#like if you are just be verbose (which we all know he is) there's a lot of other words out there you could use
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
theladyem · 7 months ago
Text
Opened up Journal 3 to get ideas of words to type for the website/ compare and contrast the vibe to the perspective gained with the Book of Bill and uh
Tumblr media
Interesting verb choice there, Sixer
567 notes · View notes
say-al0e · 10 months ago
Text
Hypothetical
Tumblr media
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Eddie asks a lot of hypothetical questions, just to hear your answer. The answer to this question was more real than you wanted to admit. Warnings: Tiny bit of self-doubt, idiots to lovers. Pairing: Eddie x fem!Reader (think it could be read as GN but just to be safe) Word Count: 2.7k
“Would you fuck my clone?”
The question, asked as casually as if he were inquiring about the weather - though, to his defense, he’d asked weirder - rose above the sound of chainsaws emanating from the television and earned a confused frown as you spared him a sideways glance.
Eddie’s attention remained mostly on Leatherface, chasing unsuspecting victims, but you caught his curious glance as you laughed. Those were the first words spoken in over an hour, certainly a record for your verbose best friend, and you couldn’t help but ask, “What the fuck, Eddie?”
“What?” From his position at the end of the couch, feet propped on the coffee table and head lolled onto the cushions, he shrugged. “It’s a simple question. Would you fuck my clone?”
A beat of silence passed, in which you realized this was one of those moments where Eddie wouldn’t let the question go until he was given a satisfying answer, and you sighed. “I don’t think that’s the question, Eds,” you countered. “Isn’t it usually, ‘would you fuck your own clone’?”
With a dismissive wave of his hand and a scoff, Eddie finally sat up and turned his full attention to you, screaming teenagers and chainsaws forgotten now that he had something better to capture his attention. “That one’s boring,” he reasoned. “We know all the arguments. This is a different question, new arguments.”
“I think we’re fine without arguing,” you teased, reaching for the nearly half-empty bowl of popcorn. “Just watch the movie, Eddie.”
From the corner of your eye, you watched as a look you couldn’t quite recognize flickered across Eddie’s face. However, just as quickly as it appeared, it was covered with a raised brow and a teasing grin. “We’ve seen it a hundred times already. Anyway, what I’m getting from this is, you would fuck my clone. Interesting.”
Eddie did little to hide his amusement as you rolled your eyes and tossed a piece of popcorn at him. “I didn’t say that,” you argued, despite yourself - despite knowing that you were walking into a conversation you weren’t yet sure you wanted any part of.
A hum, unconvinced, met your ears as he reached for the bowl and plucked it from your hands. “Okay,” he prompted, ignoring your outraged huff. “So, tell me. Would you?”
There were a handful of ways you could respond to his probing. The first, shut down his question with a point blank refusal, phrased as a light-hearted joke that did little damage to his ego and even less to your already fragile nerves. The second, play into his game and debate the pros and cons of sleeping with his clone, the ethical ramifications, the conversation he clearly wanted. Or, the third, admit to him a fact that you’d concealed since the summer of 1984.
Any way you could have him, real Eddie or clone, you would take it.
That was, solidly, not in the lead. So, you opted for the second approach.
“Jeez, Eds,” you sighed, stealing popcorn from the bowl now resting on his lap. “I don’t know. Maybe,” you conceded. “Depends, I guess. Is he, like, total you or some weird, kinda fucked up clone? Like, is he totally evil or incapable of coherent thought or, I don’t, off somehow?” As an afterthought, you joked, “More so than the real you, anyway.”
“Rude.” There was no bite in the declaration, only a fond amusement that made your chest ache, but you did your best to ignore it as he hummed. “Clone’s a totally normal, complete carbon copy. Everything about him is exactly the same, down to the last hair.”
“So, no aspirations to rule the world or become, like, the next Leatherface?”
Eddie grinned. “That’s my backup plan, you know, if music doesn’t work. So, guess it’d be his, too,” he admitted, only breaking into laughter when you grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. “Seriously,” he relented, “nothing weird. Just another me. Everything you know and love, times two.”
With a sigh, you lifted your legs onto the couch and hugged your knees to your chest. “Then… I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely audible over the screams still echoing from the television. “Maybe?”
“It’s a yes or no question, babe,” he reminded you, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he studied you. “Shouldn’t be this hard.”
That look, the one that you had difficulty placing, returned and despite your uncertainty as to what it was, you were certain that you didn’t like it very much. Doubt, or maybe hurt, were the closest emotions you could identify though neither made much sense to you in the moment.
Still, rather than ask, you rolled your eyes. “What’s the point of this conversation?”
There was none, it was just for fun - a debate, like the thousands of others you’d had over the course of your friendship - and Eddie said a much as he shrugged. “Isn’t one,” he declared, offering you the last handful of popcorn. “I just want to know if you’d fuck my clone.”
When you refused, he returned the bowl back to the coffee table before reaching for your ankle. With a gentle tug, he encouraged you to rest your feet on his lap as his fingers began to tap a beat that only existed inside his head against your skin. “Why does it matter?”
Eddie shrugged once more, though this time, he glanced at the television rather than you as he answered. “Because I asked and you always answer.”
“I do,” you relented, sighing as you also spared the screen a glance. “Well, what’s the right answer, then? There has to be one.”
This time, he shook his head as the tapping of his fingers grew a touch faster. “Right answer’s the true one.”
For a moment, you simply studied Eddie. His side profile, bathed in the warm glow of the television, was the picture of concentration as he watched a scene you’d seen a thousand times before. Only, you knew him well enough to see the telltale signs that he was in no way paying as close of attention as he should’ve been.
The slightest tick in his jaw, the quick bite of the inside of his cheek, the delayed blinking; all signs that he was waiting more intently for your answer than he wanted you to believe.
Rejection - no matter how hypothetical - never seemed possible when it came to Eddie. So, you sighed and conceded, “Okay, fine. Sure, I’d fuck your clone.”
Eddie hummed, seemingly unsurprised and feigning nonchalance as he nodded as if the answer confirmed something he already suspected. And there were a thousand ways in which you expected him to respond; none of which could’ve compared to him declaring, “So, you’d fuck my clone but not me.”
Again, rejection was not an option. However, you had no intention of admitting to him that you’d wanted him for years. There was no world in which you could see yourself admitting to him that you thought he was beautiful - with his doe eyes and playful grin. Telling him how you felt would likely end in an awkward silence at best and a ruined friendship at worst.
So, you opted for a careful denial. “What? I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re not saying anything to the contrary,” he countered, turning his head to spare you a cursory glance. There was something there, beneath the amused glimmer in his eyes, that unnerved you - something far more serious than you were expecting - but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
When you shot him an unimpressed glance, cutting your eyes at him before returning your attention to the television, he shrugged, teasing grin never faltering. “I never said that. I answered a hypothetical and you’re reading into it.”
Eddie met your perhaps too sharp denial with a raised brow as he gave up the guise of watching the movie. “So, am I wrong?”
“Would you stop putting words into my mouth?” You huffed as you reached for the bowl of popcorn, desperate for something to distract yourself from making a confession you knew you would regret. “I never said that. All I said was that I’d fuck your clone, I answered the question.”
“Okay, fine. You never said you wouldn’t fuck me but it’s never happened. Never even sort of, almost, maybe happened,” he reminded you - as if you needed it. “So, you would fuck my clone but not me. Why?”
“Because we’re friends, Eddie,” you shot back, resisting the urge to roll your eyes as you popped a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “I’ve known you since I was ten.” 
The excuse sounded weak in your own ears, but it was all you could muster without breaking down and confessing that you would, in fact, sleep with him. If only he’d ask. If only it wouldn’t destroy your friendship. If only it was that simple.
Still, Eddie was relentless. “But my clone would have all my memories, totally the same person,” he reminded you. “He’d be your friend, just like me. But you’d fuck him. So, why not me?”
“This is stupid,” you huffed. “Why do you care?” He’d never pushed so hard, not in pursuit of a hypothetical question meant to pass the time, and you were genuinely curious why he seemed so interested in your answer, or your lack thereof.
“I’m a naturally curious person,” he argued, shrugging as he squeezed your ankle. “It’s just a stupid hypothetical. C’mon, why would you hypothetically fuck my clone but not me?”
There was little doubt in your mind that he would continue pushing until he got the answer he was looking for, especially as it seemed that he’d already made up his mind that he was right, so you shifted yourself in a huff. With your legs now hugged to your chest, eyes on the television to avoid meeting his gaze as you admitted in a snap, “God, okay. I’d fuck your clone because it’s the closest I’d get to being with you without actually destroying our entire relationship. Happy with that answer?”
“What?” Eddie sounded genuinely surprised and you could feel the warmth of his gaze burning into your skin as you purposely kept your gaze on the television.
“If your clone is you, all your memories, your mannerisms, your looks, I’d fuck your clone because then I’d get to see what it’s like to be with you,” you admitted, words escaping despite every fiber of your being telling you to be quiet. “I’d get everything without the risk of losing you when I fuck it all up.”
Eddie shifted closer then, careful to keep a few inches of space between you but no longer nestled into the opposite edge of the couch as he tipped his head to get a better glimpse of your face. “What do you mean, when you fuck it up?”
Frustrated tears - at admitting a secret you swore would follow you to the grave, at allowing him to get under your skin when he was simply asking an innocent question, at allowing yourself to get so worked up over something so simple - stung at the backs of your eyes as you huffed. “I’m… you know me, Eddie. I don’t,” you sighed, cutting yourself off, before taking a deep breath. “I’m prickly. I don’t do well with romance. I freak out and run,” you reminded him. “Even if you felt the same, if we worked out enough to not have our friendship go down in flames, there’s still a chance I’d fuck it up and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to run from you.”
“Hey.” Eddie shifted even closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, and sighed when you refused to glance at him. Regardless, he exclaimed, “That’s why we’d be different.”
“What?” Of all the things you expected him to say, that was the last. With furrowed brows and tears still lining your lashes, you tipped your head to glance at him. “Why?”
“Because,” he began, meeting your eyes for the first time in what felt like hours, “when you try to run, I know what you’re doing. When you get all weird or try to push me away, I know it’s not really you wanting me to go. I know you. I get you, just like you get me.”
“Eddie.”
Of all the ways you’d expected him to react, of all the ways you expected him to acknowledge your feelings for him, returning them was not on the list. For years, you’d convinced yourself that there was no way he would return your feelings, there was no way you would ever be able to acknowledge those feelings without losing your best friend, and there was still a deep-rooted fear that, despite his seeming certainty that his understanding would make a difference, any attempt at a relationship would only end in heartbreak.
That didn’t seem to matter to him as he pressed on. “I’m serious. It’s us,” he continued, this time reaching out to press a hand to your knee. “It’s always been us, always will be us. There’s nothing you can do to get rid of me. Not now.”
“You can’t know that,” you sighed, though it was nowhere near as confident as you hoped it would be. “We can’t see the future.”
“We can’t,” he agreed. “Not yet, anyway, but the nineties seem promising.” When you rolled your eyes, barely suppressing a smile, he laughed. “But that’s the fun part. We do our best to make our own future. It’s always going to be together, might as well come clean and really be together instead of making ourselves miserable pretending.” Before you could respond, offer another half-hearted refusal, he pressed on. “What do we have to lose?”
“Everything.”
Eddie shook his head, completely unconvinced that anything bad would come of allowing yourselves to try. “I don’t believe that. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”
“How can you be so certain?” You wished you had an ounce of Eddie’s certainty, his true belief that the pair of you could make it, but you were skeptical. Neither of you had much luck in life, neither of you had much outside of one another, and losing him would be far too great.
However, you were tired of pretending that a shared future was not what you wanted. 
The possibility that your future could go up in flames, that you could destroy the best friendship you’d ever had, worried you. It kept you awake at night. But now knowing that Eddie felt the same, that he wanted the same future you did, there was no way you could turn him down.
For all your fear, for all your hesitance, saying no was not an option.
“Because we’ve been in love for years and nothing bad has happened yet.” He said it as if it was the most obvious answer he could give, as if it made all the sense in the world, and if you really stopped to think about it, it did.
“Can you promise me something?”
Eddie shifted ever closer, nodding easily as you reached for his hand. “Anything.”
“Can you promise me that no matter what happens, we’ll always be friends? Even if we don’t work out, if something happens, promise me that we’ll still be there for each other.”
“I promise. Nothing hypothetical about that,” he agreed, corner of his mouth lifting when you offered a soft smile.
The moment stretched around you, nothing existed outside of the pair of you as Eddie tugged you into his side. It was easy, natural, and you melted into his touch despite the fear lingering in the back of your mind.
There was a brief worry that this could be a mistake. That allowing yourselves to intertwine your futures so thoroughly would only end in heartbreak, but he was right. For as long as you could remember, it had been you and Eddie. There was nothing that had managed to wedge you apart yet. And pretending had no guarantee of working in the long term.
So, you decided to dive in to the deep end and allow yourself to truly fall. There was no situation, real or hypothetical, in which he would allow you to hit the ground.
No matter what, you knew that he would be there to catch you. 
________________________________________________________
Author's Note: I spent my entire day in meetings. All the meetings. So many meetings. I also have a dentist appointment on Wednesday and I am Terrified. So have this.
Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff​, @valthevalkyrie-main​, @crying-caro​, @inglourious-imagines​
921 notes · View notes
alivegirldetectiveagency · 8 months ago
Text
The show gives us very little information about edwin’s life. i’m pretty sure all we know is (1) he read detective stories (2) is father would call crystal a bobtail (3) he was presumably bullied (i say presumably because the ritual could have been a first incident but i find that unlikely just cause. the severity of it)
i hope we learn a little more if we get a season 2 because i think edwins childhood would give interesting insight into him (this goes for all the characters actually) but i think we can make a lot of assumptions about what his life was like based off the time period
(disclaimer: i am not an expert by any stretch of the imagination, so i apologize for any inaccuracies)(and for any typos)
this post got kinda long so the rest is under the cut
edwin lived from 1900-1916 which mostly encompasses the edwardian era (1901-1910). for the purposes of this post i will be talking as if it was all edwardian for simplicity and also because the last few years of the victorian era and the first few years after edward vii would have been very similar. i am also operating under the assumption the paynes were upper class because (1) vibes (2) edwin is very formal which would have been emphasized the most in the upper classes (3) he had the time and money to go to boarding school which still wasn’t very accessible (although education was growing in importance)
the importance of childhood was growing in the era and there was a lot more leisure time and entertainment. still, etiquette and manners were very important so there would have had the “seen and not heard” attitude towards children. in upper class families, child rearing would have been done by a nanny and not the mother. the father as head of the house would have been strict and interacted little with the children. so edwin probably saw very little of his parents while growing up even before boarding school. since edwin was a son his father might have taken him out for things like shooting/hunting but that would have been just him and his father (and brothers if he had any). also edwin does Not seem like he would have enjoyed that so i dunno if much bonding would have occurred during those outings. family time in general would be rather brief. He would have had more time spent with siblings his age since younger children would have spent most of their time in the nursery/with the nanny.
i’m going to brush past the school life part because i do not know much about it other than that he would have started at st Hilarions around 13. and that i’m pretty sure corporal punishment was used in boarding schools like it at the time? (not entirely sure on that front it depends on if the school is state sponsored) we can infer from the show that edwin did not have a Great time at school but i don’t know what the specifics would have been like
etiquette was very very important. i don’t think the edwardian era was quite as strict as the victorian era but there was still a LOT of social expectations. including the perfect posture george rexstrew does as edwin. etiquette would also include addressing everyone properly and limited affection. you also wouldn’t really touch anyone! not to get their attention or shake hands in greeting or clapping someone on the back. Self control was everything even in times of excitement or distress. Social classes were very strict although the industrial revolution created the neavue riche so social mobility was not impossible. new rich families often tried to adapt the traditions of the (aristocratic) upper class but integration was slooow. (Middle class families would adopt trends from the upper classes too). while formality was important, language in general was simplifying partially due to mass newspapers. if you’ve ever read Oliver Twist or another Dickens story, the language is very verbose and hard to follow which is par the course for victorian literature but less so for edwardian literature.
speaking of literature and entertainment we know edwin liked detective stories. he reads a max carrados story (which started in 1914) to charles and in edwin’s death flashback you see him with a detective penny/dime novel (in the scene you can read “The Aldine Tip Top Tales, High Hat Harry” and google tells me the rest of the title is “The Base Ball Detective”). Edwin probably also read Sherlock Holmes which was still popular. Growing up he might have Peter Pan/Peter and Wendy (the title changed after its initial publishing in 1904) and The Tale of Peter Rabbit (1902). And more short stories and dime novels (like the Aldine company ones) since they were getting very popular at the time. Entertainments like the Winter Gardens and Pleasure Beach in Blackpool were also growing popularity. but generally outdoor upper class entertainment would have been tennis, hunting, or racing. (fun fact the 1908 summer olympics was in london so edwin might have watched it as a child!) there also would have been a lot of dinner parties but those would have been for the parents to maintain or increase social status and not necessarily include the children.
overall edwin’s childhood probably included a lot of extravagant entertainment. He would not have spent much time with his parent so unless edwin had siblings his early childhood would have probably been lonely. canon does not suggest he really made friends while in school either.
Canon and fanon has touched on how edwin’s social skills took a hit from being in hell for 70 years (which is definitely true). But on top of just escaping hell, edwin is using knowledge/skills from a vastly different social era when he first meets charles. it must have been really jarring the first few years of being friends because charles’s ideas/experiences with friendship were WILDLY different than edwin’s
296 notes · View notes
escespace · 6 months ago
Text
Merlin and Arthur but maybe this continues like this:
Arthur doesn't believe shit. What do you mean Merlin doesn't remember him? HIM?! Who does he think he is? He's been looking for him for weeks like a jilted lover (not that he is one) and when they meet again he doesn't remember anything of what they have experienced but he does remember that Gwaine once split eight apples with his head?
As expected, Arthur lashes out. The guy tends to be a brute when his emotions get too much. Obviously, he clashes with Merlin who doesn't let anyone walk all over him. So the knights are forced to endure a back and forth of sarcasm and bad temper.
«You can't talk to me like that, I'm a prince»
«How could I be sure of that? Memory loss, remember, you royal idiot?»
«I couldn't forget it because you keep repeating it to me!»
«I wouldn't repeat it if it didn't seem like the one with head problems is someone else who isn't me. Could you tell me if there have been many blows to your head or if it's just the nobility inflating it so much that it doesn't allow anything new to enter?»
«I'll show you lots of blows to the...»
I don't need to say that they didn't manage to do much that day. The knights looked for an inn and rested with their hearts heavy with worry for the young ex-servant who seemed to have forgotten parts of his life.
The next day, Arthur goes out to find his knights already talking to Merlin. Everyone seems very happy, chatting and laughing like any other time, but from what he understood from the previous day, it's just him that he doesn't seem to remember. Again, what kind of memory loss is that?
Talking to the knights, Merlin finds out why they are there and offers to accompany them to talk to someone who other townspeople have pointed out as a possible witness and this is because, SURPRISE, coincidentally, he is on his way there. He is a hard-working man whose elderly mother is ill and Merlin has been hired to prepare the medicine she requires.
The truth is that the man was in the area where the whole incident against those who went to look for the sorcerer happened because moments before he had met with Merlin to exchange the brew. And now Merlin wants to know if he really saw something that could incriminate him or endanger the sorcerer he helped escape.
They go to the man's house, do what they have to do, get nothing because the man didn't see anything (bullshit but he believes in Merlin)
So they keep searching and investigating, and Merlin accompanies them because he needs to make sure they don't find the people he's helped move (not just in that town) so he bombards them with verbose until they spill the beans, and no one believes anything bad about it because this is sweet and naive Merlin, please...
And more verbal challenges are exchanged between Arthur and Merlin because Arthur can't stand the tall man acting like nothing happened with everyone but him and he must find a way to get Merlin to admit that everything ut's either a bad joke (which will earn him a few nights of polishing every brick in the castle) or he says something that finally makes sense of how he forgot Arthur and if this way irritates him to the point of his ears glow from how red they get, that's just a bonus
«If I don't remember that he's a noble and I stab him, is it really illegal?»
«IT'S ILLEGAL IF YOU STABB ANYONE, MERLIN"
"What if no one sees it? Is it still illegal?»
«Now you're just playing dumb»
«No, no, Lance, I do think he has a couple of good points»
«Don't encourage him, Gwaine»
Anyway, somehow they end up discovering that the men who were sent to find the accused are a group that every time they are sent they return to Camelot with stories sufficiently disturbing to avoid too many questions since the sorcerers this group Usually look for never make it to Camelot.
Perhaps they find out while they are divided. One group is at the inn eating and it is there that they meet the derailed knights (we would call them the haters)... So the round table connects the dots and a fight breaks out.
On the other hand, half of the round table that was not looking for food finds out about the haters from a survivor who explains to them that these so-called knights seek to exterminate sorcerers by his own hand.
«It is not their right to judge. The king's law must be given by the king» Arthur says
«It's not as if the judging part happens much in front of the king either» Merlin attacks. «more like simply sentence and death. Even if they are not really sorcerers or even if there was no harm or injury»
Lancelot is the one who silences Merlin before a fight breaks out, calming him down by speaking comfortingly because there is no time to waste.They must meet up with the others because if they are lucky perhaps the group of haters will still be around and they can catch them there instead of in Camelot where the situation is still tense as to prove that there are even weaknesses within the army...
The problem is, as we know, that the haters are fighting at that very moment with the other members of the round table and they outnumber them.
So as he opens the door of the inn a dagger immediately flies towards Merlin, who is the one who is going ahead. But it does not hit him but Arthur who somehow quickly got in the way.
Blood blooms like a dam that overflows before Merlin's eyes, eyes that instantly turn golden, causing every Rebel knight (every hater) to fall unconscious. And isn't Arthur supposed to be unconscious at times like this too? Because he definitely shouldn't have seen that, he didn't want to see it and now that he has he must acknowledge that Merlin has magic
.
.
.
Continuation
354 notes · View notes
raven-at-the-writing-desk · 10 months ago
Note
Hi!! I sorta get the vibe that maybe Rook has some deep rooted trauma from his childhood?? Just because of how secretive he is; i know hes eccentric but i feel like it’s more than that. A lot of ppl are upset at Vil for “changing” Rook somehow but i feel like rook changed his appearance to match with Vil, moved to pomefiore, etc. because HE wanted to be more like Vil, i feel like him meeting Vil was a rly big turning point for him. And with how upset he was at having to hurt dream Vil and Neige (and his fanboy bedroom😭😭) i feel like he’s really dependent on both of them for his happiness and he’s avoiding dealing with some traumatic experience, but this could be a stretch. I was wondering what your thoughts were. Sorry this was so long, have a nice night!!🫶
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Mmm, maybe? There's certainly nothing to disprove the idea, although there also isn't much to support it. Rook doesn't strike me as someone who is scared or put off by most things. He was very much able to keep his calm and composure even in demanding, high-stress situations like the STYX base raid in book 6 and the rescue operation in Endless Halloween Night. If he has experienced something dangerous and/or dark, he gives me the impression that he could handle himself just fine. (This isn't to downplay trauma; I'm just saying that Rook could very well be the type of person that reacts and copes well with it.) As for him being secretive, it could be for other reasons such as his family's line of work (which is implied to be pretty important, since they have warp pads and villas all over Twisted Wonderland). This would be reasoning similar to why Jade and Floyd's father's occupation is kept dubious. Rook's secretive nature could also be an intentional diversion (ie purposefully playing "the fool") so it's easier for his targets to lower their guards around him or not take him seriously. Really, there's many reasons for his enigmatic and eccentric attitude. I'm also of the opinion that you don't necessarily need to have a deep-rooted trauma to get deep into fandom or stan culture. Sometimes you just get really into something and want to dedicate your entire being to that which holds your attention! For Rook, that's Neige and Vil--and it hurts him on a deep level to have to harm those who have brought him so much joy. I liken it to like... how TWST fans have merch shrines dedicated to their favorite boys. Non-Twsties may not understand our love and dedication to these characters, nor why we may get upset if those merch shrines are destroyed or damaged.
I think a lot of Rook's emotional attachment to Neige and Vil doesn't come from "relying" on them to fill in some void within himself. Rather, the behavior stems from him literally viewing them as pinnacles of beauty, combined with his own reverence for beauty itself and how they've helped his own character development. We know that, as a child, Rook struggled to express himself and was first introduced to the magic of the arts when he watched a play that starred Neige. The performance and show must have deeply resonated with Rook. Later on, we see that he, as a first year Savanaclaw student, acts much closer to the Rook we know of today. Invasive, bright, speaking his mind in a verbose way, etc. This makes me think that it was through stanning Neige that Rook was motivated to express himself in a more open manner. Then, when Rook meets Vil, he's inspired and encouraged to beautify himself so as to be like the works of art he already admires. As you've said, Vil isn't the one forcing change on Rook; instead, Vil gives the suggestion and Rook becomes enraptured with the idea--to the point where he changes dorms against Vil's advice. This is another huge turning point in Rook's life. He changes dorms, becomes Vil's right-hand man, and drastically changes his appearance too. This is all so he can be closer to the "beauty" he wishes to see, so he can fully dedicate himself to that chase. Neige was the impetus that started it all, and Vil is the one who motivated Rook to go "above and beyond" in his pursuit of beauty. So thinking about it, Rook has gone on his own journey of personal growth, and Neige and Vil are both closely tied to that. It's like how some of us TWST fans have been with the game for a few years now. We've grown and changed, and TWST has been with us every step of the way. I bet you're a totally different person today than you were when you first came across your current hyperfixations. That's bound to deepen the emotional connection we already have with the object of our affections--be it TWST for us, or Neige and Vil for Rook, no trauma necessary. From all of that, I get the impression that Rook cherishes Neige and Vil because he has "grown up" with them and they're so pivotal to who he is and has become as a person. When he has to turn his arrow on them, it may hurt him in the sense that he's destroying his passions or the very figures who have inspired him to come as far as he has. That's how I interpret it!
I still think it's fine to headcanon whatever you want for Rook's past though! There's no harm in filling in the gaps with whatever you think suits the character or the story.
167 notes · View notes
fatesundress · 1 year ago
Text
⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.
tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc
note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.
word count. 4.5k
request. yes!
Tumblr media
He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.
He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 
He does.
Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.
You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 
You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 
It’s all just buzz.
Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.
Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.
It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 
What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?
It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.
So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.
You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”
Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.
You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.
(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)
With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.
But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.
So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.
The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 
His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.
The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.
“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.
“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No, we haven’t.”
He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”
“Pleasure.”
You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.
He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.
His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.
They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.
But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.
You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.
In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 
Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 
No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.
So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 
You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 
To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.
“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”
“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.
“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.
“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”
“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”
The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.
“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”
She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.
“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”
You engage with detached interest. “Really?”
And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.
“Do we have any classes together?”
You blink up at him. “No.”
“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 
His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.
You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 
“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.
His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.
“Did you hear me?"
“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”
You’re not sure you believe that. 
You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —
Tom is gone. 
Your breath is caught.
“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”
You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”
He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.
“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.
“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.
“That was talking.”
“But you’re —”
“Belby.”
He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 
Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.
Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.
“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”
Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”
Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 
The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.
“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"
He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.
“I'm being what?"
“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."
Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"
“Did she?” you hiss.
“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”
“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”
“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”
He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.
Oh.
Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.
“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”
He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”
“So we’re in agreement.”
He hums a non-answer.
Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.
Interesting he’s still playing.
You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.
“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.
You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”
His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.
With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.
“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.
The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.
“Tom...”
He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.
Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.
“Tom —”
“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.
Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.
His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 
One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.
The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 
You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.
As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.
Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 
And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.
His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.
Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.
You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.
“What… What?”
“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.
And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.
“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”
“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”
Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.
His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”
You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.
“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”
“Please?” he echoes mockingly.
“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.
And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.
He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.
Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.
It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 
He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.
When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.
He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.
It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.
His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.
You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.
Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.
Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.
“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.
When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.
He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.
You give them to him.
Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.
The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.
Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.
You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.
He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 
This time it does.
You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.
You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.
It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.
Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.
You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.
He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.
“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”
He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”
He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.
Tumblr media
taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]
725 notes · View notes
heartaces · 5 months ago
Text
𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐔𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝟑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 GALE EDITION ⟶ part one
Tumblr media
“charming. hell is truly where we make it.” 
“all right, let that anger out however you see fit.” 
“i think i’ll need a drink with the rest of that story.”
“better safe than, well, dead.” 
“i see the art of eloquence is alive and well.”
“i’m awed, impressed, and a little bit scared of you right now.” 
“let’s try to be diplomatic, shall we?” 
“the dignified thing for me to say is ‘no, of course not. forthrightness before all’, but honestly? yes… i would have rather you lied.”
“you and i have very different definitions of right and wrong.”
“given my propensity towards verbosity, it surely can’t be a surprise that i have a practised tongue.” 
“if you think you know best, go right ahead.” 
“allow me to live dangerously while i still can.” 
“if you use that knife, i will incinerate you.” 
“sweet that you care enough to murder me… mind me if you don’t?”
“i’m an open book, requiring only your gentle hands to turn my pages.”
“oh, now that can’t be comfortable. especially for the corpses.”
“don’t take this the wrong way, but i think i’ve just lost all respect for you.”
“hmm… good back support, but a little too tyrannical for my taste.” 
“we all have our quirks when it comes to using magic. some more than others.”
“ha, you truly are testing the patience of a man who could level a city if he wished, you know.”
“i find you quite irresistible. even illuminated by such rotten light as this place produces.”
“i hope i didn’t make too much of an ass of myself just now.”
“that’s… it? she ‘annoyed you’? if that was just cause for killing someone i’d be dead a thousand times over!”
“might i suggest that was a little too easy?”
“well, this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on.”
“the hand that feeds is the hand that’s loved. it’ll never leave your side now.” 
“stop licking the damn thing!” 
“i hope it has been made abundantly clear that to kill me is… counterproductive.”
“a little premature for us to start celebrating, i suppose.” 
“there is poetry to be found in even the dingiest of holes.” 
“destroying magic like this was my bread and butter.”
“generosity is always a noble virtue - whether it be in the streets, at the charity box, or betwixt the sheets.”
 “not how i would’ve done it.”
“i suppose such wicked killers deserve wicked ends.” 
“oh, i do apologize. i meant: are you studied in magic? namely: are you a wizard? which you are not.”
“your hide, your choice. not quite my cup of tea, though.” 
“wonderful! the more, the merrier.” 
“as an expert on the subject - i’d like to point out that blowing oneself up is never the solution.”
“i have a cat, a library, and a weakness for a good glass of wine. and if the mood takes me, i’m known to try my hand at poetry.” 
“how about now you make him kiss your feet next?”
“she’s, erm, perhaps a little rough around the edges… but i suppose i can be smooth enough for two.” 
90 notes · View notes
sayyourprayers · 4 months ago
Text
Why Will's resentment of El is not an in-show theme:
Diorama scene
Scene begins with El completely clueless about the school dynamics - eg. waving hi to someone who dgaf. She knows she isn't having a great time (hence lying to Mike) but at the same time she feels like THIS IS THE DAY when everything will change. Bruh if you haven't gotten the memo till a day before spring break maybe Hopper didn't call you stupid enough.
Talking about Hopper - presumed dead - presumed hawkins mall fire hero - subject of El's direyama, it wasn't Will's job to find a hero for El nor was it his responsibility to to suggest she make a projected presentation (his own project's a chart ffs). The shots of Will looking nervous and upset when El presents is for 2 reasons:
i) She followed Angela
ii) She followed Angela
It doesn't matter what your project is, your bullies aren't bullying you for quality control purposes. I guess people who think they can just intervene and stop bullying by their aura alone, truly have no idea how bullying works. Hopefully, for better understanding the material being analysed (to death), they do get to experience being at the receiving end of it, even if it's just a little.
As per El's own admission she chose the diorama as a visual aid - as she was allowed to. Idk if y'all expected Ms. My grammar's getting better also to do a verbose write-up or Ms. sheltered in the lab has got no one poor bby to just suddenly know and find heroic inspiration in famous personalities. What is it? Is she undersocialised and trapped or not? Analyse that.
2. Post presentation
Will tries to assuage El that her presentation wasn't that bad (not a lie that it was great but it truly wasn't the worst) But Ms. friends don't lie won't listen to him. (omg willel wonder twins friends). Sidenote: how was Will gonna tell her that her project was "not what she should have made"? I am guessing the lines would be similar to Angela's and El's response would be similar to El's. Anywho. I'm not spending more time analysing this scene that was clearly meant to establish that El's lying in her letter to Mike and she's not really having a great time in California - which isn't just about the school and bullying btw but also (moreso) about her father's death and the loss of her powers (shown by the scene of her walking away merging into a depressed max doing the emo walk to the chart topping kate bush song: nordic walking really fast up a cliff.) But let's forget all that on-screen text for fanfic hit pieces.
3. Die a rammer
Before El's homage to Hopper meets the wrath of Devila there's a small scene (bby scene tiny as hell uwu) of El receiving her maths tests results. And they were F-ing bad. Another scene to establish how much creative writing went into El's letters to Mike. Will should have tutored her though, I agree. The least he could have done for the girl that got him kidnapped and then saved him from the kidnapper - but was it really saving if he's forever changed? Not important: this is about establishing Will's guilt and El obviously has none.
Anyway, El is minding her business and California dreamin' but Angela and the minions trip her up and methodically destroy her diorama. It doesn't help that an enraged El tries to telekinekick Angela's ass, but as we all know (and now re-know) she has lost her powers and is sad and frustrated about it.
Now some brilliant scientific minds of our generation wanted Will to step into that shit show and (and what?) defend El? The guy that famously freezes? The guy who loaded up a gun in 3.5 seconds but froze up and didn't use it on a literal monster with a monsterface? The same guy who has NO POWERS (would be copying El) and has been bullied throughout his life, not only in school by his peers but even whole ass adults. They called him slurs, egged on by none other than his own Papa. So the great analysts with zero experience in bullying and less than basic level of empathy towards bullied people, wanted Will to shatter his little never seen before peaceful Cali existence to save El after the fact? Yes, Zombie boy go save your social pariah wonder woman channeling sister friend. The fact is, he NEVER abandoned her, but he also didn't have enough social standing at school to prevent El from getting bullied. (A point missed in all analyses.)
He was upset and worried and headed over to console El, not in secret no no, out in the open. He is not a fighter. He has never stood up to his own bullies. He's only "sassy" with his friends and family, people he's close to and feels safe with (a feeling he associates with El too, as seen in his "sassiness" with her, but that's for later.)
Poor El had to be rescued by the teacher herself. No other person in that entire school that was present did anything even remotely expressing sympathy - no they were all laughing at her. Only the teacher and Will were in her corner. So much for resentment.
4. Rink O Maniacs
Let's begin with the airport waiting area: Two happy Byers pookies (yes even I have to concede that El was a pookie here) waiting for their incelebrity crush/love - disappointed almost immediately by the scrotoid they fancy cuz they've not discovered feminism yet.
El has the whole day planned, Will is there around them cuz I guess he's too young to be hotboxing with (a concerned and all-knowing) Jonathan and my man Argyle. I mean they could've bonded over being stressed out over not their girlfriends.
Instead though, Angela and the aerobics class decided to eff up El's planned dayte. Angela on being called El--er--Jane's friend grabs her and heads over to the rink. Will knows El's lying, but was he supposed to idk just blurt it out with all that audience? What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to pre-empt the attack (either) in a crowded place? He wasn't physically gonna stop anyone, let's be real. If Angela would have picked on him, he'd be the one on the rink dressed in milkshake. So let's not pretend it's a reaction unique to seeing El in distress. No that's his response to BEING DISTRESSED - which he was, seeing his sisterfriend whom he likes and doesn't resent (apart from her being the love of Mike's life) in trouble.
Mike goes "above and beyond" i.e. reacts the way y'all would've loved Will to react (but it's not his gene type). Will however is worried and the one that alerts Mike once he realises, things are no longer gonna go anywhere but down under. He finally, reluctantly, but for his sisterfriend El, tells Mike about her problems, or that she's having them. Mike also can hear what's being announced for all the rink (a dedication to Jane the snitch) and coupled with what Will's told him reacts fast and tries (the operative here, he failed too) to stop the show.
Acting prowess aside, Mike and Will are both shocked and worried by El's "wipeout" in a crowded rink where it seems nobody likes her. Mike calls out to El who runs away hurt and embarrassed n not in the mood to answer him.
Now, they BOTH look for El, and MIKE the cunt thinks it's a great time to have a one on one with Will, about him "sabotaging" the day. (I still don't know how he did that, since M11 were pretty much enjoying the date till Angela appeared). The stupid gay fight happens, whatever man, idgaf.
El straightening up in the staff closet hears Angela and the pussycats (and not stupid byler) laughing (most likely at her) and decides, powers or no powers, Angela's gonna feel it tonight. The iconic Angela facelift happens after El's appeals to salvage the day and protect her lies are dismissed. Mike and Will are both again there to give loud reactions and Mike manages to be a moid even in that situation and questions El's overreaction (he at least truly believes that, unlike Will who is ready to lie to the cops abt it being an accident, lol) (Also, a quick mention Mike doesn't remind her of Brenner, Mike's the final straw that takes her back to the lab, she's already feeling weirded out by the blood and the people surrounding her, but ya whatever.)
Commentary:
Will asking El about why she's lying to Mike, isn't just him caring about Mike being lied to over El's well-being. If one's to engage a third braincell, one would notice that Will, too, found out about El's lies that day itself. He realised cuz he lives with his sisterfriend and is with her at school and at not school and so knows whatever she's saying and Mike's recalling from the letters has more imagination put into it than his painting. Will is annoyed at El and Mike (El - cuz he says it, Mike - cuz Mike says it) for being made a third wheel and also being greeted awkwardly (let's not forget he literally didn't gift Mike the painting which he painstakingly made cuz of Mike's weirdo behaviour.) That's not resentment, that's plain annoyance - an emotion Will has shown multiple times over the course of 4 seasons. His emotions don't only exist in the context of El and Mike's existence - you may ask Jonathan and Joyce, if you don't believe me.
It's hard for some people to read Will's character as anything other than a lovesick fool or brother of the main character, and their analysis reeks of this. Let's not forget, unlike Mike Wheeler, Will actually has his OWN stake in the supernatural/sci-fi/horror/superhero plot. Mike is the romantic lead. Will and El have their own journeys and stories both including and completely independent of each other and Mike.
Will not showing El the painting, is more a testament to his enduring feelings for Mike and the post-puberty clarity of romantic/sexual attraction vs puppy love. El didn't show Will her letters to Mike either. (And I am not saying she should have.) Will is not in the text to serve El. In fact, Max herself got promoted from that job. Just slapping on Vecna preys on this juicy shit - doesn't make it true. I am not saying Will and El are perfect siblings, but they're close to it and the show wants us to believe that. (You may take this as a contribution to DBros/MissedOpporunities OTP fanwork)
Will's resentment of El is the jealousy from romantic (not even) rivalry, but it is a very small part of their relationship. He could and should have been more pissy about having the girl who (even accidentally) upended his life just being his new sister now (mike or no mike) but that's not what Will is as a person. Will's jealousy of El is also something he takes out on Mike and NEVER on El.
Maybe there's such a thing as re-watching the show too many times. Y'all jumbling up character names. Y'all need to be peer reviewed.
105 notes · View notes
hollowed-theory-hall · 5 months ago
Note
hello 👋👋👋
thoughts on Blaise Zabini? there is some scenes in HBP when he's cold pureblood who is looking with hate on Harry
in fics he's usually portraits like pretences boy, no biggot, but in canon he's like it actually
wanna read your opinion ;)
Okay, I actually really like Blaise Zabini and find excuses to write him into my fic. Like I think he's a bitchy bigoted asshole but I love him anyways.
I love the conversation we have with him, Pansy, and Draco at the beginning of HBP, since it's our best look at how the Slytherins interact with each other. I used it a lot in my Theo Nott meta because it's a really good piece of character work that I really like. Like, it shows how none of them are really friends and I'm here for it. I love their scathing friendship where they would all sell each other for one corn chip.
With all that, let's talk about Blaise:
He's good-looking. His mother is mentioned as being incredibly beautiful and clearly her son got it from her:
He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes;
(HBP, 143)
He can be cold and aloof. Like, Blaise is often described as looking bored or indifferent, and it's not common that he shows much of an emotional reaction:
Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features.
(HBP, 151)
(Haughty is a word often used for attractive characters in HP, to my above point)
Now, Blaise is intelligent. Like, he seems very aware of people and what bothers them most (which he uses to be an ass). He's not quite a bully like Malfoy, but he likes knowing what's going on with everyone. In the other quotes I bring up I'll mention that as bored as he looks, he's clearly interested in the gossip. He loves having information others want. He likes having that power over Draco, particularly since they seem to have a kind of ego war going on on the down low. (in my opinion, Zabini wins since he's the one who actually manages to look cool and collected).
We also know he's in NEWT potions, so, he likely had an O in Potions adding to the point about him being intelligent.
As I mentioned, he is kind of an ass:
Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.
(HBP, 143)
“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —” Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism.
(HBP, 146)
As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train.
(HBP, 147)
But he's an ass in a very different way from Draco. Draco is in your face with mean comments and making fun of things in an obvious very verbose way, Blaise is an asshole in an aloof kind of way. Like, he thinks himself too good to go out of his way to bully people, and he doesn't need to actively do anything. He's all scathing looks and raised brows and subtle acts of minimizing and belittling people.
He isn't actually close to the other Slytherins and treats them not that differently from how he treats Harry.
It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, [...] “So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?” “Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find many.”
(HBP, 149)
Blaise doesn't have respect for Draco, Crabbe, or Goyle, and he doesn't need to say it, he shows it. He snarls at Goyle like he would at Harry (who he disrespects and thinks less of). He says there aren't many well-connected people, clearly meaning everyone in the compartment besides himself. He's a dick.
Like I mentioned in the post about Theo, the Slytherins aren't actually friends. Draco uses Blaise's last name, not the first one. They aren't close and they're both aware of it. @indigo-scarf wrote a great post about how Draco and Blaise aren't actually friends, but it isn't unique to them. Crabbe and Goyle turn on Malfoy instantly in book 7 when they think him weak. Even in OotP, they do nothing to help Draco when Harry and George attack him. And Draco clearly doesn't actually trust any of them as in HBP, his main confidante, and friend is Moaning Myrtle. All these Slytherins hang out together because it serves them, not because they like each other.
Similarly, Theo clearly hangs out with Draco in books 5 & 6 only when he has no choice. Pansy is dating Draco, but is making eyes at Blaise like Draco is her second choice. But Blaise doesn't seem interested in Pansy in any way and thinks she is lesser than him as well. Blaise and Theo clearly aren't friendly either as they never hang out and Blaise calls him by his surname, etc. Basically, none of them actually like each other, though I assume some of them do respect each other (to different levels throughout the books. Though I headcanon Blaise and Theo have some grudging silent respect for each other as they consider each other intelligent and on the same level, while they both look down on most of the rest of their year including Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle).
Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand aside. “He invited Longbottom?” “Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently. “What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?” Zabini shrugged.
(HBP, 150)
Here again, Blaise is ridiculing Draco subtly. Basically saying "well, duh, don't be an idiot," without outright saying that but making Draco feel it all the same.
He's also showing how he ravels in getting an invite when Draco didn't. Blaise likes having the cards and power in a situation.
“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.” Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.
(HBP, 151)
And Blaise knows how to get to Draco who is clearly upset. Draco wishes his snide comments were on Blaise's level. I just really enjoy how Blaise shows his disdain for people. And how he thinks of himself as better.
“And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”
(HBP, 152)
Again, in the above quote, he belittles Draco and shows his doubts about him and how much Voldemort actually wants him in his service. And he's 100% right that Voldemort is expecting Draco to fail, something even Draco didn't quite realize yet.
All this isn't friendship. It's acquaintances who dislike each other but need each other is what it is. I know that when I'm writing them, that's what I go for. They were raised to see other people as connections or tools, not as friends. So real friendship is rare with these sorts of purebloods, it exists, but it's rare. Like, some of them probably like each other and enjoy each other's company, but I imagine they wouldn't like, actually trust each other.
Ginny calls him a poser and she is somewhat correct. I think Blaise does believe in everything he says he does, but he isn't as cold and bored as he appears. I think he likes knowing gossip and information others don't even if he appears nonchalant about it. That is definitely a pretense, but the bigotry isn't.
I know many fics paint Blaise as someone who isn't actually a bigot (because he's black) but he is. I think he is one of the characters who's honestly an unapologetic blood purist:
“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she’s goodlooking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!” “I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased.
(HBP, 150)
He sounds exactly like Bellatrix "Blood Traitor is right next to Mudblood in my book" Lestrange.
Obviously, he says what he is supposed to and what he's been taught all his life, but I think these are his honest views from what he knows. Like, in the Wizarding World skin color clearly doesn't matter much, but blood, oh, they care about blood.
This is somewhat interesting considering the Zabinis aren't among the Sacred 28, whether it's because they immigrated to the UK after Cantankerus Nott wrote the pure blood dictionary or they really are not pure-blooded enough, is unclear. I headcanon it's the former and that the family moved to Britain more recently, after the dictionary was written in the 1930s. And, it kinda makes sense. Like, if the Zabinis were in the continent and backed up Grindlewald, and then after he fell they needed a new start someplace that didn't have as strong feelings about Grindlewald and them, so they moved to the UK. Grindelwald never reached the UK and therefore, they could live there without that stain attached to their name. That's like, my headcanon about the Zabini family.
Despite all his Slytherin tendencies and intelligence, Blaise is quite arrogant. I mentioned he's prideful and thinks himself better than Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle for example, but he thinks himself so above others that he's untouchable. You see it in how loos-lipped he is regarding his mother's crimes:
Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold).
(HBP, 145)
Like, how do you accidentally let that slip in casual conversation?
It's clear he thinks he and his mother are above the law and that no one could do anything to them. He believes in this so much that he doesn't care outright mentioning she maybe murdered her husbands in a room filled with people who don't like him. He feels that secure in none of them doing anything or being able to do anything. (I bet his mom bribed a ton of people).
In my headcanon, Blaise and his mother are pretty close and are each other's only confidantes. Like, they sit together to gossip and judge people. She asks him whether he thinks this next husband is good enough or rich enough. I headcanon she's also cold, bitchy, and arrogant and Blaise models his persona after her (and perhaps her brother or father, but only relatives on her side).
I also imagine he knows his mother killed his father and that she sat him down and explained why so he does back her on that decision. He has his doubts deep down about his mother's ways, but he isn't ready to examine them, or planning on doing so any time soon.
So, yeah, I think Blais is an asshole pureblood bigot who doesn't really have friends and is so incredibly arrogant. But he isn't a bully, he shows his disdain through cold looks and indifference. He also has the potential for interesting character dynamics with his mom and I like him a lot.
81 notes · View notes
riality-check · 2 years ago
Note
Steddie with "Is this okay?" or "I saved you a seat." for the i love you without saying it thingy, please...if you're still doing it. :)
I'm super late on this, but here we go, anon! Is this okay? was done here, so I'm doing I saved you a seat.
"In the back, Henderson," Steve calls.
Dustin kind of hates that Steve isn't a loser anymore. He's back to his cool self, which means he's wearing sunglasses and doesn't look away from the road as he talks to Dustin.
He sputters. "Why? I get shotgun!"
"You get shotgun unless we're picking up Max."
"Are we picking up Max?"
"No," Steve says, finally turning to look at Dustin over the frames of his sunglasses.
Dustin wants to break them, but if he does that, Steve will probably stop driving him around.
He kind of needs Steve to keep driving him around. His mom is busy, and God knows Mr. Wheeler won't do it anymore.
"Get in the back or don't get in at all," Steve says.
Dustin rolls his eyes and gets in the back of the Beemer. Steve doesn't even ask if he's good to go before he pulls away from his house and down the street.
He doesn't usually, but a little warning would have been nice.
"I thought we were going to the arcade," he says.
"We are."
"No, we're going in the wrong direction."
In the rearview mirror, Dustin can see Steve sigh so heavily his shoulders move.
And he says Dustin is dramatic.
Steve flips his sunglasses onto his head, pushing his hair back, when they get to shadier streets. "I'm doing someone a favor, then I'm dropping you at the arcade to hang out with your friends. That okay?"
Dustin isn't really listening, not as Steve turns the car into Forest Hills. "I thought you said we weren't picking up Max."
"We're not."
"I know you're not very verbose, but could you give me answers that are more than two words?" Dustin snaps.
Steve parks the Beemer in front of Eddie's trailer and turns back to face Dustin. "Is this answer enough?"
He beeps the horn, and thirty seconds later, the front door slams open. Eddie nearly trips right out of it, all black-clothed, gangly limbs, enough metal on his outfit for Dustin to hear him jangling before he even gets in the Beemer.
"Saved you a seat," Steve says as Eddie opens the passenger seat door.
It takes Dustin a full ten seconds to realize that the smile Steve has on his face is the same one he'd use on girls at Scoops.
Wait.
"Thanks, Stevie," Eddie says, words as rushed as he seems to be. "I don't know when my van is going to get out of the shop, and Wayne needs the truck-"
"It's no problem," Steve says.
Stevie?
Dustin, for once, is speechless. The way Steve drives with one hand as Eddie takes his other one and starts toying with it has something to do with it.
When his mouth can finally catch up to his brain, he asks, "How long have you two been dating?"
"What?" they say.
Eddie drops Steve's hand like it's burning him, and Steve nearly brake-checks them in the middle of Main Street.
"We're not-"
"Why did you-"
"He doesn't-"
"I-"
"Arcade, Henderson!" Steve yells, cutting off the conversation completely. "Get out, have fun with whatever quarters your mom gave you, get a ride with someone who isn't me, thanks!"
"You aren't-"
"Get out or I will keep driving this car with you in it," Steve warns.
Eddie stares, dumbfounded, between Dustin and Steve. His eyes move like he's watching a tennis match.
"Okay," Dustin says, throwing his hands up. He gets out of the car, and not five seconds after he shuts the door, Eddie and Steve start talking.
Loudly.
He'd stay, but he's already late.
He goes into the arcade, straight to the Dig Dug machine where the rest of the party is waiting.
"Dustin, where were you?"
"Did you guys also think Steve and Eddie were dating, or was that just me?"
Max looks away from the machine, causing her to die in the game. "They're not?"
"Apparently."
"When did you find that out?" Lucas asks, looking a little distracted.
"About a minute ago."
"I think things might have changed since then," Lucas says, pointing to the window.
All of them rush to it and look outside. The Beemer is still in the parking lot. Eddie and Steve are still in it, and they're-
"Oh, God, no."
"This is like watching my parents kiss."
"Why Steve?" Mike moans, letting his head drop against the windowpane again and again. "Why did he have to pick Steve? I thought Eddie was better than this."
"It's kind of sweet."
They stare in silence. It's like a car wreck. It's impossible to look away.
Max shakes her head. "You guys made me waste a quarter on Dig Dug. I'm going back to playing."
"Hey, wait up!"
The rest of them rush back. Dustin is the last to look away.
And he laments the fact that he's never riding shotgun again.
Prompts here.
876 notes · View notes
ruegarding · 9 months ago
Note
hello! I hope your having a good day! If you don't mind me asking, what is your opinion on the Cupid Scene in Hoo? And if you could how would you change it?
my opinion on the cupid scene…well, i don't think a traumatic coming out scene is automatically bad. the problem i have w it is that rick capitalized on shock value instead of good writing. rick retconned a bunch of things to make nico alone and miserable so that he could have this scene, and it was completely unnecessary. ppl can have friends without coming out. and, as i’ve repeatedly said, the way hoo is written is literally a repeat of his arc in pjo but worse, because we’re acting like important events in pjo didn’t happen in a series that’s supposed to be a sequel to pjo and rick is inconsistent so the payoff is questionable.
the solution is…good writing. creating a cohesive and intriguing plotline where this scene is either necessary or scrapped if it isn’t.
thus begins an unnecessarily deep dive into all the retcons, inconsistencies, and general what-the-fuckery of nico’s arc in hoo bc i’m the verbose king and we've accidentally stumbled into something i have a lot to say abt.
Tumblr media
first retcon. in son, frank explicitly says that nico does not make him nervous and describes nico as mysterious. not weird, creepy, off-putting, or anything similar. and nico is! he is clearly hiding things and shows up infrequently. this is a neutral description, and frank goes on to say that pluto’s powers, and specifically the underworld, isn’t enough to make him dislike pluto or nico.
Tumblr media
also this, showing nico is comfortable enough around frank:
Tumblr media
but then in hoh, frank thinks going somewhere with nico, alone, is terrifying.
Tumblr media
at worst, frank would’ve felt awkward. they’ve never had to talk alone bc nico is at camp jupiter for hazel and doesn’t have any reason to talk to frank by himself. if frank didn’t want to be alone w nico bc of that, it’d make sense. but that’s not what’s said or implied! and nothing has happened! nico got kidnapped, they saved him, and since then he’s been chilling on the boat, exactly as weird as before, if a little more understandably distressed. like, nothing happened to change frank’s opinion this drastically. even the difference between pluto and hades (wealth vs death) doesn’t matter bc nico uses his powers in son. also frank literally summons a skeleton guy in son and hazel is a zombie, like…
Tumblr media
(the source isn’t important but i've been quoting these five seconds for years)
oh! and that’s not all, it gets worse!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
these scenes from hoh are incredibly infantilizing. why are we treating nico like a feral dog that needs to be domesticated??? yikes. and once again, it’s not true! nico was fine talking w ppl in pjo (if a bit over-enthusiastic). and then in son he was perfectly civil and was fine having the conversation abt the quest. his issue w ppl was that his powers/parentage put ppl off, and, even in son, that he had to keep a secret.
nico is perfectly capable of speaking like a normal person and working as part of a team (see: final botl battle, final tlo battle, the sword of hades). like, nico’s struggle in hoh should be 1) that ppl are calling him creepy behind his back (and therefore has nothing to do w his social skills) and/or 2) that he just survived an incredibly traumatic experience and is understandably withdrawn. neither of these are properly addressed and instead the implication is that nico is hiding himself bc he’s gay and everything will be solved if he accepts himself.
edit: i never actually explicitly stated this, but nico's queer coding and disability coding overlap, which is why this infantilization/ableism is important enough to highlight despite the conversation specifically being abt the queer aspect of it.
second retcon. percy…as i’ve said many times before, percy explicitly calls nico his friend in tlo.
Tumblr media
this immediately makes hoo trying to act like they don’t know each other and were never close a retcon. they were friends, they saw each other frequently, nico made silly jokes w percy…and we’re ignoring all of this in hoo.
i've talked abt this previously (in response to tsats), but nico is the one putting distance between him and percy. percy reached out to nico repeatedly thru pjo.
Tumblr media
when percy notices that nico excludes himself, percy finds a private place to talk to nico and assures him that percy wants him around and offers solutions to his discomfort (this is not percy’s responsibility. percy is a child). when nico insists that he won’t stay, percy sees it from nico’s perspective and, instead of forcing nico to do something against his will that may totally backfire, says “i hope we don’t have to be enemies,” leaving room for nico to decide whether he’s willing to be friends.
bc percy understands the root of nico’s issue (that no matter the accommodations made at camp, there’s always going to be the implicit message that he doesn’t belong there), he addresses it and uses his wish to make sure that nico has a home at camp.
Tumblr media
and when nico tries to prove he’s useful, percy proves he would’ve invited him in whether nico was or not. bc he thinks nico deserves to be a kid.
Tumblr media
“i wonder if [nico] had ever had a birthday party,” percy thinks at his own birthday party where he didn’t invite his friends bc he felt it was too much of an inconvenience, in a story where he never had friends prior to these ppl he didn’t invite, and the only person he had for twelve years of his life was his own mother. and percy uses his own loneliness to empathize w how lonely nico is.
Tumblr media
percy is not some distant figure nico is idolizing. he's a kid trying his best to care for another kid at a time where no one else did, while experiencing his own trauma. all of their hang-ups exist bc of that.
going back to their relationship in hoo, even trying to make percy uncomfortable w nico’s powers (and therefore not wanting to associate w nico) doesn’t work bc percy has gone on record and said he thinks some of nico’s powers are cool and has neutral responses to others, not to mention percy is also a big three kid who makes other ppl wary (i could write a whole meta on how what percy finds disturbing w nico’s powers is directly tied to what percy finds disturbing w his own powers, but i’ll restrain myself. please clap).
and if that wasn’t enough, the entire reason percy stood up to hera in botl is bc she was willing to let nico die specifically bc he doesn't fit in bc of those powers.
Tumblr media
this plotline was tired before it even began.
you could argue that all of this changed w nico’s betrayal in tlo. but then why didn’t percy tell anybody when it happened in tlo (annabeth would’ve reacted to it if he had)? why did percy trust nico to come when he called? why didn’t any of percy’s animosity come out afterwards at camp? and in the throne room, percy didn’t have to single nico out w his wish. he didn’t have to watch nico to make sure he was settling in. but he did. and because he did, any writing that suggests percy doesn't trust or care abt nico bc of that is bad writing. maybe rick forgot this, but u can be angry w and hurt by the ppl you love and still love them.
even the justification that nico lied in son isn’t good enough to completely change their relationship, bc it’s pretty clear why nico lied and percy says he can’t stay angry at nico when they rescue him, and let me remind u, anger is a core part of percy's character. while nico lying might be enough for characters like leo and jason, who have no rapport w him, to doubt him, it’s not enough for percy. and why are we so obsessed w dismantling percy and nico’s friendship anyway? why is that necessary to the story? like i said before, ppl can have friends without coming out. isolating the only queer character (at the time) isn’t necessary.
this conflict doesn’t even work in hoo bc their distance is still one-sided…
Tumblr media
when did percy not give nico a second chance in hoo? the only times they’ve interacted prior to this was when percy remembered nico in son and tried to talk to him and then when they saved his life. and then nico brushes off percy's gratitude and tells him to back off. this is not nico idolizing percy who doesn't care abt him. this is percy reaching out and yet again nico putting distance between them.
and, obviously, this doesn’t work at all w pjo when the entirety of botl exists, you know, where percy chose to trust and protect nico and then went out of his way to make sure nico knew percy held none of nico’s anger against him. it’d be one thing if nico was supposed to be wrong, but considering how there’s an entire arc in hoo abt jason being the first person to trust nico, and tsats seriously acts like percy only ever talked to nico when he needed something, it’s safe to say this comes from a place of stupidity.
ok. this sections getting long, so i moved the it was stupid to have percy give jason a reason to doubt nico section to a new post. but know that i'm aware and i think it's stupid.
back to the point of all these retcons w percy. there's nothing in hoo that necessitates changing percy and nico's relationship from pjo. while percy in hoo is never cruel to nico, they act like strangers for some reason. so, it's changed for no reason and it's written poorly.
sigh. and then all of chb is retconned (or recycled if you’re feeling generous).
Tumblr media
the ppl at camp accept him while his cabin gets built. pretty nice. then in boo nico reveals they got tired of him after a week–which is still summer–despite there being an influx of kids from all descents, some of whom would be weird or uncomfortable or whatever this justification is. that’s not even mentioning how percy’s own experiences (remember how he was ostracized…multiple times…) should have made them more accepting of nico.
Tumblr media
why…was this necessary at all…? especially when u have an entirely different camp that treats nico as weird bc they didn’t have that good experience w him? this is really what gets me. if rick wanted to be lazy and repeat nico’s arc, he could’ve done so without retconning things.
for example, with the seven, leo, piper, jason, and maybe annabeth (she doesn’t have much to say abt nico in pjo), i could understand having animosity towards nico, as well as camp jupiter, but retconning established relationships to make ur only (at the time) queer character isolated and miserable only to then have his coming out be violent and traumatic is. well. bad! especially when the person who is w him for that experience is not someone he has built any sort of camaraderie w. nico isn’t choosing to trust jason, he’s being forced to.
and the whole nico-needs-to-learn-to-trust-ppl plot doesn’t work anyway bc of rick’s inconsistencies.
Tumblr media
jason has a moment much like frank where he doesn’t want to go anywhere w nico bc nico is so weird and scary. nico has every right to pull himself away from ppl who treat him like he’s got something contagious. and there’s more:
Tumblr media
“since when does jason defend nico,” as in they have shit on nico before and jason has not, in the past, defended nico. as in nico had every reason to not trust jason prior to this bc everyone, including jason, were talking shit behind his back. why are we acting like nico is being unreasonable? oh no, y’all are talking behind my back…clearly it’s my fault bc i push everyone away and that has nothing to do w ur behavior or anything…yes this is good writing.
and we’re supposed to believe that jason (and reyna and hedge and will) is the first person to be kind/reach out to nico, but we have this scene from botl where percy comforted nico and gave him a piece of his childhood back:
Tumblr media
and this is after percy cleared the air to make sure nico knew he didn’t hate him and offered to make accommodations for nico at camp and then respected and understood why nico wouldn’t want to. like,
Tumblr media
woah, you’re telling me that a character reaches out to nico after a traumatic experience in an act of kindness and this helps nico grow as a person? and it happens multiple times?! yeah, apparently rick and fandom have completely forgotten abt this (also hazel exists???). they’re even phrased similarly! “maybe it’s time to take a risk and embrace something you’ve pushed away.” furthermore, they both support their point by helping nico, percy by inviting nico into his home to enjoy cake and ice cream, jason by drinking from the chalice. once more w feeling: nico has been loved the entire goddamn time!
i get what rick was trying to accomplish w the whole cupid scene concept. which is that it’s okay to be gay and that it can feel very “othering” to be gay. nico has to accept himself in order to make friends. that’s what this
Tumblr media
and this
Tumblr media
are trying to say, right, but this doesn’t work when you’ve blatantly retconned established relationships to have characters push nico away for his powers/parentage/whatever. nico’s struggle is not an internal issue that can be solved by accepting himself, it’s an external issue caused by how other ppl treat him for his powers/parentage (which he has never been shown to reject btw).
the thing is, the powers-as-queerness metaphor only works when you don’t have, you know, characters who aren’t queer going through similar ostracization. not only was percy ostracized at chb in tlt for his powers/parentage (very similar to nico!), percy has a moment in this same book where his powers terrify annabeth, and then piper in the next book, in which he, you know, lets himself almost die to poison bc he feels like he “deserved it” for using those powers. again, this is not queer-coding for percy (unless…?). moreover, like i said, nico doesn’t reject his powers, so the whole queer-coding w powers and needing to accept himself is already iffy (...rejecting powers...hold the fuck up…percy isn’t…unless…). even the out-of-time metaphor doesn’t work bc it’s something he shares w hazel, who is not canonically queer (unless…?!). so, already, we’re on shaky metaphorical ground. all of this could work, theoretically, if combined w strong writing, but combined w the retconning and inconsistencies, this plotline makes no cohesive sense.
we’re supposed to believe that nico is the one pushing everyone away while they are secretly super supportive while simultaneously being shown that everyone talks and thinks shit that affirms nico’s thoughts abt them that makes him want to pull away. and then in boo we completely ignore that these ppl have been pushing nico away and suddenly everyone (reyna, hedge, will, etc) is supportive.
Tumblr media
pick a struggle!
also nico’s coming out scene in boo sucked (yeah this is the segue).
Tumblr media Tumblr media
this is the culmination of nico’s arc in hoo. he’s finally accepted himself enough to speak the truth without pressure. we ruined percy and nico’s established relationship for this. and they don’t even have a conversation. then nico walks over to will bc percy, “regular guy” percy, is “not [his] type.” don’t look too deep into that.
so, how would i fix the cupid scene? well.
Tumblr media
there were a million different ways to write a better arc for nico and earn that cupid scene. for example, rick could’ve stuck to a plotline.
the trust plotline could’ve been good. bc this exact thing is what causes the accidental kidnapping situation in tlo. nico doesn’t trust percy enough to tell him the truth and chooses to manipulate and lie to percy instead. this choice is what sets up their conflict bc percy views this as betrayal (something that’s important to a guy who’s fatal flaw is loyalty).
it’s also interesting bc nico does choose to trust ppl in hoo; he eats the pomegranate seeds despite not knowing that someone is coming for him, he just trusts that someone will (we’re ignoring what boo says abt nico’s tartarus experience bc fun fact! that is also retconned). and it pays off, bc not only does he get saved, we see hazel and percy even willing to challenge the other members of the seven to make sure he gets saved. so, it’s not a lesson he’s already learned, it’s a lesson he’s learning. but, going back to the main question here, would the cupid scene still be necessary? was being dragged into tartarus and almost dying not enough spectacle?
regardless, my biggest problem w the cupid scene in all of this is that it gives the impression that u have to come out in order to have ppl love u and trust u. a much better message to send is that the ppl who love u will love u before and after u come out. no isolation necessary.
133 notes · View notes
silent-as-the-grave · 27 days ago
Text
Meet You in the Middle
Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Astarion/Gale Content Warnings: Chronic pain Length: 2.922 words
Summary: Gale's in pain after a long day of trudging through the Underdark and hides himself away. Astarion isn't having that. They need their wizard in proper working order, after all.
-
Before meeting Gale, Astarion hadn't realized that it was possible for someone to talk so godsdamned much.
The wizard fills the air with chatter day and night, rambling on about theories or academia or even nonsense such as the courtship rituals of the Batiri goblins, barely even pausing to breathe.  He speaks with an infuriatingly arrogant verbosity that often leaves Astarion's thoughts wandering out of pure spite.  Sometimes, Gale even resorts to arguing with himself when his train of thought veers in an unexpected direction, the odd display tugging his features into a faint frown that is almost as amusing to watch as it is ridiculous.
 Hells below, he even jabbers in his sleep.
But as insufferable as the constant racket might be, it seems that time has numbed Astarion's brain to the irritation, like the immunity granted by a trace, persistent influx of poison.  As the tendays wear on, Gale's usual babble fades to an odd, almost soothing undercurrent of sound in the background of Astarion's life.
Of course, that makes it all the more noticeable when silence falls, leaving behind a gaping void.
-
The Underdark is not a place for the faint of heart, filled as it is with a bevy of dangerous flora and fauna that have no qualms in destroying the unwary, but it is also a terrible landscape of unending caverns and tunnels.  A single misstep is all it takes to send a hapless traveler tumbling to their death.
Even the most experienced adventurers would struggle to maintain the stamina required to traverse this craggy, perilous landscape.
"Fucking hells," groans Karlach, her normally gregarious voice muted by weariness as she plants her greataxe and slumps to rest against its pommel.  "I wouldn't've pegged myself as being out of shape, but those cliffs…"
"Aye," Wyll replies, his own shoulders drooping after hours spent climbing deeper and deeper into a lightless abyss.  "I think we've gone far enough today.  Let's set up camp here and see if we can't get some rest before pushing further."
The others chime in to agree with varying amounts of enthusiasm, for which Astarion is secretly grateful.  He's not sure if there's a single place on his body that's not bruised and sore from hours spent climbing, sliding, and tumbling his way down endless slopes of rock.  Even the tough Lae'zel, who generally berates them for any perceived delay, merely grunts and drops her pack to the ground.
"Have you nothing to say about that, Lae'zel?"  Astarion can't help his instinctual desire to poke and prod, though his goading words lack their usual bite.  "No insults about our lack of endurance?  No pithy response at all?  I'm surprised."
"Silence," she growls, her already severe features pinched further by fatigue and likely some lingering pain from an earlier clash with a pair of minotaurs. She reeks of the tantalizing scent of fresh blood, still oozing from where she'd been gored.  "A warrior who is weakened by injury and exhaustion and does not stop to care for his needs is not a warrior at all, but a fool."
Astarion thinks that the little hodgepodge tadpole party he's been stuck with for tendays is chock full of fools, but even he knows when not to poke a dragon too hard.
The vampire holds up his hands in a flamboyant show of surrender and leaves her to encamp, eager to get his own tent in order and find some semblance of rest.  The ground here is solid rock with no good place to drive down tent poles and stakes, so it takes some creativity to get the burgundy and amber canvas hung to his liking, but the privacy it provides is well worth the effort.  Then it's just a matter of opening up his bedroll, scattering a few pillows and some of his increasingly large collection of trinkets around the space, and doing whatever other odd tasks strike his fancy.
It isn't until after he's situated that Astarion realizes how quiet the camp is.
Sure, the others are bumbling around with their usual modicum of mortal noises, and somebody's got a small fire crackling in a makeshift fire ring of rough onyx stone, but Astarion doesn't hear a peep of the wizard's endless chatter.
Strange.
It's not like he's missing.  Somebody had to put that stupid tent of his up (though the flap is already closed), and it doesn't look like Gale bothered to set up his telescope (not that he'd see anything with the damnable thing down here anyway) or unpack the rest of his usual clutter.
Something still seems off, and Astarion doesn't like it.
Astarion stalks around the edge of the camp, his every movement reminiscent of the sleek, calculated grace of a creature instinctually mimicking life while bearing none of its own.  The others seem too drained to pay him much mind, already dragging themselves to their bedrolls for some much-needed rest, so he's not concerned about having an audience when he pauses right outside Gale's flap.
Nothing unusual reaches his sharp hearing, just the familiar thrum of Gale's heartbeat and the near-inaudible whine of the Netherese orb's twisted magic.  The vampire's nostrils instinctively flare; there's no blood scent, at least nothing fresh, though he does pick up the residue of stale coffee and unwashed laundry.
Well, fuck it.  No time like the present.
"Gale, darling, are you dead?"
The only response he gets at first is a shifting of fabric and a muted groan, quickly followed by a sigh.  "Is there something you need, Astarion?" Gale's unusually succinct voice called out, its usual baritone edged in weariness.
"Oh, I am always in need of something, if a certain someone wasn't too straight-laced to have a spot of fun.  But you didn't answer my question."
And with that, Astarion slips beneath the tent flap and invites himself inside.
The wizard's light spell fills the interior of the tent with a pleasant ambient glow, though it's not as bright as it often is when Gale has withdrawn to read for the night.  The muted illumination paints the seated man in stark shadows, leaving him looking unusually haggard as he pins Astarion with a half-hearted glare.  "I assure you that I am still living, breathing, and very much conscious.  There was no need for you to barge into my tent without my permission — I could have been in the middle of dressing or something equally as humiliating, you know."
"Better to ask for forgiveness than permission," the elf sing-songs back, waving his hand dismissively.  "Besides, it's not like I haven't seen it before."
“Astarion.”
"Yes, yes, I know.  Shame on me for saying such scandalous things in the presence of our coy resident wizard."  Setting the teasing aside, the vampire cocks his hip and folds his arms over his chest, surveying Gale more closely.  There's a pinched look to his features and a stiffness to the way he holds himself that Astarion sets off the vampire's internal alarms.  "But there is something wrong with you outside of the usual, isn't there?  Did you get stuck by a minotaur when I wasn't looking?"
Gale merely grumbles, not bothering to reply.
Normally, such a lackluster response would only further encourage Astarion to exasperate one of his companions, but this is Gale, and he and Gale have a thing.  They haven't put a name to it yet, and neither of them really seems to know what to do with it, but it's there.  So Gale will just have to deal with his concern.
Gale, who seems to like having him around even when he's pricklier than a hedgehog.
Gale, whose kindness has begun to smooth out Astarion's sharper edges like an endless torrent flowing over river rock.
Gale, who somehow looks at him and actually sees him.
It's only fair that Astarion be allowed to see him back.
The vampire folds gracefully to the ground beside Gale's bedroll, his smarmy mask slipping out of place before completely falling away.  "If you truly want me to go away, I will," he murmurs, his voice softening.  "Just say the word.  But hypocrisy doesn't look good on you, dear—if you're allowed to badger me into being honest about what I'm feeling, then I sure as hell ought to be able to do the same to you."
There's another sigh from the man next to him, though the sound is touched with wry amusement rather than irritation this time. "Ah, 'tis poetic justice indeed when my own arrogance returns to smite me."  Leaning back into his pile of pillows with a grimace, Gale shrugs.  "There's nothing wrong with me now that I haven't dealt with before, so your concern, while welcome and appreciated, is completely unnecessary.  I swear, it's not anything worth troubling yourself over."
"Let me be the judge of that," Astarion shoots back.  "Now, tell me what's got you so out of sorts, or I'll fetch Shadowheart and let her scowl at you until you fess up."
Gale huffs.
"I mean it."
"Fine, you pest."  Restlessly raking a hand through mussed strands of long brown hair, the wizard finally shrugs.  "It's… well, my knees are simply sore after today's slog.  As I said, nothing to be worried about."
It's no secret that Gale's knees bother him.  He even pokes fun at himself for it on good days, chuckling about his age or previously idle lifestyle causing the creaking sounds they all know so well.
But Astarion can't remember a time when he actually hid away to mollycoddle the damned things.  It's yet another change in their usual routine that sends his suspicions on high alert.  Ruby eyes narrowing, the vampire grabs the edge of Gale's blanket and swiftly yanks it away.
Gale is bare from the waist down (well, outside of his smallclothes), but any teasing that Astarion might normally indulge in dies on his lips as he catches sight of those troublesome knees. The golden-brown skin around the joints is so swollen that the usual bulges and dimples have completely disappeared under patches of blotchy red.  "Darling," Astarion drones out, "I may not be a healer, but even I can see that they don't look particularly well.  Shall I fetch Halsin for you?"
"No!  No.  I don't wish to be a bother."  And that's just the crux of things, isn't it?  Ever eager to be useful to their odd little group, Gale is the first one to step back and put his own needs last.  Like someone else always deserves to be helped before him.
Fucking hells.
"You, my dear, are an endearing, self-sacrificing moron."  Rising to his feet again, Astarion waves off his sputtered reply and jabs a finger toward the wizard.  "Stay right there.  I'll be back in a moment."
He's gone for only a handful of minutes, returning to Gale's tent with a lumpy burlap sack that lands on the ground with a metallic clatter as he settles back at the wizard's side.
By this time, Gale has found his words again, his warm eyes filling with curiosity and a bit of understandable uncertainty.  They all know that Astarion really isn't the type to go around playing nursemaid.  "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you, since you obviously can't be bothered to do so yourself."  There are more words hovering on his tongue, words instinctively meant to cut and rend.  You're no use to us in this condition.  Do you really intend to just lay in your tent like a worthless sack of shit?  If you can't be bothered to take care of yourself, maybe we should replace you with someone who can pull their weight.
But Astarion knows from experience what will happen if he utters such words, and he no longer craves the sight of the utter devastation they leave in their wake.
Because somewhere along the way, he's begun to care.
Ugh.
Shuffling through some bottles and a few bundles wrapped in cloth, the vampire finally finds what he's looking for in the bag.  He eventually presses a tin cup filled with water and a handful of what looks like wood shavings into Gale's hands.  It looks odd, sure, but Halsin promised that it would help.  "Heat this, then drink it."
Maybe he's in too much pain to argue.  Or maybe he's stunned by Astarion's no-nonsense attitude.  Whatever the reasoning behind it, Gale quietly calls a sphere of flame to his palm and heats the water until it starts to steam.  "Hm.  Smells of wintergreen.  Tastes of…" he dips a pinky into the water and brings it to his lips for a sample, grimacing at the flavor, "...bitterness and something sour.  Willow bark, I take it?"
Astarion simply makes a validating noise, already digging around in the sack again.  If Gale knows what it is, and presumably what it does, why can't he be bothered to fetch some himself?
‘I don’t wish to be a bother.’
It's hard not to see the similarities between the two of them in this situation.  Astarion remembers how hard he fought to prove his worth to the others in the beginning so they wouldn't kick him from the group.  How he still catches himself viewing his body and deeds as commodities rather than a person with value solely because he exists.  He recalls burying a ridiculous amount of pain and trauma as deep as he could so the others wouldn't view him as weak.
Deep down, he's used to being disposable.  And the more he gets to know the wizard, the more he realizes that, at least in some ways, Gale is too.
Gale continues to watch Astarion with unusual silence as the vampire pulls out a wad of the fabric strips Halsin typically keeps on hand for bandages.  He says nothing when Astarion starts wrapping the fabric tightly around his swollen knees, not even when a necessary shift in the joint's position leaves him biting back a groan.  He remains quiet while the elf stuffs a couple of cushions under his shins, and even when Astarion dumps a small sack of dried grains across his knees.
Yeah, that last thing is weird.  Halsin better not be fucking with him.
"Now hit this with a cold spell," Astarion says, repeating Halsin's instruction with more confidence than he feels while he taps at the newest addition to the pile.  “But carefully.  I really don't want to have to explain to the healers that you froze the bloody things off."
Spreading fingers stained in faded shades of blue ink, Gale mutters "glacies" and watches a layer of ice spread across the coarse fabric.  He doesn't say anything more, but the relief brought by the makeshift cold compress is clearly written across his face as though penned by an enchanted quill.
"There," the vampire mutters.  His self-appointed tasks complete, Astarion finds the tent sliding into an uncertain sort of stillness.  He's not sure what to say now, and Gale doesn't seem to be able to look at him.
Gods above and below.  Why does this have to be so difficult?
"You didn't have to–"
"Why are you such a–"
The sound of their overlapping voices ceases almost as quickly as it began, and they're left staring awkwardly at one another.
Astarion watches Gale for another moment, noting the way the wizard's shoulders slowly relax and how the guarded look in his eyes begins to ease. It's enough to leave him with an odd sense of satisfaction in the aftermath of his fussing. "How's that feel?"
"Better," Gale admits with some reluctance.
"And what do good little wizards say when someone pushes past their pigheaded determination to suffer in silence and helps them feel better?"
"...You are intolerable.  But regardless—thank you, Astarion."
"You're welcome," Astarion says quietly, the usual snark in his voice absent. "Just… look, I know I'm the last person who should be saying this, but you're not alone here.  There are people around you who care about you, who are willing to help you, if you'd just stop being an absolute muppet and let them."
"You're quite correct," Gale replies with a faint chuckle, raising a finger to wag in playful reproach.  "You'd do well to follow your own advice, my friend.  Pots and kettles and all that."
Groaning, Astarion lobs a rude gesture in the wizard's direction.  He knows perfectly well that Gale isn't wrong, but that doesn't mean he needs a reminder of his duplicity.  "Shut up and finish your sawdust tea, you daft turnip.  Halsin's promised to whip up a salve to help with the pain, but for now, I expect you to sit here and get some rest.  We need our wizard in proper working order, do you hear?"
The wizard's lips quirk upward just the slightest bit before he nods and leans back into his cushions, tea in hand.
This time, Astarion is the one to eradicate the silence that lingers, grabbing a book and regaling the other man with a dramatic reading of an absolutely atrocious bodice-ripper they'd probably found in an abandoned cart.  He's not particularly good at voicing the characters, but he more than makes up for it with flashy movements and an embarrassingly loud recitation of the spicier bits.
His ridiculous performance is enough to send Gale into fits of laughter and eventually draw the ire of their tired companions, but Astarion doesn't mind. There's a comfort to be found in all that chatter, isn't there?
Perhaps it's his turn to fill the void for Gale, instead.
-
AO3
30 notes · View notes
loveandleases · 5 months ago
Note
Hopefully this hasn't been asked before, but... Seeing this NSFW profiles you made for the RO's, I couldn't help but notice you also pointed out the sizes of their cocks (if they have them). Which, is great, don't get me wrong. I'm a bit scared about Ardent's being so big, but we'll make do and adapt.
But I was wondering if... You'll add, perchance, the ability for us to choose sizes (if applicable)? It's not necessary, of course. I know NSFW scenes can be a pain already without customizing genitals. But the flavor text potential is so great.
Like, a MC that is small? There could be humor, there could be comfort, there could be unexpected arousal/a newly found kink from the ROs. Is MC bigger than all of them? I cannot help but imagine Ardent's reaction, I know he would be shocked. But it would add a reason for MC to be a bottom, because if he were that big I don't think anyone would survive. Haha.
I also understand such a question can make you uncomfortable. So please ignore it if it does. I wouldn't want you to stop writing. It's just is hard to ask about this things without feeling like I'm being inappropriate no matter what I say. Perhaps it would help if I was more straightforward and less verbose, but here we are now.
In any case, have a nice day! I'm really excited for what it is to come in your story. I just want the scene of MC and Ardent seeing each other again... And knowing Ardent will become MC's landlord. Is like... A part of me expects Ardent is going to be so petty.
I sputtered my coffee when I read the "make do and adapt". I can't say yes or no on that just yet. I think it will have to come down to when I'm writing it and depending on how many variables will be in play at that point. There are already several variations for NSFW scenes. Ardent does tend to be petty, he can hold a grudge for a long time.
52 notes · View notes
Note
How would Riddler (which one is writers choice) react to a SO who drops those slightly infuriating jokes? (I just saw a post asking how you make an egg roll and the answer was 'push it' and I just think his reaction to those kinds of jokes would be hilarious)
"Groan-worthy" Riddler Party x Reader
Dude I'm such a sucker for Riddler's it's so difficult for me not to wanna go "my choice? all of the above" when it comes to that man. So you're getting all of them short and sweet!
TW: None
60s
Gotham
Takes him a second. Oh, you like puns? He gets that sheepish little smile and compliments how clever you are. It's much harder to come up with those than one would think! You have to have a good sense of word play, formatting of the joke and-
Oh, he's rambling. Yes. It was good! If it's a particularly bad one or he's stressed, he might give you an annoyed look. But normally he'll just smile.
The riddler who appreciates it the most! A lot of his riddles dance along the line of being riddles and those kind of jokes. Part of why he's always laughing! Puns and double entendres are his bread and butter.
The two of you will have each other hyena cackling to the point people can hear you from another room. There's definitely a jealousy amongst others that the two of you can find so much joy in each other over something so goofy.
Capullo
You would think he'd be way too cool for that and genuinely, he will attempt to act like he is. Try to fool you.
Then you tell just the right joke that's incredibly cheesy and he doesn't guess the punchline before you say it. You hear this deep ugly snort and then he's covering his mouth.
His jokes aren't necessarily groan worthy, they're just really fucking nerdy in a way that makes you roll your eyes when you get it.
Telltale games
BTAS
Audibly groans. You think that's cute, don't you? Then you notice he's smiling. He can't help it, you ARE cute. Even when you're being silly he can't help it. It's charming!
He likes to think his jokes are higher end but... they're verbose and require just a tad more thought. Still slightly infuriating.
Just looks at you. You can feel the judgement seeping into your soul.
If you REALLY enjoy them, he'll tell you dad jokes that are just awful. Terrible. But he tells them with a completely deadpan face reminiscent to "and don't call me shirley."
Batman 2022/Nashton
Arkham games
ANNOYED. Particularly if at any point he thought the joke was a real riddle or a genuine question. Yes. Ha ha. Word play. If you excuse him, he has real work to do and you're distracting him.
If he actually hurts your feelings with the attitude... he does an incredibly tired sigh, "I was going to tell you a joke about time travel.... but you didn't like it." Mini jazz hands. There. Did you like that one? What? Was that one not bad enough?
Autism. Look okay, we can say that for almost every riddler to an extent but this is the kind of shit he hyperfixates on. You've seen his cards? "I'm mad about you" "but it might spoil the chemistry" with a mad scientist on the card? UGH. He loves it.
Rhyming, puns... he gets SO excited. You know, he's never had someone to share these with, so once you do with that first joke... you see his eyes practically dilate like a cats. His time has arrived. You're about to get SO mad.
95 notes · View notes
theotherseapancakes · 11 months ago
Note
Psssst. You mentioned no one cares about Philemon, but now I'm curious if you have any thoughts about his role in the games after he disappeared. And for sillies sake, does he have anything to do with the Dance games?
I have been waiting my entire life for this. Anon do you realize how verbose I'm going to get. DO YOU REALIZE? I hope you like read mores. Let me preface this with I am aware and have seen some popular theories, so I'm going to sidestep a lot of them and present one I've built since... well, I became a Persona fan as a teenager. MAJOR PERSONA SERIES SPOILERS LIKE THE ENTIRE THING OK? OK. yes even royal.
The P2 PSP additional scenario is so incredibly important and I think everyone missed the point of it. THE PERSONA 2 PSP ADDITIONAL TATSUYA SCENARIO!!!! It's beyond important, because it reveals to us Philemon can have more than one Avatar we know about, just like Nyarly. (Casual reminder he's like half the shopkeeps in P2. Time Count, anyone? Why was the Time Count so hot. Anyway.) Disclaimer: I'm just a casual fan who has played a LOT of Persona and SMT. I haven't gotten around to all of them, but I've played/finished both paths of 1, 2, 3 (and p3p) as well as 4 and 5. Didn't manage to get my hands on Golden but I've seen enough of it. (It's funny you ask about the dance games, they're the only ones I don't have right now! But my roommate does, and will be gone for a few months soon, perhaps I will take the time to start with p4DAN. I'm atrocious at rhythm games though so more than likely I'll find a video. Anyway.) WHAT is Philemon? If we can't define that, we can't talk about The Positivity Guy Ever.
Tumblr media
So let's talk about Phil. He's a fascinating character. His Persona is just a form of Himself, But Cooler. And he seems to HAVE no set shape, not unlike Nyarlathotep. People have various theories about Shadows and their origins etc., but Phil is more like that vote of confidence in people. I think, personally, that after the end of Innocent Sin, Phil's been pretty weak. We see in Eternal Punishment he's fading pretty roughly, and has a hard time talking to the party. Presumably ending Nyarly might to some degree fix things when Deja-vu Boy goes home, but... the problem is, we don't know how fixed they truly ended up being, or the full depth of how much he could/did expend!
In fact, the first time we even see Phil without the dumb mask is when Tatsuya decks him. Pay close attention to that fact. To the mask motifs here. I want you to really soak in Phil's everything. He's a leader. A kind soul. He's the good of people. He wants to believe the best.
Tumblr media
Anyway, most of these things overlook what I find really interesting as we've gotten more games worth of lore: he and Nyarly aren't the only eldritch entities walking around like that. Yes, Nyx is one too. Yes, it's probable she may even be their 'mom'. It's possible they all came from Nyx initially, but it's also possible (and should be considered) they too may have been outsiders at one point. We need to ask ourselves how far the human collective unsconsciousness can go. Is that sea infinite? Could it affect other worlds? Think about Aion in Devil Summoner Soul Hackers 2. Yes, I am asking you to think about Soul Hackers 2. Deal with it, I don't care. They're sister series. They share many things. SO! Did the shape of the human mind change a bunch of eldritch creatures and make them interact with us even more after Nyx smacked the moon a gazillion years ago? Is there multiple worlds? Weird bullshit? Just the two? Hmm. Well... I, personally, think so. I think he was touched by humanity just like Nyarlathotep, but in the other way. The reason I bring this up is two-fold. The first is Nodens. Now, we don't know much about the actual Nodens, unfortunately, just some speculation. Which is a shame. (If anyone has more info I'd love to have it, ngl. As a pagan this shit fascinates me.) But what we do get on him in Lovecraftian lore can provide us some intriguing possibilities about Phil's everything, which the games love to keep really rather vague. (And this is putting aside that his human Persona is based off the obviously bogus Jungian Spirit Guide, but we love an old guy in a mask anyway. He probably felt that was more 'friendly' for humans, hah.) I believe that Nodens, and Phil by extension, are just as responsible for nurturing and keeping the collective unconsciousness alive and positive. We see the butterfly symbol everywhere. We see it with Lavenza, too. "This is truly an unjust game." So was the bet Phil made with Nyarly, a game he rigged. Phil made the mistake of thinking the Crawling Chaos wouldn't cheat, a mistake he is never making again, I assume, if he can help it. Shit, you could view his boss fight in P2EP as him trying to train the EP crew to beat the snot out of Nyarly, even. But off topic. If Nyarly is basically the father of all Shadows, and they and Personas are the same coin, it makes me wonder a lot of things. The two have always been portrayed as simultaneously diametrically opposed, but also not? They have identical halls in P2. They have similar powers and talents... I think after Persona 3, Phil's remnants sank into the Collective Unconsciousness, to attempt to rehabilitate humanity from what it lost, from what he himself lost. I think Igor took over the room, because he took a backseat to recover. It would go a long, long way towards explaining why only SOME characters have the tier of the Wild Card, which is similar to the 'original' Persona power. (Having multiple.) He was took weak to remain in his Spirit Guide (Philemon) form, and had to abandon it to return to the depths as Nodens... So. Let me go back to Nodens and make some notes about design.
Tumblr media
Nodens, as seen here, sort of resembles an iron maiden. It really brings to mind the idea of maybe Tatsuya or someone's humanoid form sleeping within it, doesn't it? Fitting for an aspect of Philemon! ... You probably can see where I'm going with this, but let me pull up some screens to finish the point:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
That's right! It's Azathoth, Baby! I believe that unlike mythology, he's yet another aspect of Philemon. Eldritch positivity, in too much force, could be used for accidental bad, too. (Reasons Maruki is my favorite Law Hero, haha.) Let me explain. I think Philemon always existed in... let's call it parts. Azathoth is said to be a dreaming god in whom's universe we all just happen to be alive inside, right? "Dream of butterfly" (Philemon) "Or is life a dream? Don't wanna wake up. Cuz I'm happy here." That sure is thematic to what Maki goes through in Persona 1, and what Maruki's beloved suffers, isn't it? ISN'T IT. The "true reality" he creates... would help Maruki create in the additional Semester--would be something most humans would never pass the muster to even try to control. But we have seen Phil test a few people and find them worth passing before! However, that seems like ages ago. Why has he been so quiet? I think because he was spending time conserving his energy. He believed in humanity enough to give Makoto a push when it was needed in p3 (or femc, if you play her), but otherwise trusted Igor while he restored what needed it. But in Persona 5 Royal, he hand-picked Maruki, didn't he? At first, when I played Persona 5 Royal, I really thought it was some part of Nyarly, but I no longer believe this to be the case. The coloration and symbolism in the background (the golds, the whole garden of eden themes, the way his Palace was laid out), the whole sea of soul motifs in P3Re later... mmm. I have a lot of thoughts about this, but this post is already way too long for one simple ask. So let's wrap up by going one step further and looking finally at Nodens' dialogue to the party in the Extra Scenario in Persona 2: Eternal Punishment (PSP). The following is a transcript, you can find a video here:
Nodens: This is the memory of the lost child whom you all seek. Nodens: Memory occasionally brings about much distress and suffering, but it is absolutely vital to distinguish oneself from others and manufacture one's own psyche. Nodens: Ever since it began, life's memory has accumulated unbroken, passing through individual experiences and spanning several generations. Nodens: And so it has given shape to Kadath and the Collective Unconsciousness, thereby becoming a foundation for the next generation. Nodens: Even if the roots of the world are directed by fear and anxiety, never forget that the true essence of life is brimming with joy. Nodens: You must not stop seeking the answer for why life was born in a cosmos progressing towards absurdity and chaos. Nodens: Life brims with joy, bringing about balance in a universe predestined to heat death, and that allows the world to live a long time.
So to answer your question, I think he's taken a much subtler role. I think he's influencing people by pretending to be a Persona for Maruki, because he believes it will help them grow. I don't think he was intending a forever-control vice grip, but rather to prove a point. No matter what, the primordial chaos of humanity will rise up for chaotic good, lawful good, whatever "good" is needed. Azathoth is... interesting. Adam Kadmon is also interesting. But mostly I HIGHLY suspect we may see him again in Persona 6, or at least I'm hoping so. It's my personal pet theory by then he'll be less faded and come back to us in a new form of some kind. He's never had a set one, after all. Now for funsies about the dancing game, well, he's a positive guy, he wanted to just make sure everyone had their fitness regimen checked off. Obviously. (This is a joke.) Did the devs intend this? I'm honestly not sure? Like there's a lot of nods to older Personas in 5 and now 3RE especially, but it's definitely worth chewing on. I could go on and on about things I think he's connected to, but ultimately they have the final say lol. I'm just a crackpot conspiracy theorist on tumblr who really likes Philemon. He and the Room are my favorites. :) Ask me about attendants for additional dumb, sometime, I guess lol.
75 notes · View notes
reikodoesfanstuff · 10 months ago
Text
No one asked, but I feel like Durge and Enver have nearly the exact same ways they show affection. (Is it good that I put the keep reading so high up? IDK anything about Tumblr etiquette lol)
Enver, coming from a poor family, so much so that he was sold, would go out of his way to shower his nearest and dearest with gifts. It would be things like an expensive wine, maybe a few pieces of jewelry, or an intricately made (but still deadly) dagger. He would also slowly buy Durge so many clothes that, eventually, they're dressed fully in things gifted by Enver. And he's so into that.
He's also brilliant and known to have a silver tongue, they have to be writing verbose and seductive letters or poems back and forth. Enver would be writing things like, "Once the world is mine I will gift it to you and we'll rule together", "Watching hardened killers tremble at your feet makes me envious of their position", or "With me, you'll want for nothing but more pleasure than you can handle." And he sends them within the boxes of his gifts, neatly written and topped with a wax seal of Bane's hand.
Durge, as we know from the "Forgive Me Father" letter, is also a bit of a wordsmith. Their letters would be of a similar tone to Enver's but the words are more like, "Every second spent without your voice in my ears is a new layer added to the hells", "I will hunt your every adversary and ensure they know only misery in your name." and even, "The urge to flay you alive and hear your pretty screams cannot be matched by my need to experience your body as you writhe in the deepest carnal pleasures." All of their poems are haphazardly written on whatever paper scrap Durge can find and half illegible due to being delivered in the open mouths of severed skulls or crumpled in palms of corpses hand-delivered to his chambers when no one's around. Sometimes, they would even be a political rival of Enver's, which they both think is very romantic.
And on that note, body parts are Durge's favorite gift, by far. Bloodied hearts, severed hands holding out a single red rose, cold fingers spelling out a simple message like "Love you" or "Stay safe" or sometimes just a heart shape are left in increasingly intimate places in Enver's home. His front door, the living room, bedroom, and even his bathtub had a corpse display one time! How cute. Durge had quite a hand in raising Enver's political status this way, some were by accident.
And you can't tell me those babes don't shower each other in physical affection behind closed doors. Enver was never shown any compassion as a child. Even worse, he was beaten, often. And now, in adulthood, he can't trust those he brings to his bed as they don't know who he really is or just want the power associated with him. Durge never connected to anyone personally or romantically so physical touch was a rare commodity. They have killed every bed partner at some point in the affair, as the urge commanded. But with Enver, they refuse to listen to it. They want Enver alive, against their father's wishes. As a result, both of them are touch-starved and refuse to keep their hands off each other when alone.
65 notes · View notes