fast, it felt like one long vibration.

“You like sci-fi, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well.” Steve took a deep, measured breath. “I’m not from here. I mean, fuck, how did Will explain it? My body’s from here, but my uh, my mind isn’t? Or something?”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I’m from another time. A time when I already knew you and I remember all of it. You were dead and we were… we were friends. Before you died. Uh, obviously. Yeah.”

Billy was completely silent for god knows how long. Too long. “What do you know about me?”

“A lot.”

“You said we were friends.” Steve nodded at the water, his cheeks burning with memories of their so-called friendship. “Friends like how we are now?”

Steve’s heart started up again like a motor. “N-no.” Billy fell into a dark pit of silence again and when Steve finally felt brave enough to look at him, he found him glaring at the water with keen, clear eyes. “Billy?”

“You’re full of shit. You have to be.” Billy stood just as abruptly as he’d sat at the edge of the pool while Steve stared at him slack jawed. “You’re gonna’ have to try a little harder than that, Harrington. I mean, time travel? Come on.”

“It’s true!” Steve scrambled to stand, then almost instantly regretted it when he realized just how close they were. If he could only focus, he was sure he could count each individual freckle dusting Billy’s nose.

He snorted. “Prove it.”

“You want me to prove it?” he sputtered, his mind racing as Billy nodded slowly. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, desperate to keep him there, to make Billy trust him. “Your birthday’s on June 10th. Last time, we went to Indianapolis for some artsy underground concert because you said you wanted to show me real music. And I hated it!”

“Well, you have shit taste.”

“Jesus Christ, Billy.” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “Your dad’s a piece of shit. You started growing out your hair as a ‘fuck you’ to him and you liked having something that was yours, but that just meant there was something else he could take away.” Billy’s face hardened and he took a step back. It was nearly summer, but the night felt so cold. “And you’re gay. And he hates that, but you don’t. I always thought it was so cool and amazing that you could still like shit about yourself because back then, I hated pretty much everything about myself. You made me feel better. We had dinner with my parents once and god, it was horrible, but afterwards we sat right out here and you told me about your mom.” The more he spoke, the farther Billy retreated into himself, slamming all his doors and windows until he was looking at Steve with the same raw, restless energy as he had that fateful night outside the Byers house so long ago. “Her name is Annabelle and you always wear her ring. You want to go back to California after graduation to try to find her. She gave you that necklace, too. After you died, Max wore it for a long time. Then I did.”

“Okay,” Billy started loudly, flicking his tongue along his bottom row of teeth like he was sharpening it. “This is freaking me out.”

“I know.”

“I think I’m gonna’ just head back to my place now.” Without another word, he turned and left. Steve called his name a few times, but he didn’t look back or even slow down.

For a while, Steve sat outside drinking and smoking and mentally kicking himself for waiting so long to have Billy back in his life just to fuck it all up. ‘Some things can’t be changed,’ he thought bitterly, over and over again. It’s not like any of it was fair. Last time, Steve got to fuck up (Nancy “The Slut” Wheeler) again (Jonathan’s camera) and again (being an asshole to the other kids at school, to Robin) and again (calling Jonathan a queer), but Billy was the one fuck-up he could never fix. But then the reset came and fixed everything!

Except Billy. It couldn’t fix him. It couldn’t bring his mom back or get him out of his dad’s house. That was why October 15th couldn’t change. Because Billy was still trapped. Would he always be trapped? Was July 4th another day that couldn’t be changed? Was he destined to just love Billy over and over again and push him away over and over again and miss him and miss him and fucking miss him over and over again? Nancy had been right, he was a fucking idiot. All this time waiting for Billy and he’d been too stupid and selfish to realize that the only reason he got to do that was because Billy was still stuck in the same shit he’d always been stuck in.

He fell asleep on the lawn chair Billy had been lying on and woke up late in the day with a sunburn. At that point, there was no reason to go to school so he just stayed home and watched I Love Lucy reruns in his room. And fuck it, it was Wednesday and he was graduating in a month, why go to school for the rest of the week? His parents wouldn’t be back until Saturday morning anyway.

It wasn’t until Friday that he got a visitor. It must’ve been around noon because his head was pounding whenever he tried to open his eyes. If he tried, he could hear a voice or two and some rattling, but he didn’t move. He drifted away again.

Pain crackled on his cheek and when he gasped awake, Robin’s face was looming over his. “You hit me,” he slurred. The living room was a lot darker now.

“Yeah, well, I also cleaned your fucking house, so. You’re welcome, dingus.” Steve chuckled, but it got cut off by a groan as he grabbed the side of his head. “I hate when you get like this,” she said softly. “And you didn’t even invite me, you asshole.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever, just get up. Your boyfriend made you dinner. Though I guess for you, it’s breakfast.”

“Don’t have a boyfriend,” he grumbled, closing his eyes again. Robin smacked him--again. “Jesus, Rob!”

“Get. Up.” There was a clattering sound in the kitchen and they both looked over.

“Billy’s here?” he whispered, watching the way the yellow light moved in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah, dummy, he’s here.”

He sighed, covering his face with both hands. “I don’t wanna’ see him.”

“And I don’t want to be smelling your breath right now, but here we are.”

“You’re being shitty.”

“Oh, I’m being shitty. You’ve been drinking yourself stupid in here for days, didn’t bother calling me over or anything, but yeah, I’m the shitty one.” Guilt settled in his stomach like a rock and he forced himself to sit up. “Attaboy,” Robin said, shoving a glass of water in his hands. “I’ll be back.”

He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was until he took the first sip, then just like that all the water was gone. Billy and Robin were definitely talking about him in the kitchen. He could hear their intense whispering, but his ears were ringing too much for him to make out the actual words. What were the two of them doing in his house anyway? Of course Robin got in, Robin had keys because she’s his best friend, but Billy? The two of them weren’t even really friends per se. Ha, per se. Nancy would be so proud of him for sounding so smart in his head. Not the new Nancy, but the old one. The dead one.

When stepped into the golden rectangle of light in the kitchen doorway, his hair tied back and a dishrag draped over his shoulder, Steve’s breath hitched. The glass cup almost slipped out of his sweaty hands. Neither of them moved and it felt like one ridiculous game of chicken--one that Steve didn’t particularly care if he lost. Billy was waiting for him now, waiting for him to plant his feet and barrel into him, and--

“Y’know, you died in that outfit.”

“Did I?” he asked with all the fake charm he’d used on the moms at the Hawkins Community Pool, looking down at his dirty beater with a frown. “That’s a real shame.”

“It was,” he said, trying his hardest not to back down when Billy met his gaze. For once, he didn’t look violently aware like he was trying to see in a pitch black room. He just looked wide awake. “Do you believe me?”

“October 15th. Robin told me you even knew what song I’d be playing.”

Relief spread through Steve’s body like a morphine drip. “‘Rock You Like A Hurricane.’ It’s still one of my favorites.”

Billy smiled softly, his dark lashes fluttering shut. “Shut up. Come fucking eat. You look like shit and I have questions.”

He told Billy everything he wanted to know. Told him about their fight at the Byers house, Max threatening him with the nail bat, the time he’d had to crash into Billy’s car to save his friends--everything. And everything in between, too, but he saved some of those parts of the story for a time when Robin wasn’t sitting on his kitchen counter and eating a plate of pasta Billy had made. A time when the two of them were drinking beers at Lovers Lake and Steve didn’t have to be scared anymore and Billy didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t interested. They’d been outside together a lot since their talk in Steve’s kitchen and Billy’s tan had blossomed until everything about him reminded Steve of a sunflower.

When they finally kissed, it was so much like the first time, Steve almost couldn’t believe it. It was the same, but different, just like them. It entered through the eyes when Billy leaned in close, his soft gaze fluttering all over Steve’s face and always, always settling on his lips. Just like last time.

Steve brushed a hand under Billy’s light blue shirt, settling it on the small of his back and smiling at the way the warm skin twitched under his palm. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, tightening his grip just a little so Billy would know he really meant it. Just like last time.

Billy worked his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugging him closer and surging forward to claim his lips like Steve was a bright summer fruit he couldn’t get enough of. This time, they weren’t drunk. This time, it wasn’t dark. This time, they weren’t alone. The kids, Joyce, Hopper, and their friends were all closer to the water. The sound of their laughter and the mixtape Jonathan made floated over to them through the trees. The golden heat and the clean smell of the woods grounded Steve in this moment. When they both pulled away, Billy caressed his cheek and stared deeply into his eyes. Just when Steve was getting to a point where the scrutiny was making him blush, Billy pulled him close again, tucking Steve’s face into his neck and laughing.

Later, when they were all out of ice, the two of them drove into town to get some, Billy’s hand on his knee the whole time. It was on Main Street that he noticed a girl in a bright rainbow shirt that looked a lot like the one Max liked to wear. She had long brown hair and she was standing in front of Melvald’s, cupping her hands to peer inside. Before she even turned around, he was running across the street towards her.

He’d been right. Her name was Jane now, officially. Nothing had been stolen from her, except for all of them. When Steve hugged her, she fell into his arms with tears in her eyes. He held her close to his chest with a hand in her hair just like he had all those years ago at the reset. She’d been crying then, too, and so scared, she couldn’t stop shaking. Now, though, when she pulled away, she was just laughing breathlessly and wiping her tears away with a sweet smile.

“How are they?” she asked simply and Steve thought of all of them laughing by the lake and Billy in the convenience store getting ice and probably a pack of Lucky Strike menthols, too.

“They’re so happy, El.”

#mine #harringrove #with a dash of #ronance #and!#elmax #i really wanna expand this story but that's for another time

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thessalian · 5 years ago

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Thess vs Recognition

Playing the “Place the Face” game with Good Omens tonight.

Michael Sheen and David Tennant I am not even going to bother, thank you very much, have a nice day.

Madame Tracy, aka Miranda Richardson: Hello, Rita Skeeter. I didn’t recognise you without your Quick-Quotes Quill.

Greetings, Mr Young, aka Daniel Mays: Goodness, Tivik, you get around; last I saw you, Cassian Andor was killing you on the Ring of Kafrene.

Gabriel, aka Jon Hamm: ...Okay, I have never actually seen even a single solitary episode of Mad Men, so my apologies for not recognising you sooner. Also, THIS is how I find out that they’re remaking / rebooting / giving a sequel to fucking Top Gun. Seriously?!? Gods, can we let the 80s die in peace?

Michael McKean, also known as Shadwell: Mr Green in Clue and a whole lot of animation voice-over work is all well and good, but let’s face it - half of your acting work was because of (and reprising, in most cases) your role in This Is Spinal Tap.

Adria Arjona, aka Anathema Device: I really need to see Pacific Rim: Uprising.

Yusuf Gatewood, Famine: ...I really need to watch The Originals.

Ned Dennehey, Hastur: I love that he’s been in so much horror, sci-fi and suspense and then you just get, like, Jane Eyre. Also uncredited as a prisoner in Rogue One, so hey.

Mireille Enos, War: You deserved SO MUCH BETTER than World War Z.

Ariyon Bakare, Duke of Hell Ligur: As well as Blue Four in Rogue One (apparently there was a lot of Good Omens casting call right off the Rogue One lot? I dunno), he is the one British actor I don’t look at with slight amusement when I see he was in the UK soap Doctors because he actually played one of the starring roles instead of a walk-in patient or something.

Gloria Obianyo, Gabriel: Nothing so much right now, but is going from this one straight to the Dune remake.

Brian Cox, the voice of Death: There is a lot on Brian Cox’s resume (seriously, he’s an Emmy award-winner and has been doing this since 1965) but the thing that caught my eye most is that he was narrator in the TV adaptation of The Colour of Magic. I just kind of imagine him getting this cross his desk and his agent going, “It’s just a voice-acting gig, but it’s a Pratchett adaptation and you liked the last one--” “Who would I be voicing?” “Death.” “...You. Are seriously asking me. If I want to be the voice of TERRY PRATCHETT’S DEATH?!?” “Well, it’s Neil Gaiman’s too, but...” “JUST GIMME THE SCRIPT.” (By contrast, Jamie Hill, Death’s body actor, has mostly been a monk in Doctor Who; I guess they needed someone who was really good at navigating those robes.)

Anna Maxwell Martin, Beelzebub: Mostly period pieces until now. I like the change in trend (nothing against period pieces, though).

Bill Paterson, Tadfield Neighbourhood Watch: Yes, okay, he’s been in a lot of stuff, and props for The Witches, but the man played Lopakhin in The Cherry Orchard and since I had to do that fucking play for Theatre Studies A-level, I know what a bitch that role is so go, you funky Scotsman.

Thaddeus Dowling, played by ... Nick Offerman. I do not know how I missed that. I have not seen Parks and Rec but I have seen enough gifsets that I might as well have. Sorry, Ron; didn’t see you there.

Dagon, lord of the flies, played by ... Nicholas Parsons?!? HOW THE FUCK DID I MISS YOU; YOU HECKLED ME IN PERSON AT A ROCKY HORROR PICTURE STAGE PRODUCTION WHEN YOU WERE NARRATOR? Damn, that was a makeup job.

The Metatron, Derek Jacobi: I’m not even bothering. I saw him on stage as the Inspector at a production of An Inspector Calls. (Funnily, Mrs Young played Sybil Birling in a production of it, so hey.)

Summary: Adam Young’s dad met two residents of hell on the Rogue One set (though one’s uncredited), and I am way too invested in the careers of the actors in the things I like. Or maybe I am just invested enough, I dunno.

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dweemeister · 6 years ago

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A list of all films featured in 2019′s 31 Days of Oscar

This is the exhaustive list of all 388 short- and feature-length films featured during this year’s 31 Days of Oscar marathon (up from 296 last year). Best Picture winners and the one (and only) winner for Unique and Artistic Production are in bold. Asterisked (*) films are films I haven’t seen in their entirety as of the publishing of this post.

Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927)

Two Arabian Knights (1927)*

The Crowd (1928)

Sadie Thompson (1928)*

Speedy (1928)

Street Angel (1928)

A Woman of Affairs (1928)

White Shadows in the South Seas (1928)*

The Broadway Melody (1929)

The Divine Lady (1929)*

Weary River (1929)*

All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)

The Big House (1930)

The Doorway to Hell (1930)*

Flight Commander (1930)*

The Criminal Code (1931)*

Little Caesar (1931)

The Public Enemy (1931)

Flowers and Trees (1932 short)

Grand Hotel (1932)

What Price Hollywood? (1932)*

42nd Street (1933)

Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933)

Morning Glory (1933)*

The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933)*

Cleopatra (1934)*

Imitation of Life (1934)

It Happened One Night (1934)

Manhattan Melodrama (1934)*

The Thin Man (1934)

Alice Adams (1935)*

Captain Blood (1935)

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1935)*

Top Hat (1935)

Dodsworth (1936)

Fury (1936)*

The Great Ziegfeld (1936)

Libeled Lady (1936)

Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936)

Captains Courageous (1937)

Night Must Fall (1937)*

The Prisoner of Zenda (1937)

A Star Is Born (1937)

Way Out West (1937)*

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Boys Town (1938)

Merrily We Live (1938)*

Pygmalion (1938)

You Can’t Take It with You (1938)

Beau Geste (1939)

Dark Victory (1939)

Gone with the Wind (1939)

Goodbye, Mr. Chips (1939)

Gulliver’s Travels (1939)

Lady of the Tropics (1939)*

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)

Ninotchka (1939)

Only Angels Have Wings (1939)*

Stagecoach (1939)

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Wuthering Heights (1939)*

Young Mr. Lincoln (1939)

The Great McGinty (1940)

The Mark of Zorro (1940)

Night Train to Munich (1940)*

Our Town (1940)

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

Rebecca (1940)

Strike Up the Band (1940)

The Thief of Bagdad (1940)

Waterloo Bridge (1940)

Dumbo (1941)

Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941)

Suspicion (1941)

Bambi (1942)

Casablanca (1942)

Johnny Eager (1942)*

Kings Row (1942)*

The Magnificent Ambersons (1942)

Mrs. Miniver (1942)

Now, Voyager (1942)

Random Harvest (1942)

To Be or Not to Be (1942)

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

The Desert Song (1943)*

The Human Comedy (1943)*

Lassie Come Home (1943)

The Ox-Bow Incident (1943)

The Song of Bernadette (1943)

Henry V (1944)*

Lifeboat (1944)

National Velvet (1944)

Anchors Aweigh (1945)

Blithe Spirit (1945)*

Brief Encounter (1945)

The Lost Weekend (1945)

They Were Expendable (1945)*

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)

The Harvey Girls (1946)

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

The Stranger (1946)*

First Steps (1947)*

Forever Amber (1947)*

Life with Father (1947)*

The Perils of Pauline (1947)*

Bicycle Thieves (1948, Italy)

Hamlet (1948)

The Naked City (1948)

The Red Shoes (1948)

I Remember Mama (1948)

Romance on the High Seas (1948)*

Adam’s Rib (1949)*

Battleground (1949)

The Heiress (1949)

A Letter to Three Wives (1949)*

Mighty Joe Young (1949)*

On the Town (1949)

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949)

The Stratton Story (1949)*

The Third Man (1949)

White Heat (1949)

All About Eve (1950)

Broken Arrow (1950)*

Destination Moon (1950)*

Mystery Street (1950)*

Rashômon (1950, Japan)

An American in Paris (1951)

Royal Wedding (1951)

Show Boat (1951)*

Strangers on a Train (1951)

High Noon (1952)

The Quiet Man (1952)

Umberto D. (1952, Italy)

The Band Wagon (1953)

The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T (1953)*

From Here to Eternity (1953)

Julius Caesar (1953)*

Lili (1953)

Little Fugitive (1953)*

Little Johnny Jet (1953 short)*

Titanic (1953)*

Brigadoon (1954)

La Strada (1954, Italy)

On the Waterfront (1954)

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954)

Seven Samurai (1954, Japan)

A Star Is Born (1954)

Blackboard Jungle (1955)

It’s Always Fair Weather (1955)

Marty (1955)

Speedy Gonzales (1955 short)

To Catch a Thief (1955)

Around the World in 80 Days (1956)

The Bespoke Overcoat (1956 short)*

Forbidden Planet (1956)

Lust for Life (1956)

Somebody Up There Likes Me (1956)*

The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)

Funny Face (1957)

Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957)

12 Angry Men (1957)

The Defiant Ones (1958)

Gigi (1958)

Mon Oncle (1958, France)

The Young Lions (1958)*

Ben-Hur (1959)

South Pacific (1958)

The 400 Blows (1959, France)

North by Northwest (1959)

Inherit the Wind (1960)

Macario (1960, Mexico)*

The Time Machine (1960)

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

The Children’s Hour (1961)*

Judgment at Nuremberg (1961)

Through a Glass Darkly (1961, Sweden)*

West Side Story (1961)

Days of Wine and Roses (1962)

How the West Was Won (1962)

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

The Longest Day (1962)

The Miracle Worker (1962)

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)

What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

Bye Bye Birdie (1963)

Charade (1963)

Cleopatra (1963)

The Leopard (1963, Italy)

Tom Jones (1963)*

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow (1963, Italy)*

A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

Mary Poppins (1964)

My Fair Lady (1964)

The Pink Phink (1964 short)*

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964, France)

Doctor Zhivago (1965)

A Patch of Blue (1965)*

The Sound of Music (1965)

The Battle of Algiers (1966, Algeria)

Fantastic Voyage (1966)

Grand Prix (1966)*

A Man for All Seasons (1966)

The Professionals (1966)

Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

The Dirty Dozen (1967)

Doctor Dolittle (1967)*

In the Heat of the Night (1967)

Two for the Road (1967)*

Bullitt (1968)*

Funny Girl (1968)

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1968)*

The Lion in Winter (1968)*

Oliver! (1968)

It’s Tough to Be a Bird (1969 short)*

The Magic Machines (1969 short)*

Marooned (1969)*

Midnight Cowboy (1969)*

The Great White Hope (1970)*

I Girasoli (1970, Italy)*

Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion (1970, Italy)*

Patton (1970)

Tora! Tora! Tora! (1970)

Fiddler on the Roof (1971)

The French Connection (1971)

The Last Picture Show (1971)*

The Godfather (1972)

Sounder (1972)

Travels with My Aunt (1972)*

The Day of the Dolphin (1973)*

The Way We Were (1973)*

Blazing Saddles (1974)

Nashville (1975)

Harlan County U.S.A. (1976)

Network (1976)

The Slipper and the Rose (1976)

Taxi Driver (1976)

Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977)

Smokey and the Bandit (1977)

California Suite (1978)*

Superman (1978)

The Black Hole (1979)

The Black Stallion (1979)

Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)

A Little Romance (1979)

Every Child (1979 short)

Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979)

Atlantic City (1980)*

Kagemusha (1980, Japan)

Das Boot (1981, Germany)

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Annie (1982)

Tron (1982)

Victor/Victoria (1982)*

Blue Thunder (1983)*

Amadeus (1984)

Dune (1984)*

The Times of Harvey Milk (1984)

Agnes of God (1985)*

Back to the Future (1985)

Legend (1985)*

My Life as a Dog (1985, Sweden)

Silverado (1985)*

Hoosiers (1986)

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (1986)

Au revoir les enfants (1987, France)

The Last Emperor (1987)

The Princess Bride (1987)

The Untouchables (1987)*

Stand and Deliver (1988)

Willow (1988)*

Do the Right Thing (1989)

For All Mankind (1989)

Glory (1989)

Henry V (1989)

When Harry Met Sally… (1989)*

Dances with Wolves (1990)

Misery (1990)*

Beauty and the Beast (1991)

The Prince of Tides (1991)*

Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country (1991)

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)

A River Runs Through It (1992)

Toys (1992)*

Unforgiven (1992)

The Age of Innocence (1993)*

Philadelphia (1993)*

The Remains of the Day (1993)

Schindler’s List (1993)

Legends of the Fall (1994)

Three Colors: Red (1994, France/Poland)

Mr. Holland’s Opus (1995)

Hamlet (1996)

Sleepers (1996)*

Star Trek: First Contact (1996)

Children of Heaven (1997, Iran)

Four Days in September (1997, Brazil)*

Titanic (1997)

Saving Private Ryan (1998)

The Sixth Sense (1999)*

South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut (1999)

Toy Story 2 (1999)

Erin Brokovich (2000)*

O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)*

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (2001)

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)

Monsters Inc. (2001)

Y Tu Mamá También (2001, Mexico)*

Chicago (2002)

Big Fish (2003)*

I, Robot (2004)*

The Phantom of the Opera (2004)

Walk the Line (2005)*

The Danish Poet (2006)*

Little Miss Sunshine (2006)

Pan’s Labyrinth (2006, Mexico)

Persepolis (2007, France/Iran)

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)*

The Dark Knight (2008)

Frost/Nixon (2008)*

Man on Wire (2008)*

Milk (2008)*

The Reader (2008)*

Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

The Wrestler (2008)*

The Secret in Their Eyes (2009, Argentina)*

Biutiful (2010, Mexico)*

How to Train Your Dragon (2010)

The Artist (2011, France)

Hugo (2011)

A Separation (2011, Iran)

The Act of Killing (2012, Indonesia/Norway/Denmark)*

Frankenweenie (2012)*

Life of Pi (2012)

Lincoln (2012)

Skyfall (2012)

Ida (2013, Poland)

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

12 Years a Slave (2013)

American Sniper (2014)

Interstellar (2014)

Song of the Sea (2014)

Creed (2015)

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

The Revenant (2015)

Spotlight (2015)

We Can’t Live Without Cosmos (2015 short, Russia)

World of Tomorrow (2015 short)

Ennemis intérieurs (2016 short, France)

Fences (2016)

Moonlight (2016)

My Life as a Zucchini (2016, Switzerland)

Pearl (2016 short)

Baby Driver (2017)*

Dunkirk (2017)

Loving Vincent (2017)

The Shape of Water (2017)

At Eternity’s Gate (2018)*

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018)

Cold War (2018, Poland)

Hale County This Morning, This Evening (2018)*

Mary Poppins Returns (2018)

Shoplifters (2018, Japan)

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)

The eight nominees for Best Picture, including the winner, Green Book (2018)

The fifteen nominees for the short film categories (2018)

#31 Days of Oscar

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