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illusionsofdreaming · 4 years ago

Note

Okay but how would Cale react to someone flirting with his s/o and making then uncomfortable

Notes: Woe to those who dare harass Cale’s S/O. RIP.

Ft: Cale

Once a season, the marketplace of Henituse territory holds a special fair to attract visitors and merchants to the duchy. It’s a bustling event that brought people of different backgrounds to one place to celebrate the end of a season and the coming of the next. Recently with their group’s achievements known far and wide, many hopeful fans have begun travelling to the far Northeastern duchy on the faintest hope of catching a glimpse of the kingdom’s rising young Hero.

Said hero who’s currently securely holed up within the confines of his home, far, far away from the crowds and noisy events. Cale would’ve been content to enjoy his very uneventful week were it not for the kids’ persistent begging, which eventually gnawed a hole in his conscience. Having caught the reluctance in his eyes, you and Hans had graciously offered to tag along to help watch the kids and finally, with a sigh, he agreed to leave the safety of his abode for just several hours of browsing.

Before leaving, Cale had asked the youngest to cast facial distortion magic on him. After all, bumping into the so-called ‘fans’ would be the very last thing he’d want to deal with.

The kids were entranced by the many stalls set out for the seasonal fair and he decided to indulge them on this day of fun, sponsoring their purchases and letting the kids lead the way. It became a zigzagging journey that jumped from food stalls to merchants selling niche trinkets, accessories and even puppet plays. At one point, he noticed your interest in a particular booth and came closer to see what had captured your curiosity. He recoiled in horror not a moment later when he realised that they’re mini collectables of some very familiar faces. He’s not surprised to find Choi Han, Alberu, Rosalyn and even Mary’s faces there, but he firmly refused to purchase any miniature figures of himself. The thought of toys being made in his likeliness sent foreboding chills down his spine and he instantly pulled you away, your laughter trailing behind him. He didn’t see Hans purchasing the complete set of figurines for the kids. It wouldn’t be until much later that he would find the same toys hanging out above the fireplace, giving him quite the shock of his life. But that’s a story for another time.

He had only looked away briefly, trying to settle the young ones as they dragged him towards yet another shopfront that piqued their interests when the sound of commotion behind him caught his attention. He turned back to find a stranger lingering by your side, leaning much too close for comfort, but due to the crowds, it was hard for you to put distance between them. He couldn’t make out the conversation from where he was, but the way your arms were crossed and the frown on your face told him all he needed to know.

“Stay with the kids Hans.”

The butler glanced upwards in confusion, followed his gaze and understood the situation immediately. “Of course, Young Master.”

He turned and pushed through the crowds towards your side.

“Thanks, but I’m not really-“

“Darling, the fair’s no fun enjoyed alone. I can show you the best places around here. Come on, I don’t bite.”

“What are you doing?” He grabbed the wrist reaching for you, shoving it away harshly when he noticed your noticeable relief at his intervention. “Are you alright?” he asked you, observing your expression.

“Hey! What the heck are you doing butting in? Can’t you see we’re having a moment here?” A disgruntled voice had him turn around in disbelief to see that man’s still there.

“Excuse me?” Even you sounded incredulous at the gall of this stranger.

The man smirked. “Come on, you can just admit it. As if you’d really push me away and go for this ugly thing instead.”

Cale blanked at the absurdity of the statement. Ugly? He must have misheard. Cale Henituse was many things; trash, wealthy aristocrat, money waster, even a bastard... but ugly was definitely not on the list.

Oh. The facial distortion magic.

He frowned. Unfortunately, realising the truth behind the insult on his person didn’t bring as much comfort he hoped it would as an irrational urge to reveal his face surged within him. Disgruntled and more than a bit put off, he stepped forward, ready to tell the man off, but you, emboldened by his presence by your side, was faster.

“I can assure you I’d pick an ugly man with manners over a self-important ass any day.“ you snapped.

Cale’s frown deepened. He agreed with everything you said, but something about that word from your mouth didn’t sit right with him.

The man’s arrogant smirk twisted. “Seriously?” He took a step forward, jolting Cale aside. “I can show you a much better time than him, that’s for sure.”

Cale grabbed their shoulder, truly annoyed now; a dangerous glint swirled in his eyes as a sudden suffocating tension fell upon the area. He noticed your eyes widening in recognition of his Dominating Aura and felt as you slipped your hand in his, probably trying to calm him.

But Cale was calm. His thoughts never clearer as he stared down the man rooted to the spot. “Let me give you a piece of advice, man to scum. Walk away now. If you touch them again, it won’t matter what the law says, I promise I’ll show you what ugly really looks like.”

As quick as the heavy pressure descended on the area, it disappeared. Cale held your hand and led you away, leaving the rude fellow gasping as if he’d just seen a ghost.

You walked in silence together for a while as Cale navigated through the crowds trying to figure out where the others had wandered off too. He was more than happy to put the annoying situation behind him but one thought stubbornly remained on his mind. He stopped abruptly, and caught you before you could bump into his back.

“Do you think I’m ugly?”

He watched as confusion crossed your expression before being quickly replaced by understanding. Your burst of laughter made him scowl as he felt the tips of his ears heat up, he was ready to brush the question off when you reached to hold his face. The quick kiss you pressed to his lips soothed his ruffled feathers. He was a bit regretful that you pulled away so quickly even as he heard the ‘Ewwws’, ‘Gross!’ and a hastily ��Shhh’ command from familiar voices from behind.

“I love you Cale.” you whispered against his lips.

His face remained blank, but the light blush across his nose betrayed his feelings as he squeezed your hand gently.

Should I smack that jerk in the back? An ominous voice whispered into his head.

He glanced down at the young children now gathered around them, all who were looking up at him with pleading eyes.

On and Hong moved towards your side, and he reluctantly released your hand as the two kittens nestled up against you.

“He’s so rude!”

“Are you alright?”

Bombarded with the sudden influx of concerned questions, he watched as you smiled and petted the children’s hair in reassurance. Subtly, without turning his gaze elsewhere, he dipped his head slightly in confirmation.

It’s ever so satisfying to watch the man trip over air and fall into a crate of rotten produce, to be jeered and laughed at as he scuttled away stench covered. He knew it was worth the trouble when he was graced with the tinkling of your laughter and knowing gaze.

#imagines #tcf #trash of the count's family #cale henituse #fluff #protecting #harassment #cale showing's who's boss #not afraid to use a little magic #you know he'll definitely smack that man #you cannot change my mind that KRS is quite proud of Cale's handsome face #tcf x reader

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iconic-ponytail · 4 years ago

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there's always money in the banana stand

riverdale promptathon week 3: yellow + business

Even as the sun sets, even as the breeze blows, the hell furnace of July in Riverdale burns on. It’s triply as sweltering inside the tiny booth running three freezers, offloading heat to sustain the frozen merchandise inside. “How can it be so hot in there when we are supposed to be selling frozen bananas?” JB complains, at least twice a week.

She’s twelve. Complaint is her new first language. She complains about being left in Riverdale while Gladys went back to Toledo. She complains about living in a trailer park that usually does not have warm water. She complains about their father being imprisoned for covering up a gruesome murder. But most of all, she complains about working in the banana stand.

Child labor laws aside, Jughead can’t blame her for that one. He hates the damn banana stand, but it’s their best shot.

Gladys’ monthly check covers rent and utilities for the trailer. Everything else is on him, now. The idiot eighteen year old who decided to petition the court to be his sister’s legal guardian. Well, and his idiot mom who signed off on it. So he needs money, and the Jones family has never been particularly flush with cash, just trampled over by FP’s failed “business opportunities.”

Enter: the banana stand.

It’s not the fastest revenue stream, Jughead finds. But it’s got potential.

Initially, Dilton doesn’t let him sell during the Twilight Drive-In’s concession stand hours. Before or after the movie, sure, but no overlap. “I’m not worried about competition, Jones. It’s just too humiliating for me to watch you sweat through that horrible yellow polo you call ‘branding.’”

But when customers asked him more than twice a night when the banana stand would be open, Dilton caved.

It’s not like being open during the screening hours is a whole lot more preferable. He only just transferred from Southside to Riverdale High last spring; now he’s the rising senior who hands out phallic symbols from inside a giant phallic symbol. Not exactly a boon to his popularity.

Still, recently the money is enough to pay the internet bill and keep JB fed for dinner when she can’t go to the summer breakfast and lunch program at the local park district. It’s still not enough for him to eat particularly well, and the smell of hot dogs and slurp of his classmates’ slushies makes the heat feel like a minor inconvenience.

He eyes the tip jar, willing himself to wait on rampaging the concession stand until the beginning of the film roar dies down. It’s a double feature tonight, which means maybe he can score enough cash to cover those damn college application fees his counselor will start hounding him about week one of school.

Then he sees her—Betty Cooper. She’s laughing, watching Archie Andrews try to catch popcorn in his mouth, tossed by his paramour, Veronica Lodge. She pauses to sip from her slushie straw, her lips—which he’s watched argue against homophobic and racist comments in their advanced lit class, or pressed to the cheek of her other best friend, Kevin Keller. Which he’s imagined, doing slightly less savory things, though the mere thought of said imagining has his heart pounding wildly.

(Jughead’s been eating way too many fucking bananas. Someone needs to check his potassium levels.)

His absolutely pathetic gaze, once available three times a day in their shared classes where Jughead has still not managed to exert any confidence whatsoever regarding speech, eye contact, or general acknowledgement of Betty Cooper’s existence other than whatever drooling may or may not be happening, all of which he finds he has no control over… is all interrupted by the absolute polar opposite of Betty Cooper. Hiram Lodge zooms up to the banana stand on his segway, angling to a stop just before taking out the stand’s foundation.

“Still getting a hang of that, Mayor Lodge?”

Hiram grimaces. “Just checking that you’ve renewed your business permit, Jones.”

They do this once a week. It’s still the same permit.

“You know,” Hiram starts as Jughead rustles for the paperwork to make him go the fuck away, “I could find you an arrangement with a better banana supplier. For a discount. If you’re interested.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in your GMO, black market bananas, Hiram.”

Hiram gives him a pointed look. Jughead rolls his eyes even harder. “Mayor Lodge.” He proffers the papers, Hiram waves them away. “I’ll take one chocolate peanut butter dip. With peanuts.”

Jughead kisses his teeth. “That will be $3.50.”

Hiram’s whole face goes serpentine. “Not between business partners, Jones. Put it on my tab.”

Jughead grits his teeth, handing the finished banana so aggressively he hopes that the chocolate splatters and stains Hiram’s $500 tie. It is only slightly worth it to watch Hiram struggle with navigating the segway one-handed, frozen banana in the other.

He muffles a chuckle before realizing he’s used the dead end of the chopped peanut topping, and exits the stand to update the order board hanging on the outside. It’s mostly an excuse to feel a ten degree drop in temperature, a sweet relief he might be able to extend by grabbing a hot dog before the intermission rush.

He’s crossing off peanuts from the topping list and spinning around when he hears a shriek and a sudden, cold slosh across his chest. The yellow polo drips with artificial blue slushie, but Jughead swallows his fucking hell when he sees that the shriek, gaping stare of horror, and stumble in question all belong to his very own blonde kryptonite.

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, jesus, shit, I’m so sorry!”

Jughead is frozen while Betty grabs about half his napkin dispenser and starts pawing at his shirt in a vain attempt to right the giant sticky blue mess all over his chest.

Finally, Jughead swallows the golf ball in his throat and chokes out. “Honestly, it’s fine. That stand is a sauna. I needed that.”

Betty stops, both her blotting and her stream of apologizing (which includes a fair bit of cursing, and he is a little revolted with himself by how much this turns him on).

“It’s going to get very sticky, soon. Maybe I should buy a bottle of cold water?”

Jughead can’t help himself. “Oh, impromptu yellow t-shirt contest?”

Betty grins.

I did that.

“Do you have any employees who could bring you another shirt?”

Jughead shakes his head. “Just my sister. She’s playing video games at home. There’s no earthly way she’ll bring me a spare.”

Betty cocks her head. “I had a feeling you were more than the silent back row kind of guy.”

The fact that Betty Cooper has, at any point, considered what kind of guy he is triggers full-on nervous blathering. “I’m usually very tired at school. I have this little sister—but I’m kind of um, her guardian. So I’m doing this stupid banana stand thing because it’s like one of the three assets to our entire family name I guess? Anyway, it’s hard to engage with Haggly’s basic discussion questions at eight in the morning when you spent the whole night dreaming about wholesale banana margins.”

He’s essentially vomiting words, but Betty is still smiling.

“Anyway, I should crawl back into my fruit-shaped purgatory and let you go back to your friends.”

She’s biting her lip, hedging. “Honestly, they’re probably using the alone time to make out in the car, and I’d rather let them get all their sexual tension out so that I don’t have to feel it radiating off of them for the whole second half of the double feature.”

Jughead laughs and tamps down the impulse to offer her a frozen banana, because he cannot possibly say something like that without making it sound sexual.

“What are frozen banana profit margins like, anyway?” Betty asks, either genuinely interested or legitimately flirting with him. Jughead finds both potentials baffling.

Jughead hesitates, then ducks inside the stand, pulling out his spiral bound notebook. “I’m still kind of figuring it out. All my records are in here.”

Betty sidles up to the stand, taking up the whole window. They’re both leaning over the scribbled line items on college ruled paper; he can smell her shampoo. She takes the notebook, scanning thoroughly.

“Do you have a pencil?”

He hands her one and observes her going to work, writing out some algebraic formula and calculating quickly in her head. There is a calculator within his reach, but he thinks handing it to her might come off as an insult. (Jughead wouldn’t know; he assumes Betty is in an advanced math class. Jughead is not.)

After a few minutes of watching her devoted focus, thinking about her hands touching his pencil, thinking about her hands wrapped around his hand, or his—

“I don’t know how to tell this to you, Jug.”

The shortening of his name stops his heart for a jolt, and his response is embarrassingly delayed. “What is it?”

Betty winces but smiles through it, a combination she’s surely learned to use when delivering bad news. It’s well earned, it really does soften the blow.

“There’s no money in the banana stand. At least, not with these margins.”

Jughead finds himself less than devastated by this news, mostly because it makes a hell of a lot of sense. The messenger doesn’t hurt, either.

“But,” she interrupts. “I don’t know if you’ve nailed down your course load for senior year. But I’m taking AP Econ? This could be, um, a good project. Like, if you want to take the class. Or even if you don’t. Not that you’re like a project or… whatever. I’m just saying we could figure it out. Make lemonade out of… bananas.”

Betty Cooper is extremely cute when she stammers.

Jughead doesn’t know what to do, so he gives her an easy out. “I can’t like, hire you, if that wasn’t obvious by the whole… deficit spending or whatever the whole negative circled number at the bottom of the page really means.”

She flushes. “No, that would be highway robbery. I just thought there might be an… opportunity. For um, us. I mean, for you and I. I mean—” she clears her throat, as if it’s closing up. “An academic opportunity. Or, in your case, professional. Well, a betterment of your livelihood. Okay, um, shit, just… I should go!”

She turns away, her face the deepest scarlet he’s ever seen.

“Betty, wait.”

She pivots back, eyes down at the ground.

“How about I buy you a new slushie and you come back into the booth. Tell me everything I’m doing wrong for the rest of the night.”

Betty looks up, biting the corner of her smile. “Sounds like a deal.”

They shake on it.

#this is unhinged but i had to ok #I HAD TO #riverdalepromptathon #riverdale fanfiction #bughead fanfiction #riverdalepromptathonweek3

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fakecrfan · 4 years ago

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POV: You wake up in the TMA universe at the start of season 1.

You find yourself on the streets of London, cold and confused.

You try to figure out what happened and get home. You discover the place you lived no longer exists. The place you worked no longer exists.

You try to call the numbers of family, friends, anyone you knew. Baffled voices that you don’t recognize answer you, and then hang up.

As you're wandering around the streets getting increasingly terrified, you pass by the Magnus Institute. Then, everything makes sense.

You hurry in and blurt out: "I would like to make a statement"

Rosie smiles politely.

“Alright, let’s get you the proper forms then.”

She tells you that the Archivist, Jonathan Sims, will see you in a moment. As you are waiting for him, you recall what happens to people who give statements to Jonathan Sims. Unceasing bad dreams. Unrelenting panic attacks. Enough that Jess Tyrell stopped being able to go out in public.

"Ah," you think. "I will not do that then."

You leave in a hurry. Outside, you realize:

oh, I'm the only one who can stop the apocalypse now, aren't i

You shiver. That thought can wait, you think. For now you need to find... somewhere to stay. You are effectively homeless. No, not effectively. You are straight up homeless.

You pull out your wallet to pay for food. Your card is declined. You try to use cash, only to be told it’s counterfeit. Everything is just a little too much to the left of your reality for you to navigate.

Finally you find social services of some kind. They ask for your information, including your NIN. you aren't surprised when they say the info they have on file for that number is.... not you. You are disappointed though.

They help you to a homeless shelter. You sit on your cot and cry self-pityingly for a bit, and then that pressure comes back to your mind:

The world is going to end. You know the world is going to end. You're the only one who can do anything about it.

You turn over and decide that's something you can deal with in the morning.

----

The next day, you think about it again.

"That's something I can deal with when I have an apartment," is what you think then.

So that becomes your next project. Finding your footing as a displaced person. Social services helps but it's... sporadic. It takes months for you to get more stable housing.

When you lie down on the couch of the new, well, new associate you've made, you once again remember that the world is going to end. That you are the only one who can do anything about it.

"I'll think about that when I get a job"

-----

Time continues to pass. As you are trying to get on your feet, you make feeble attempts to... start something.

You go to the Magnus Institute a few times. But it's hard. You've always had terrible social anxiety,. And everyone there seems so cold. You can feel eyes on your back: staring, watching your every move. Normally that alone is enough to make you quit for the day.

A lot of times, the main cast you remember is out doing research. When they are there, you are about to walk up and speak to them when the anxiety hits you again.

What if Elias sees you talking to them? What if he kills you?

You decide to retreat for a little while, then. Just to think of a better plan.

You spend the next month getting your first job in this new world. You start a timeline of when you think the apocalypse is going to happen, but remembering the canon dates is hard. It's not a very helpful timeline, and so you give it up.

Eventually you think the best thing to do is to wait until Elias has been arrested and then talk to the others. When Elias is in prison, he can't murder you for revealing your plans.

This means Sasha and Tim will die. But--they might have died anyway, even with your intervention. Who’s to say? Anyway, you’re not the one who will kill them. It’s not your fault.

You scan the news every day for things about the Magnus Institute, particularly the head of it getting arrested.

During this time, you do a little better. You have a nice apartment now, you think. Nice by your own standards, at least. You decorate the place a little. Get some video games that you like--or well, they aren't the same ones as in your world, but close enough you think?

Months pass.

One day it hits you that maybe the papers would never actually report on Elias being arrested.

Oh shit, you think.

You go back to the Magnus Institute then. By this point, Rosie recognizes you. She grants you the same expression one grants a wayward alley cat. You ask who the current head is. You are told "Peter Lukas."

Shit.

"Can I make a statement?"

Rosie looks nervous. "Um, the Archivist is on medical leave."

"Okay can I talk to one of his assistants?"

Rosie gets this very tired look in her eyes.

"I'll... ask."

Rosie phones the archives extension

it rings

"They've all really been through it recently," Rosie tells you. "They don't--like to talk to anyone else, now."

"I have to talk to them," you say. "Um, can you--can you tell Martin Blackwood specifically that I need to talk to him? That it's about Jon?"

Martin is--you like Martin. Martin will be nice and safe. He'll be easier to talk to than Melanie at this point, or Basira. Still, Rosie looks tired again.

"I'll have a chat with him," Rosie says. "How about you go home for now, and I'll call you when I've talked to him."

"But--"

You're bad at this. You were always bad at this. You can barely sign up for anything on your own. Your mother has done so many calls and filled out so many forms for you.

You never cultivated the skill of standing in a lobby and insisting to talk to someone. Maybe you'll just irritate Rosie and she'll blacklist you if you dig in your heels now. Anyway, you're already so tired from this. You think about going home, and playing some Medal of Honour IV.

"Fine," you say.

You go home. You play the game. You sleep.

You're not giving up, you say to yourself. You're just--biding your time.

Rosie does not call you.

It pains you, but you realize you have to go back in and ask to speak to someone again. You'll go today after work, you decide.

No, wait, you're too tired from work today. You'll go tomorrow.

Maybe on the weekend.

----

You finally go back

Rosie tells you she just--hasn't been able to get a hold of Martin.

"Fine," you say. "Any of the other assistants."

Rosie actually looks a bit worried for you. "Um, they're not--they don't take well to unexpected visitors. Let me wait and chat them up about it."

You do not listen this time.

You march down into the basement level where the archives are. The door is--well. Shit. It's barricaded? You knock. You keep knocking.

"Melanie! Basira!" you say. "I have to talk!"

The door opens too quickly. You barely get a glimpse of Melanie's snarl before she strikes and your vision goes white.

She hits you a few times. No knives, just fists. You hear Basira in the backround, barking for Melanie to stand down. Once there is an opening and you can blearily see again, you run away in terror.

It's not--you didn't intend to run. You were just afraid.

----

You go home, and realize that Melanie didn't even really hit you in a super serious way. Nothing that would warrant a hospital trip, at least. Nothing that has left you with a lot of pain, outside of the immediate terror of physical violence.

You probably could have stuck it out there. You should have.

You think about all the months--no, years now--that have passed without you making any progress.

"But that’s not my fault,” you say.

"I was having a really hard time. I was homeless. I've been struggling with my mental health. I still have to keep the rent paid and feed myself."

"It's not my fault. It's not."

"I will do something. Just--I need some more time."

You sleep.

You decide to wait a bit for your bruises to heal up before going back.

When you do drag yourself back to the Institute, now there is a PTSD reaction to going into the Institute on top of the social anxiety.

You leave quickly. Rosie looks so sad for you.

You do try to go back. You do try to get back in contact with the Archives, or go back when Jon is back up. But there's always something. Not something directly stopping you. Just--

Tiredness. Work. Illness. Doctor's appointments. Panic attacks. The Archives staff being unreachable.

The world is going to end. You're the only one who can stop it.

"That's not true though," you think. "I mean, technically anyone could. I just have a little more information that could help."

"It's never one person's fault," you tell yourself as you crawl into bed after another flight of anxiety struck you as you were about to cross the street to the Institute. "It's everything. It's--a whole system. It's Jonah's fault really. If I don't--I'm not to blame."

“I’m not to blame.”

----

You are playing Medal of Honour V when your phone lights up with a notification that there was an outburst of violence at a place known as the Magnus Institute, and billionaire Peter Lukas has disappeared in the confusion.

You should get up. It’s going to happen, and happen soon. You hand twitches on the controller.

You remember a quote you saw before you ended up here, on Facebook of all things.

"Don't wonder what you'd be doing in Nazi Germany. Whatever you're doing now, is what you would have been doing then."

Because bad things were happening in the world all the time, your preachy Facebook aunt said. There is always genocide, and famine, and war. It’s not some movie fantasy from the past.

You think about that. About the horrors in your world. Those movements that you retweeted support for and occasionally donated $5 to. The protests you awkwardly passed by on your way to work.

You quietly realize what kind of person you are. What you would have been doing in Nazi Germany, or the civil rights era in the U.S., or during the catastrophes in your own world, or right now.

It's what you were always going to do.

And so you get back to Medal of Honour V.

----

You're still dreading the apocalypse of course. It won’t be easy. It will be around six months to a year of full on torture, specifically designed to be the worst you have ever felt. Something about that soothes you. Something about knowing you are a victim too, or maybe knowing that you’ll be punished.

But--it will end, and then you'll be alright. Everything will return to normal, and you can go back to your apartment and your job and your games. It’s not all that bad.

You feel a twinge of guilt for Martin and Jon, who you could ave intervened for. You feel more than a twinge for the worlds the Entities will infect after. But--maybe it will all work out okay. Maybe the universe is a kind place. Maybe other worlds will be able to handle the fears better.

Who knows! There is always hope!

----

[When the sky turns red and the great Eye opens, when you start to hear the howls of your apartment neighbors through the wall--

Nothing happens to you. You are fine. It does not touch you.

Oh.]

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #self insert #reader insert #my writing

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zevlors-tail · 4 years ago

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Febuwhump Day 8 - “Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep!”

A/N: I can’t believe I just wrote this in one sitting. I know I’m super behind on Febuwhump, yikes...but I think this turned out pretty well! This got longer than I meant it to be, but then, so did most of the prompts in my drafts that I have for this month. This is actually my first time purposefully writing whump so I hope this was okay! Unedited btw, i’ll read it over in the morning.

TW: Burning building, explosions, second degree burns, mentions/descriptions of burn wounds, life or death situation, building collapse, concussed reader.

***

The first thing Hawks notices when he comes to is the foul taste in his mouth. It causes him to gag and cough with his eyes still closed, though that doesn’t help his situation much if at all. The smell of something burning sears the inside of his nostrils and clogs his lungs, and he finds it incredibly hard to breathe as he rolls over onto his side, eyes finally fluttering open.

The second thing he becomes acutely aware of is how hot he is. No...how hot the floor is. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to recall what he was doing down there anyways. If only that incessantly annoying ringing in his ears would stop-

Wait. Wait a minute...

An image of you flashes behind his eyelids as he blinks them shut harshly to block out the billowing cloud of smoke filling the room, and it all comes back to him in a whirlwind.

There were villains. High class villains. Not your every day run of the mill villains, but villains who could really pack a punch when fighting back. They had been occupying a small skyscraper at the time as their headquarters, and you and Hawks had partnered up to take them down after months of steak outs and observation. But something had gone wrong...very wrong. Those details were still a bit blurry, but Hawks remembers something akin to an explosion- a loud noise, the building shaking, and a blast that knocked him unconscious.

All of the sudden he’s hyper aware of what’s going on- and he realizes he needs to move fast if he’s going to get out of here alive. He’s at least twenty stories up in the air on unstable structures, his feathers and hair are singed, and his head is foggy after inhaling too much smoke. Luckily he can still move, and it doesn’t look like he’s been burned too severely, at least not yet. But the flames licking at the bottom of the closed door in front of him cause alarm bells to scream out in his head, and he knows he doesn’t have much time to think. He needs to find you so he can grab you and-

Ohhh, shit.

As he rolls over onto his other side, he can make out the outline of a figure lying on the floor, and he’s almost certain it’s you. None of the villains stuck around after blowing the place up anyways, and he can just barely see the dulled colors of your hero suit behind the thick screen of smoke.

“Fuck! Oh god, Y/N.”

You’re lying too still for your own good, and Hawks thinks he can see the beginning of what he can only assume to be fire slowly eating at the wall next to you. He wastes no time and flattens himself on his stomach, army crawling in your general direction to avoid the worst of the putrid air. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing. He ignores the uncomfortable heat of his body and pushes onward, his movements still a little sluggish from getting knocked out cold. He’s not entirely sure if he can even use his feathers right now while they’re this singed, and furthermore, he hopes his wings aren’t completely out of commission; he’s going to need those if the both of you are going to make it out of this alive.

“Y/N!” he tries to shout, though it ends in a horrible sounding cough that comes from deep in his chest. As he draws nearer, he hears what sounds like creaking coming from above the two of you, and to his utter horror, the support beams under floor above you have burnt to a crisp and look like they’re ready to collapse any second. It had to have been a sheer miracle that the two of you weren’t already engulfed in flames yourselves. “Y/N! Come on, kid, you gotta get up! Move!”

Even as he tries to urgently get your attention his body seems to move on it’s own accord, and before he can stop himself, he sends a few feathers your way out of habit and concern that you might be crushed any second if he doesn’t move you somehow. It hurts like hell, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding. This is by far the worst he’s felt when using his feathers, but it does pay off, and you’re lucky that he made the split decision to move you- no sooner had he scrambled back with you had the ceiling collapsed into the floor.

He turns to you while staying low to the ground, shaking you desperately and firmly smacking the side of your face with his hand in hopes of interrupting your forced slumber. It works but just barely, and Hawks watches as you try to take a deep breath but end up choking just as he had. He gives you a once-over while you struggle to breathe, eyes flitting over your form to assess any damage you may have taken- and to his dismay, there seems to be a good amount of it. The entire left side of your hero outfit is singed, bits of the fabric even burnt into your skin in certain places where the heat must have been too strong. You hadn’t been able to move away or protect yourself in your sleep, and the burns on your arm and leg can definitely attest to that. They’re second degree, at least; some of the fire must have actually made contact with your skin.

“Oh, fuck- Hey, look at me. Y/N, focus here!”

He leans over you to look at your eyes, and he doesn’t have to shine a light in them or have you follow his finger to know that you hit your head a little too hard. They’re glossy and unfocused, and you can’t find a single place on his face to fixate on. You just keep looking all over, and Hawks can clearly tell your concussed.

Fucking great. He’s got to get you both out, and now.

“Hey, kid. Can you hear me?” He nervously awaits an answer with eyes trained on you, and the second you start to talk he lets out a small breath of short-lived relief.

“Hawks...? Wha...” You look so out of it and dazed.

“So that’s a yes, thank god...” Before you try to ask anything else, he stops you in your tracks and shakes his head at you. “Whoa, whoa, whoa- take it easy, alright? No questions, I just need you to listen and keep talking to me. Doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just need to know you’re awake and alive-” He pauses briefly to look around for something, anything he can do to escape.

There’s the door you both came from, the one that’s barely holding back the raging heat behind it- that’s a no-go. No way in hell is he trying to brave that. His wings won’t last five seconds in that, and you don’t have the means to protect yourself while you’re concussed. Another option is to try and escape through the hole in the floor that the ceiling caused...but that’s way too risky for the both of you as is, and it looks like flames are starting to creep in from that way, too. If he is going to take that route, he needs to do it soon. Maybe he can get to a staircase, or find a-

The sound of you moaning in pain cuts through his thoughts and his head whips back in your direction to find you grimacing and trying to move. “Ah ah- Don’t do that. Just keep talking, come on. I know it hurts, but you gotta keep talkin’ to me. I’m gonna get us out of this mess, somehow...”

Panic starts to set in as he realizes his options are limited. Terror grips him in it’s icy stone-cold jaws as he comes to the conclusion that his odds of survival are even worse.

“Hawks...it hur’s...” All you can do is roll your head back and forth and try to move, but your body just won’t cooperate with your mind.

“Fuck. Fuck! I know, I know...” His teeth grit together as he thinks, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. Adrenaline is starting to kick in, and he’s desperate for anything at this point.

He still has no plan in mind when he makes another split second decision to move you from where you’re currently laying. The fire is only spreading up onto the carpeted floor the two of you are on, and the smoke is getting worse by the second; this room is a hot box with no ventilation at this point. He carefully picks you up and cradles you to his chest, his wings wrapping around the both of you to both support your frame and shield you from the onslaught of unbearable heat. It forces him to take a few steps back, and he does his best to navigate through a screen of black without bumping into any furniture. He almost trips several times, but eventually he hits the opposite wall. Or, rather...

A window. Bingo.

“S’ tired...” you mumble. Your eyes are already fluttering, rolling to the back of your head as your limbs grow heavy in his arms.

“Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep! Y/N!? Come on, stay awake!”

“C’n we go...home now?”

He doesn’t like how ragged your breathing sounds.

He almost chuckles at the absurdity of the situation, but his lungs are already full of tainted air to laugh, let alone breathe properly, so he scoffs instead- and instantly regrets it. Between fits of coughs, he presses his shoulder to the glass behind you both to test the temperature, and it’s much hotter than it should be. Part of the glass is already blown out to his right, but there’s not enough space to crawl out without the jagged edges of it tearing up his flesh and wings. But if he could somehow break it...

His feathers. He’ll have to use up more of them, but if he uses the bare minimum necessary to break the glass and saves the majority, he may be able to make it out the window and fly you both to safety.

“We can’t go home yet,” he chokes out in response to you, finally. “I’m gonna get you out of here, and then you’re on your way to the hospital, yeah? You’re gonna be fine.”

He knows that to be true, so long as he can actually manage this. He backs up as far as he can go without subjecting either of you to the hot flames now openly invading the room, the entryway having burnt to a crisp already. From where he stands now, he hopes there’s enough distance to create the amount of force needed to shatter that damn glass. After a quick estimate of how many feathers he can get away with using, he readies them, and it all boils down this moment. If he can’t do this, you’ll both die. Both of your lives are at stake, resting on his weary shoulders. He can do this.

He has to.

“Wanna go home...wanna go...” You’re just murmuring to yourself, and it really puts Hawks on edge.

He hears the glass shatter before he sees it. He stumbles forward, wings still securely wrapped around you, and all but falls out of the edge of the window right before the rest of the floor collapses in on itself. He hears the devastation behind him, feels sparks on his back where the holes of his shirt meet the beginnings of his wings. He knows if he had hesitated or stayed any longer, neither of you would be alive right now.

Replacing his hold on you with his arms, he lets his wings drift open and prays he didn’t overdo it with the feathers, begs whatever gods may be listening that the two of you can at least slow the fall somehow. And to his pure joy and bliss, his wings, though bleeding and burnt and painful, are still very much holding up and allowing him to fly.

Now if he can manage to get you to a hospital...you’ll be just fine.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday8 #febuwhump2021 #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #whump #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks #keigo takami #keigo

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yeenybeanies · 4 years ago

Text

Slaying Monsters

i started this three months ago, and decided it was time to finish it. i’ve been wanting to write a piece with dev & some other gang members for a while now i didn’t proofread it yet don’t @ me

red dead redemption | charles smith & devin clarke ( oc )

3,728 words

language, blood, & animal death warnings

thanks for reading!! reblogs > likes!! patreon | ko-fi

Unattended bags are always tempting to a borrower. It’s partly survival and partly curiosity that draws the little beings to bags and boxes and other such vessels that contain stuff. Ideally, that stuff would be useful.

Such is Devin’s idea upon approaching a lone saddlebag. They’ve been watching it for a while now. It has remained unbothered and undisturbed atop a tree stump for over an hour. Surely there’s bound to be something good inside, what with the many members of the Van Der Linde gang constantly coming and going. And surely, whatever those contents may be, small amounts won’t be missed.

The coast is clear. The camp is preoccupied in tending to the daily duties; no one is paying the bag any mind. Devin makes a break for it, keeping low as they run through the grass, to the stump. They pause at the base and give the camp a quick look, pleased to see that no one has taken notice of their presence. For just a moment, they allow themself a prideful smirk, then they refocus on the task at hand: climb the stump and get in the bag. The former is hardly a challenge; deep cracks in the bark provide handholds enough that the borrower doesn’t need their hook or climbing equipment to scale it. Despite the strap and buckle keeping the bag shut, Devin is small enough to slip through a gap and reach the interior.

The space is dark and cramped, but some light filters in through the gap they’d entered. The first thing Devin notices is the smell of leather and sweat, and fabric beneath their feet. Clothing. It’s best not to take anything from these; missing scraps from a shirt or a pair of pants would definitely be noticed. Deeper down, past the clothes, another smell becomes more prominent: something earthy and floral. That could be useful. Devin crawls through the mounds of fabric, navigating the musty space, until their hand brushes something soft. A bit more pawing around reveals it to be an umbel of little flowers. Intrigued, they grasp the stem and pull the plant into the light for better inspection.

“ What the hell…. ” White flowers, jagged leaves…. Devin scrunches their nose, confused. Is their plant identification knowledge failing them? Or is the owner of this bag an idiot?

Pondering is short-lived. Footsteps approach from the outside––a human. Devin’s heart speeds up. They drop the plant and dive for cover within the clothes just as the bag is lifted. It sways in the air with the human’s long strides, most disorienting. When the swaying stops, the borrower remains hidden, knowing full-well that they are not safe yet. There’s an exchange of words overhead, a brief moment of stillness, and then the world starts tumbling. Devin clutches hard onto the clothing concealing them. Much to their chagrin, this particular jostling is painfully familiar. They’re on a horse.

Somehow, being in a saddlebag is worse than being stuck under a hat.

Fuck.

Suppressing the sickening feeling in their stomach and the myriad of emotions swarming their brain, Devin fights against the horrible shaking and pushes their way out of the fabric folds. Climbing is significantly harder, but they still press on, going so far as to use their knife and hook for more purchase on the tough leather. Slowly but surely, they manage to reach the opening they’d initially climbed through and peek out. The wind whips and frays their hair and makes it difficult to see much of anything. They catch glimpses of the ground speeding below at breakneck speed, and at the horse’s white-and-grey spotted pelt.

Most surprisingly, and to some relief, though, is the rider. The long, black hair and the big, sawed-off shotgun identify the man: “Charles!”

Alas, their voice is unheard over the wind. Devin growls, frustrated, and retreats back into the relative safety of the saddlebag. There’s no use trying to get his attention right now. They’re just going to have to endure the bouncing and the shaking until he slows down. They can only pray that it’s soon.

———

Only an hour or so elapsed by the time the galloping slowed, though, to Devin, it felt like a lifetime. Despite their queasiness (courtesy of the bumpy ride), the borrower pushes free of the mountains of fabric and scrambles up the leathery interior, to the opening. They pause at the rim and focus on swallowing the bile in their throat, then, once it’s clear, level the back of the human’s head with a hard stare.

They breathe in until their chest burns, and let out the loudest yell they can muster: “CHARLES!”

The man jumps in his saddle and whips his head around, one hand to the shotgun on his hip. His eyes scan the horizon behind him, well over Devin’s head.

“Down here. Hey!” They wave an arm, trying to ignore how foolish they feel. Even after months of being around Arthur, it still goes against everything they know as a borrower to flag down a human.

Were the situation different—were Devin not currently fighting some ferocious nausea—they might find it comical how Charles’s expression changes. First he’s struck with recognition, eyes still on the horizon, and then the color in his face pales with realization and horror. Slowly, as if he were making every effort to delay the inevitable find, his gaze lowers to the gap under the saddle bag flap and the little borrower peeking out.

“Devin?” It still takes him a moment to process their presence, and then he’s all but falling out of the saddle (much to his horse’s displeasure). After he’s got his feet on the ground and his balance under control, the man unbuckles the saddlebag lid and flips it open. The color is rapidly returning to his face in a heated flush. “M-Miss Clarke, I didn’t know you were—why are you in my bag?” His hand nears them, but Devin waves it off.

“Don’t. I might puke. It’s a marvel that I haven’t already.” They try to suppress a shudder. “I didn’t know this was your bag. I just saw it sitting back at the camp, untouched for some time. Thought I could get something useful.”

Charles grimaces sympathetically and lets his hand come to rest on his horse’s flank. He isn’t thrilled to hear that someone was rummaging through his belongings for things to scavenge, but such behavior is to be expected from a borrower, he figures. It does make him feel a little better to know that Devin hadn’t been targeting him specifically.

“I should take you back to camp. Arthur would kill me if something happened to you.” Never mind the berating Charles would give himself. He might not know Devin as well as Arthur does, but their charm is infectious. They are well on their way to having another human wrapped around their teeny tiny finger.

“I’d like that. Eventually. But I don’t think I can take much more galloping right now. Riding in Arthur’s hat was better than riding in here.” The borrower leans over the leather with a quiet groan. The nausea is subsiding, albeit slowly. They do stiffen just a little when Charles lightly rubs a knuckle to their back, but the gentle pressure draws another, more content groan from their tiny lungs.

“I'm alright,” they say after a minute. They glance up at Charles, offering him a weak but grateful smile, and then look to their surroundings. It’s not anywhere they recognize, but that’s not surprising. “So where are we going? ”

“Well, I was going out foraging,” the man says. “Now that you’re here, though…” He trails off, uncertain.

“Oh! Speaking of foraging–––” the borrower vanishes back into the bag, leaving Charles perplexed. Once they emerge again, they hold up a sprig of white flowers. “What the hell are you doing with this?”

Charles squints at the plant, then raises his brow in realization. “You know what that is?”

The surprise in his voice is a little insulting. Devin scrunches their nose. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Smith. I’ve lived in the wild most of my life. I know what water hemlock is.”

He holds his hands up and offers an apologetic shrug. “That’s actually what I was going to forage for. I found some while I was out with Javier the other day, but I didn’t have time to collect more.”

“Okay.” Devin inspects the flowers, twirling the stem between their hands. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re going to do with it. Are you planning to poison someone? Is it that Micah guy?”

That earns them a snort. If only. “No. I use it on my knives and arrowheads. That and oleander sage. Gives them an extra kick.”

Devin frowns, just a smidge disappointed. “I suppose that’s a good alternative use. I used to do the same with my knife when I could find hemlock.” They drop the sprig and watch it fall to the ground far below. “It’d be so easy to poison Micah though…” They say so only half-jokingly.

“Don’t I know it.” Charles shares the sentiment, but he shakes his head. Much as he’d like to see that snake gone, it’s not his place to do anything about his presence. Yet.

Now that the nausea has passed (for the most part), the borrower pulls themself from the bag and climbs up the saddle, making their way up to the seat. “I’m okay now,” they say. “We’ve already come this far. We might as well go get that hemlock. I can use it too.”

Charles looks a little uncertain, but when he opens his mouth to protest, Devin levels him with a hard stare that makes him think twice. He clears his throat. “Why don’t you ride up here with me?” he offers. “It’d probably be a bit smoother.”

Smoother would certainly be welcomed. Devin nods and climbs onto the man’s hand when it’s brought down to their level. His skin is warm and rough, similar to Arthur’s hands. Unlike Arthur, though, he carries them with greater caution. Devin pats his thumb.

“Relax. I’m not made of paper.”

“Er… right.”

They can’t fault him for his caution. Charles has significantly less experience handling Devin than does Arthur. If anything, it’s comforting to know that he is actively trying to keep them comfortable.

He grabs the saddlehorn with his free hand and hauls himself up. First he brings them to his lap, and then, after thinking, lifts them higher to his shoulder, where they climb off. Devin sits just outside of his beaded necklace and takes a handful of his hair.

“Is this going to bother you?”

“No, it’s fine. Use what you need. Let me know if you start to slip.”

Once he’s sure Devin is secure––as secure as they can be on his shoulder––he spurs his horse gently in the ribs. They set off at a slow canter, something a bit less bumpy than the gallop before. Charles is correct: it’s more comfortable riding on his shoulder than it was in the bag, if only a little bit. Devin resigns themself to the reality that they will likely never enjoy travel on horseback, but this is at least tolerable.

Charles is silent for the most part, which doesn’t bother Devin. They find themself occupied looking at the scenery. From their usual vantage point on the ground, they don’t much get to appreciate views of mountains and trees and vast prairies. Even on the off occasion that they hitch a ride on Arthur’s person, they often take to hiding in his scarf, thus dashing any chances of catching the view.

Despite the ride’s discomfort, Devin finds themself enjoying this. They are grateful, though, when Charles tugs the reins and brings the horse to a gradual stop. He spares them a glance when they sigh.

“You doing okay?”

“Just peachy.” Devin gives the shoulder beneath them a pat. He dismounts rather awkwardly, trying not to jostle them too much.

It strikes Devin that they have not just one, but two humans invested in their safety and comfort. It leaves them with mixed feelings fluttering about in their chest.

Best not to dwell on it right now.

Walking is a little choppy at first, what with Charles figuring out how best to adjust his gait with Devin on his shoulder, but, once he figures out a good rhythm, it smooths out. He steps carefully, eyes scanning the ground for the plants he seeks. Devin watches too, though they’re less focused on the hemlock and more interested in… well, everything else. Hemlock is but one plant in a new area full of things to explore.

“Hey. Let me down.” Devin gives the man’s hair a light tug, drawing his attention back to them. Though he can’t fully look at them from where they sit, he still furrows his brow in an uncertain expression meant for them. Devin rolls their eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m a big boy, Charles; I walk around on my own every day.”

“I’m sure, but–––”

“Either you let me down or I’m jumping.” That seems to work. Charles acquiesces with a reluctant sigh and gingerly helps the borrower down to the ground. He remains crouched after they hop off of his hand, still looking unsure. Devin waves up at him. “Go on. Keep doing what you were doing. I’m fine.”

“Yell if you get into trouble,” he says, voice stern. Devin chooses not to take offense.

“Sure thing.” They part with a final wave and dart off into the grass, out of the human’s view. Still he hesitates, but he does eventually get up and carry on with his task. Devin breathes out an exasperated breath.

Having the care and concern of two humans is endearing, yes, but it can also be annoying. Devin might need to have a stern talk with the both of them if they keep this overprotective behavior up. They aren’t a child.

Charles does not feel good about just leaving Devin on the ground, but it wouldn’t have been right of him to hold them like some helpless creature. They’ve reminded him twice now that this is the life they live; he makes a mental note to try and be more respectful of that. After all, he reasons that he wouldn’t much appreciate it if someone else tried to keep him from doing the things he does every day. He isn’t palm-sized, but he imagines Devin still doesn’t care to be doted over. So he bites back his unease. He came out here for water hemlock. That’s what he’s going to find. Devin will be okay.

Following the nearby creek, Charles begins his search. He tests the soil beneath him with his foot, feeling its spring, its moisture, then starts scanning. Familiar white flowers speckle the banks. A faint smile creeps onto his lips. There’s plenty here for him to make use of.

–– –– ––

Devin pushes through the tall foliage, looking high and low for anything that might be useful. They find medicinal herbs, and spices for seasoning. Mentally they commend Charles; he sure knows where to look when it comes to valuable natural resources. Some of these plants are a rare find back at Horseshoe Outlook. They pick and take as much as they can carry, stuffing their bag full.

All is going fine. It’s going great, even. They’re making their way back down to the ground, munching on a sweet, juicy raspberry. The red fruit soaks their hands, their face, and their clothes, making them appear as though they’d just mauled something. It makes them snicker, thinking how Charles will react to see them like this. Their good humor dies suddenly, though. Devin feels a chill rush down their spine. They pause, alert, head on a swivel.

In an instant, everything seems to slow down. Devin drops to the ground as a pink, gaping mouth sails just a hair’s breadth over their head. It snaps shut, long fangs closing around air, and the scaly head of a rattlesnake retreats back to its coils, gearing up for another strike. Berry forgotten, Devin pulls their knife and their hook out. They stare the snake down just as it does them. It’s big––not just to them, but by rattlesnake standards. It’s a big fucking snake. The borrower’s heart races in their chest, but they don’t run, nor do they back down.

–– –– ––

Charles takes several clippings of water hemlock and carefully stows them in his satchel. He doesn’t take everything that he sees, not wanting to clear the area of the deadly plant, but he’s pleased with his haul so far. Already he has enough to coat his knives twice over, so he thinks that he could probably give Arthur and Javier some as well, so as not to waste it. He takes a few more stalks, then stands and stretches his back, arms held out to the side.

“That’s enough,” he mumbles to himself. He turns back to where he’d left Devin and scans the ground. Their tiny footprints are just barely visible in the dirt, and disappear into the grass.

“Miss Clarke?” he calls, taking a knee near the footprints. They don’t answer. “I think I’m just about done here, so I’m ready to go when you––woah––!” The man jumps back as a rattlesnake head pushes through the grasses. Layers of alarm spike in his brain: it’s a big-ass snake; Devin isn’t here; it has blood on its face; Did it eat Devin––?

“Just ‘Devin,’ Charles,” says the tiny voice. Charles flinches again. He swears he heard that voice coming from the snake. Did it eat them? He stares on in confusion, pondering whether or not he needs to cut the damn thing open, when its head flops to the side. Hauling it along is the little borrower.

“Oh my god. Are you––did the snake–––?” He stammers over his words, which surprises Devin. Arthur stammers here and there, but Charles is always so clear and calm when he speaks. They glance down at themself, noting the red stain and slick coating their hands, their head, their clothes…

“Ah! It’s okay! This isn’t––” they drop the snake and wave their hands, trying to placate the man, “I’m okay! This is all snake blood! And raspberry juice.”

Charles still looks horrified, glancing between the borrower and the rattlesnake. He does note that the blood seems to be coming from a deep wound on its head, right between its vacant eyes.

“You… killed it?” He gathers himself on his knees and leans forward, gingerly prodding the lifeless body.

“It tried to kill me first,” they say, sounding almost indignant. “Kinda lucky, though. I haven’t taken down a rattlesnake in a while. I can use it’s fangs and its venom.”

Charles lifts the carcass from the ground, testing its weight in his hands. His eyebrows shoot up at its heft. When he stands with its head at eye-level, its rattle-tipped tail still touches the ground.

It’s a big fucking snake.

“You… killed this monster?” He can’t hide the disbelief––or perhaps it’s awe––in his eyes as he looks back down to Devin.

They huff back up at him, trying not to take offense. “Yeah. I did,” they say, arms crossed over their chest. Charles waves his free hand.

“I don’t––I don’t mean to doubt you Miss––er, Devin. Sorry, I’m just… impressed.” Impressed would be an understatement.

Devin rolls their eyes. They adjust their bag and their knife, then trudge on towards Charles. Before they can ask him to, he stoops down and lowers a hand for them to climb onto. Once he has them at his level, Charles can see their annoyance clear as day.

“I tell you––both you and Arthur, you need to understand that I’m not helpless. I’ve lived my whole life out here. Half of it’s been alone. So spare me your patronizing looks and comments.” There’s venom in their eyes, in their words, as present as that in the venom in the snake’s fangs.

Charles has no hand free to hold up, but he does dip his head apologetically. “You’re right. I admit, I underestimated you. And I’m sorry for it. I’ve never met anyone like you before, and it’s a learning process.”

Devin’s features soften a little. They sigh and run a hand through their blood-slicked hair. It’s gross, but it’s not the first time they’ve been covered in blood. It won’t be the last time either.

“I like you, Charles. A lot. It’s a learning process for me too.” They offer him a half smile, though it does look a bit daunting with their red visage. “I think I’m ready to go home now.”

The man grimaces. “Think you want to… wash off first? Arthur is going to have a fit if he sees you like this.”

Devin looks down to themself, returning the grimace. “...yeah, probably. What I can, at least.” The blood wasn’t going to come out of their clothes without any soap, but they could wash their skin and hair off. Maybe they could hide their outerwear from Arthur, too. They had their underclothing on that wouldn’t show bloodstains.

Rattlesnake draped around his neck, Charles carries the borrower down to the creek and crouches at the bank. He brings his hands down for them to hop off and clean themself off. When they start stripping their outerwear, he turns his head to give them some privacy, and waits for them to draw his attention again when they’re done. Damp, but cleaner, and left in their long underclothes, Devin climbs back into Charles’ hands and scurries up to his shoulder, right next to the snake carcass.

“You good?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” they say. They give his shoulder a pat.

Charles stands, still a bit awkward with his passenger, but less so than before. “Pearson is gonna love this snake,” he says, tongue in cheek.

Devin bristles and glares daggers at the man. “This snake is my prize. That man is getting none of it. You can have some of it if you want, since you’re carrying it home, but I’m not sharing it with anyone else.” There’s that venom again.

Charles snorts. He pulls himself into his saddle and spurs his horse, gently pushing her to start trotting. “Right. Of course. My apologies, Devin.”

#g/t #g/t fiction #g/t writing #rdr #g/t rdr #charles smith #devin clarke #hyena ocs #i'm not in love with this but i'm tired of looking at it #& i wanted to finish it so i can feel less bad about starting something new #hyena writes

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plus-size-reader · 4 years ago

Text

Those Eyes pt.2

Bucky Barnes x Plus size!reader

Word Count:1421 words

Warnings: bit of an AU, anxiety, panic attack, PTSD

Summary: The answers come to the reader, but it isn’t really as simple as just the truth.

——————————————————————————————————

You could feel a scream pulling at your lips as you stared at the now rather alarmed looking man. However, there was no room for any explanation from you because there was currently no air in your lungs.

All you could do was stand there, shaking, as you tried to calm your racing heart.

There was no way that the man standing in front of you was the same man who killed your parents but if you could suspend logic for a moment, you were sure. You were beyond sure that those were the eyes you'd seen all those years ago.

The eyes of a man who spared you, even though he butchered your parents.

It was possible that it was some kind of combination of exhaustion and stress but you simply didn't think so. You knew that there was something completely and totally wrong, but the words to explain just didn't exist.

Running through your veins right now was a fear you hadn't felt in a very long time, a real fear that nothing else had ever been able to rival.

"Is everything okay? Do I need to get you something? Do you need to sit down?" he asked, reaching out gently to try and stabilize you which certainly didn't help. As soon as he reached out toward you, you screamed.

It was a blood curdling scream, one that could only rival the woman in those terrible horror movies Tony would make you watch every Halloween. Not only did Bucky back up at that though, but a gaggle of others came running toward the sound.

Unsurprisingly, your brother was the first to reach the door, swinging it open without a second thought. He was greeted with quite the sight, between the broken glass on the floor and you practically shutting down.

Even still, he didn't skip a beat.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here with you, just breathe" Tony cooed, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame to try and keep you from shaking even more, trying to coax you into your breathing exercises.

These were things he'd learned as a young man, when he had to learn how to navigate the childhood trauma you'd experienced after the accident. You used to have random panic attacks just like this one all the time or terrible night terrors that he had to talk you down from.

While it hadn't happened in a long time, evidently it was like riding a bike, he had never really forgotten how to do it.

"What happened?" Steve asked in a hushed whisper, looking over his best friend as if something had happened with him. As far as he knew, Bucky could have been having an episode of his own. After all, he wasn't the only one left bruised and paranoid over the events of that night.

Not that you knew that.

"She panicked, I don't know. She didn't say anything" the dark haired man tried, rattled in his own right over the way you'd reacted. As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything to set you off but maybe it wasn't something he was aware of.

Thankfully, Tony was quick to step in to explain, as you were no longer in a position to even stand on your own, led alone talk through what you were thinking. You were probably going to be nonverbal for at least half an hour after this.

"Are you okay to go with Nat while I clean this up?" he asked you, waiting until you gave a small nod to gingerly hand you over to the red head, who helped you down the hall so that you could sit down.

Once you were out of the room, Tony got to work with his explanation. "Don't worry about it, it isn't you. She's had a really hard time since mom and dad passed, certain things just set it off" he tried, hoping that was good enough to calm the man.

He knew how sensitive Bucky could be to those sorts of things and didn't want him to feel guilty like it was his fault, if only he knew.

See, you knew full well that there was something about Bucky that no one else knew but that was the difficult part. Not even Bucky himself had any recollection of what he'd done on that night in 1991.

All he knew was that something was terribly wrong, and that he owed you some kind of apology for whatever it was he'd done.

Natasha and Pepper spent the next half an hour or so talking you down from your panic in hushed, soft whispers. They made sure that you were keeping your breathing level and that you weren't thinking about it anymore until you were finally able to communicate again.

Once that moment came though, you still weren't sure what to say.

"I'm okay now, thank you" you tried, taking it slow as you sat up from where you'd been just laying down on the couch. Going too fast after something like that could trigger another panic attack but you knew that you were okay now.

You had been caught off guard was all, that had to be it. You must have just been tired, and that made you think that you aught to apologize for that poor man you probably traumatized.

"Can I talk to him for a second?" you asked, approaching the lab slowly once again, finding the shards of glass now nowhere to be found. The man in question didn't move when you spoke, looking instead between Steve and Tony for some kind of guidance.

"Are you sure that's a good idea kid? We still don't know what triggered it the first time" Tony warned, knowing what could happen if something spooked you again. Still, once you nodded, he didn't ask again.

You were an adult now and if you felt like you could handle it, he wasn't going to tell you differently. "I'll be okay, I'm good now" you assured, taking a seat across from where the brunette had been sitting, wracking his brain to try and figure out what he'd done to upset you so badly.

There was a moment or two of silence between you as you tried to organize your thoughts, not daring to look him in the face at first.

"I'm sorry that I scared you. When I was a little girl, there was an accident and I've had nightmares ever since. I guess something about you just reminded me of them" you explained, hoping his wouldn't be offended by that.

That wasn't exactly the best thing to say while making a first impression but it was the truth. There was no use lying after what you'd done anyway, not that you could even come up with a convincing lie in your current state.

"I think it's your eyes"

That came out after, without you even meaning to let those words slip from your lips. Bucky didn't say anything, not at first. Instead, he just let you talk, mostly because he didn't know what to say.

It wasn't until a few more seconds went by without any more words from you that he ventured to speak to you. His words were unsteady and shaky when he tried to ask you what he so desperately wanted to know, but he wasn't even sure why.

He couldn't place it, but he felt like he'd seen you somewhere. Though, like most of his memories, the truth was likely buried away from him in the distant sands of time.

"What about my eyes?" he sounded almost afraid when he asked, but as if on cue, you looked up at his face, taking in the look there. You barely let your own gaze focus on those blue eyes, feeling your stomach turn at the sight of them.

Still, as you tried to avoid his burning stare, the more you found your eyes brought back to his own. There was something almost magnetic about the look you found there, once you worked past the abject rejection you felt toward him.

You found that his gaze held an almost opposite affect. You just felt deep down in your soul that he knew the truth about what had happened, even if he didn't even realize he had the power.

A few more seconds ticked by while you gathered your thoughts before you spoke again. "They're the eyes I saw the night my parent's were murdered" and then, feeling as if your business was done, you stood and left.

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f1nalboys · 4 years ago

Text

Growing On Me - Bo Sinclair x Fem!Reader - part 3

again, I want to give you all a big thank you for reading part one and part two of this fic! this is the last part unless you all would like a short continuation of it, which if that's the case, feel free to let me know! <3

WORD COUNT: 2,626

WARNINGS: blood, brief mention of violence, reference to death and torture

You and Brett notice Bo and begin to move towards him, cowering away from Vincent. The masked man who was beginning to slink out of the shadows had to be an intruder. You cast a look over at Owen who still has Hannah's head in his lap. He seems to be unaware of the danger a mere three feet in front of him.

As you yell out his name, Brett screams, cutting you off. Your head snaps towards him just in time to see Bo pull the knife from his shoulder. Brett falls backwards as he tries to get away from Bo who stood there, donning a bloody knife and a sinister smile. Kelsey bumps into you, latching onto your arm, her body shaking with sobs. You’re frozen. Your eyes are trained on Bo.

He meets your eyes and his smile seems to grow as if the look of pure horror on your face was amusing. Your eyes bounce between Bo and the masked man, trying to figure out how to get out of this. How to get your friends out of this.

“Oh god, they’re going to kill us.” Kelsey says and a chill goes up your spine as Bo laughs. He’s enjoying this. He swipes the blade of his knife on his pants, the blood soaking into the fabric.

“You finally talked with some sense, sweetheart! But don’t worry, I’m in a good mood today; I’ll give ya’ll a head start,” Owen finally comes to his senses and you can feel him as he brushes up behind you, Brett finally finding the strength to stand up from the road, the blood spreading over his shoulder and chest. “You got ten seconds. 1, 2, 3...”

You don’t think. You grab ahold of Kelsey and Brett and start to run, heading off into the woods to your right. You’re hoping Owen is following behind you as well, the sound of Bo’s booming voice began to grow distant the further into the trees you go. You don’t know what to do; you have no idea where you are or how far away someone was and it seemed as though Bo has grown up in these woods. He would find you.

He was close. His footsteps were light as he ran through the woods, the crunch of the leaves and the snap of fallen branches stifled by practice. You and your group are loud; Bo doesn’t need to have you in his line of sight to know where you’re heading. These woods were tricky. A seemingly straight line was a circle.

He’s not surprised when he gets to the woods edge to see you and your friends back on the dirt roads of Ambrose. He and his brothers weren’t stupid, of course; they had set plenty of traps in the woods for those few people who happened to navigate well. There weren’t many. He stays at the tree line, hidden in the shadows, and watches you all.

“You got us into this fucking mess!” Brett yells at you, Owen and Kelsey avoiding your eyes. You’re breathing heavily, your hair sticking to your forehead and the nape of your neck. Bo chuckles to himself at the sight of you pulling twigs and leaves from your hair and he could just barely make out the blood slipping down your arms from the thorns you had run through.

“I didn’t get us into shit, alright. And keep your voice down; they could be anywhere. We just need to keep our heads on straight and think.” You say, your voice thick. You’re scared. You keep scanning the area, each shadow and sound sending your heart into your stomach. “Look, we just need to head to the front of the town and we make a break for it.”

“Right, like they don’t have that fucking guarded. Face it; we’re fucked! We have no way to distract them long enough for us to escape.” Owen says. His hand are still covered in Hannah's blood. You all look exhausted. Brett’s breaths are labored, his arm wrapped around Owens shoulder to keep him steady.

Bo loves mind games. Toying with his victims over and over until they couldn't handle it anymore; it was almost addictive. He steps on a branch near him, the crack making the four of you look out into the woods. From your perspective, there was nothing. Just the trees and the endless darkness beyond it.

“They’re out there fucking with us,” Owen says, his cheeks flushed, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. You can see the vein in his forehead pounding with each beat of his heart.

Bo steps out from the shadows, his knife glinting from the streetlamp. Your eyes meet his immediately and you feel yourself freeze once more. None of you have weapons and one of the only people who had a chance of defending themselves against Bo was bleeding out.

“That was fun, wasn’t it? The chase is my favorite part, though the killin’s just as fun.” Bo takes another step forward and laughs as you all cower away from him. You have nowhere to run and he knew it. Vincent was just out of sight, watching. Waiting. “Oh come on, ya’ll, lighten up. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Fuck you, psycho.” Kelsey spits, the tears flowing from her eyes contradicting her anger. “Just leave us alone.”

“Oh, you know I cant do that. If you want to wait for my buddy to get out of the woods, be my guest, but fair warning: he gets a bit cranky when he has t’chase after folks. I’d make it quick.” Another step forward. And another. It seems that they all had come to the same conclusion as you.

That is, until you feel pain ripple from your chin as Owen punch's you, sending you to the floor. Bo’s eyebrows shoot up as he watches the three of them rush off further into town, further towards Vincent, leaving you. Alone and defenseless.

Bo stays where he was, staring at you as he waited for you to move. You groan, your eyes squeezing shut as you attempt to lift your head from the ground. Your chin is throbbing and it takes you a second to realize that Owen had sacrificed you. When your eyes open, everything is blurry. Your head is pounding and it takes all of your strength to sit up.

A few more blinks and Bo comes into focus. In the distance were the screams of your friends and you don't even try to fight back your tears. This was it. You were going to die in the middle of nowhere, abandoned by your friends, at the mercy of a complete lunatic. You watch as Bo walks over to you slowly as if you were a wounded animal and he was afraid of you fighting back before he could put you out of your misery.

Bo bends down in front of you, his knife still in his hand and you find it hard to look away from the blade. You know that that knife is what you would die from. On the outside Bo looked calm as ever, but inside he was battling himself. He knew what he should do. It’s the same thing he’s done to hundreds of other people and he had not felt this conflicted with any of them. He found himself want to let you live.

You wouldn’t be able to leave, that much he knew, but seeing you here, on the ground and utterly defeated, left behind by the people you thought were friends, he felt something resembling pity. He tucks the knife into his back pocket and gently grabs your chin. You flinch from his touch and his hand withdraws, forgetting momentarily about your wound.

“You’re alright, darlin’. Just wanna talk to you, that's s’all.” His voice is soft and it takes you by surprise. Slowly, you force yourself to look up at him and swallow hard. His face was contorted into one that you would use on a hurt child, not one of a murderer. “Let me look at that for ya. Your friend’s got a helluva right hook,”

He runs his calloused fingertips over the swollen area and you let out a hiss of pain. It wasn’t broken as far as Bo can tell, but you’d definitely have a nasty bruise and probably a black eye with the way your cheek was swollen. His hands fall back to his side and he takes a moment to think over his decision. He sighs to himself. Vincent was going to be pissed.

“Listen, I’m gonna give you a choice here and I just need you to think about it, alright?” He waits for you to nod which you do reluctantly. “For some weird reason, you seem to be growin’ on me. So; you can either join your friends down in the basement and go quick, or you can stay here with us.”

“What do you mean stay here? Who’s us?”

“Me and my brother,” He says, his face heating up. He had forgotten that he hadn’t said anything about Vincent or Lester. He was new to this, after all. “I got two, but only one lives here with me. And I mean stay here and help us around the town. Help us with stuff kinda like this, eventually, if you can. You can’t leave, is what I’m sayin’. It’s just a matter of what you’re gonna be up to while you're here.”

He waits patiently as you decide. There was no way that you can get out of here on your own, but maybe if you told him you’d stay you could make a run for it once you were better. Or you can die quickly, right here and now and not take the risk.

“I...I’ll stay.” You whisper, looking back at Bo. He smiles slightly. He knows that you’re thinking about escaping once you’re healed, but he knows better than to just let you roam free, at least until he was sure you wouldn’t run off. He stands up, towering over you, and holds out his hand. You grab ahold of it and he helps you stand, wrapping an arm under your shoulders to steady you.

“Take it easy now. Imma get you some medicine for the pain, alright?” You nod, barely understanding him. You’re too focused on not passing out from the blinding pain. Each step you take is hard even with Bo taking most of your weight but eventually, after what feels like hours, you sit down onto a dusty sofa with a sigh.

You watch as Bo leaves you, heading into what you assume is a kitchen, though you can’t be sure with how fuzzy your vision was. You close your eyes, trying to collect yourself, trying to figure out just what you were doing, when Bo touches your shoulder gently. Your head snaps up, sending a bolt of pain through your jaw. He laughs.

He hands you two pills and a glass of water and, against your better judgement, you take them. There’s not much more you could do. He walks into the other room again, this time emerging with crackers. He holds them out to you awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot until you take them.

“Eat. Don’t want ya to throw up.” He sits down on the couch next to you, scooting back a bit when he notices how you shrink away from him. The crackers were stale but you didn’t care; you hadn’t realized how hungry you were until now. “Listen. Your friends got caught and they're downstairs right now.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“I’m not gonna do anything but I cant speak for my brother. I had a question for you, though.”

“Yeah?” He stares at you, biting the inside of his cheek. You take another small bite of the cracker, switching and sipping from your cup, ignoring the dust that had settled into it. You don’t want to show how scared you are just in case it upsets him.

“Do you want to watch while they’re...you know?” Your eyes widen. He can’t be asking if you want to watch his brother kill your friends, can he? He sighs, noticing your apprehension and rubs at his chin. “You don’t have to if you don’t wanna. But if I were you, I would.”

“That’s because you get off on this kind of stuff.” You snap and Bo laughs. You swallow hard, cursing at yourself in your head. Try and stay on his good side, that’s all you have to do. Don’t do anything that could get him angry.

“Finally you defend yourself. But no, that’s not why I would. Your friends suck. I mean, you agreed with me not even an hour ago after they were assholes and they just proved it even more by punching and leaving you.” He scowls at the memory, recalling the way Owen hadn’t even hesitated to throw you into the lions den. “I hate a lot of things, but cowards are at the top of that list.”

“So what, I have to watch you torture them because they were trying to survive?’

“You don’t believe that and you know it,” He leans forwards a bit, grinning. You should be leaning further away from him, trying to escape and get to your friends, but you can’t. You can’t because you know he’s right. He hums in satisfaction. “See? And torture wouldn’t be the right word...unless that’s what you’d want.”

You look at him curiously, unnerved at how easy he was to talk to. Here he was, trying to convince you to watch him kill your friends, and you were actually calming down.

Bo starts to grimace at the sight of you as you look down at your hands and begin to cry. What was he supposed to do? Comfort you? He doesn’t do feelings for himself and he sure as hell doesn’t do them for other people. He reaches a hand over and pats you on the back twice and pulls back, his skin crawling. That was weird.

“I don’t know what I want. They’re my friends. I’ve known them for years but they were so awful to me. This...this conversation is one of the longest I’ve had where I haven't been insulted about something.” You choke out, wiping your hand over your eyes, wincing when you brush against your chin.

“They’re assholes, darlin’. You ain’t; I could tell from the moment I saw ya.”

“Thanks, Bo. That’s actually your name, right?” He laughs, nodding his head, and you find yourself smiling. His laugh was nice. “Good. I don’t know if I want to see...that kind of stuff, but a part of me wants them to feel how they’ve made me feel, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. How about this? You head on down with me and if you decide it’s too much, I’ll head up with ya’? I'm gonna warn you, though, I'm not letting that asshole who punched you off easy.”

‘Owen?”

“Holy shit, his names actually Owen?” Bo’s eyes light up at the fact that he had gotten it right. “What’s the other one’s name? I thought his was Brett.”

“Close. It’s Brandon.” He snaps his fingers at the closeness of his guess. You and he catch each others eyes again, but it felt different this time. You see him glance down at your lips for the briefest of moments and you avert your gaze again. “Okay. I’ll do it, but the minute I say I want to leave, we do, alright?”

“Alright, darlin’, you’re the boss here. Let me help you up.”

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mediaevalmusereads · 3 years ago

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Nobber. By Oisin Fagan. London: JM Originals, 2019.

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: literary fiction

Part of a Series? No

Summary: An ambitious noble and his three serving men travel through the Irish countryside in the stifling summer of 1348, using the advantage of the plague which has collapsed society to buy up large swathes of property and land. They come upon Nobber, a tiny town, whose only living habitants seem to be an egotistical bureaucrat, his volatile wife, a naked blacksmith, and a beautiful Gaelic hostage. Meanwhile, a band of marauding Gaels are roaming around, using the confusion of the sickness to pillage and reclaim lands that once belonged to them. As these groups converge upon the town, the habitants, who up until this point have been under strict curfew, begin to stir from their dwellings, demanding answers from the intruders. A deadly stand-off emerges from which no one will escape unscathed.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: blood, gore, violence, body horror, misogyny/sexism, animal abuse and death, bestiality, attempted sexual assault, ableism

Overview: I don’t know how to rate this book. I recognize the artistic value of it, and I think Fagan executes his intentions well. The question just becomes: did I enjoy or find intellectual simulation in the reading process? I think the answer is yes, but I also think the answer is “eh... maybe.” So, I’m confused, and if the author wanted me to be confused, then I guess job well done. Three stars on account of confusion.

Writing: Fagan’s prose is well-crafted and extremely emotionally and viscerally evocative. Sentences and phrases flowed together well, and I liked that despite some confusing things happening on the page, there was no confusing syntax or unclear wording. I also appreciated that Fagan knew just how to elicit disgust (at least from me) with just the right imagery or just the right phrase. He doesn’t revel in lengthy descriptions of nasty things, but makes them seem incidental - and I found that to be somewhat unsettling.

Perhaps Fagan’s biggest strength is the ability to create an overall mood that I can only describe as hallucinatory nihilism. Characters would act in ways that didn’t seem quite logical or believable, but they seemed to have purpose - perhaps that purpose being to illustrate that sometimes, destruction (or suffering?) has no meaning. While I don’t know if I personally enjoy that kind of literary approach, it was at least evident that it was done on purpose, so props to the author.

If I had any criticism, I would say that I got rather tired of women being called “sluts” and “whores” so often. I saw this kind of language come up almost every chapter, and my personal tolerance for it became lower and lower the longer it went on. Some critics may counter with “well, the middle ages were sexist,” and that might be valid, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy myself or that historical accuracy is a valid argument here.

Plot: There’s not really a “plot” to this book, per se. Things happen, but I wouldn’t call them “plot points” that build up a grand narrative. Mostly, this book is about a town (called Nobber) that is besieged by plague, and we follow various characters as they navigate that plague.

I was kind of at a loss as to how to react to this book until the end, when I had the idea that maybe Nobber (and the surrounding area) is this space where all the bad gets condensed - a hub for the grotesque, if you will. Plague besieges the town, and no one can leave because of the curfew, so there’s this definite inside/outside boundary that seems to be important. I had that thought while reading about the crow cross (which makes no sense until you read the book) that marks the boundary of Nobber, and how characters acted once they came in contact with it (or in proximity to it). I don’t know if that’s a valid interpretation of Fagan’s work, but I found the book more easy to digest through this lens.

Characters: What to say about the characters...? They’re odd, but that’s an understatement. I didn’t find any of them likeable, but they weren’t supposed to be. I did find them alluring in a grotesque way - they rarely did anything that made logical sense, and many of them were (physically and morally) gross. But I don’t know... I couldn’t look away.

My favorite character to follow was Raghnailt - a mother who struggles with her feelings towards her adult son. I found her to be fairly complex, deciding to love her son fiercely one moment but being repulsed by him the next. Watching her try to figure out how to feel and how she tried to create a family around her was fairly touching, and I ended up really feeling for her.

TL;DR: Nobber is the kind of book that will probably appeal to fans of Irish modernism/postmodernism, but not to those looking for a historical fiction tale. With its focus on the grotesque and gaggle of unnerving characters, this book will surely appeal to those who enjoy literary explorations of nihilism.

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

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pirate king (33) || atz

“Eleuthera?” Your captain repeats, as he sits down at his desk. You need to get to this island and figure out who this man is, the one with the answer to your missing memories. You nod frantically, clutching the book to your chest.

“Yes, captain.”

Hongjoong stills in reorganizing the papers on his desk and gives you a side glare, as if waiting for you to notice something. You frown, a little confused by what he wants from you, but then you see Yeosang mouthing a word over his shoulder.

“Hongjoong!”

Yes, of course that’s the name of your captain. What your captain wants is what you don’t understand.

“What?”

Captain groans and puts his head in his hands. “Call me Hongjoong.” He sounds almost whiny, like a child not getting his way, and you stare at your captain a little incredulously. Seriously, why is this the most important thing on his mind now?

“Captain gets whiny after he drinks.” Yeosang supplies helpfully from behind his captain’s back. You make a small noise of understanding.

“Yes, captain.” The words slip out of your mouth by force of habit and you immediately clap a hand over your mouth, a sheepish smile on your face. Your captain knocks his head against the desk in exasperation and a groan escapes his mouth as you and Yeosang exchange looks.

“Ugh.” Hongjoong reaches for a map at his side, opening it. You sidle up to his side as he searches the map for Eleuthera, Yeosang joining you in looking for the location.

“Why do you suddenly need to go to Eleuthera, though?” The navigator asks you curiously as your captain flips the map around. “Captain, it’s near the Bahamas Islands.”

“Thanks.” Hongjoong replies as he leans over the map, squinting to read the tiny handwritten scrawls on the yellowed vellum. “Chin Hae, why do you want to go to Eleuthera?”

You pause for a moment and the two men turn to look at you, waiting for an answer. Thinking about it now, you realise how strange it is to say that the reason you want them to travel all the way to a foreign island is all on a whim that you hope to find the man who had given you this necklace, a person you who may not even have your memories.

All based on the words written on the back of this book, which had been given to you by a shopkeeper out of nowhere.

What if it’s mere coincidence that the same words inscribed on your necklace are written on the book as well?

You bite your bottom lip, chewing nervously as you try to make up your mind.

What if you just end up burdening your crew for nothing?

Then you remember what Hongjoong had told Seonghwa, back that time when he had locked himself in the ship galley.

“I want you to tell me all your problems, burden me with everything, share life with me and the crew. We’re a family.”

The last time you had kept secrets from the rest of the crew, massive disasters had happened one after the other and you are not excited to repeat the experience all over again. So you clench your fist and look your captain in the eye.

I’m going to be honest this time.

“Remember that time I was healing Yeosang and fell unconscious for a week?” You say and the two flinch back as if you’ve struck them in the face with a whip. Okay, maybe it was a bad idea to start with something so depressing. “I had a… dream… of sorts… I mean, it didn’t feel like a dream, more like an old memory, but-”

“You don’t need to explain things, just tell us, we’ll listen.” Hongjoong cuts you off and you realise that you’re rambling. You shut your mouth, thinking about how to phrase it a little more eloquently. “So, I had a dream about meeting a man with really, really green eyes on a beach. And he told me that he would be with me every step of the way and touched my necklace. I don’t know how, but he somehow carved the words into the metal with his thumb.”

Hongjoong stares at you owlishly for a moment and you realise how stupid that sounds.

“Ahh, the necklace you woke up with?” Yeosang pipes up curiously and you turn to look at him in surprise.

“How did you know? I’ve never told you before.” You don’t recall ever bringing up your necklace in a conversation with him, but Yeosang shakes his head.

“San told me.” He explains dryly. “That man can’t keep a secret to save his life. Honestly I’m not sure how he even managed to hide the fact that you were a woman for more than a day.”

You shrug. “That sounds like Master. Anyway, my necklace really does have that inscription on it, so I’m sure it must be something important. And then this book,” you lift it up so that the two of them can see it clearly, “had the exact same words on them, with a message telling me to go to Eleuthera.”

Hongjoong is silent for a moment, resting his chin on his fingers as he thinks about what you have just said. A bead of nervous sweat slides down your temple, and for a moment you’re afraid that he might not believe you or call you foolish, but he simply nods.

Excitement bubbles up in you.

“We’ll go.”

“Thank you, captain!” You gush happily and lean across the desk to wrap your captain in a grateful hug. You’re finally going to be one step closer to finding out about who you once were! Then you hear a choking noise coming from Hongjoong and you lean back to glance at your captain, only to be shocked to see his entire face a bright red.

You realise what you’ve just done.

“Sorry, captain!” You yelp, jumping back as if your captain is on fire. You hear a snort escaping Yeosang as he covers his mouth with his hand, attempting quite unsuccessfully to hide his laughter from the two of you.

“I’m fine. I’m not dead.” Hongjoong wheezes, looking as if you’d just slapped him in the face. “I just… Just warn me next time, alright?”

“Yes, captain!” You shout breathlessly and Hongjoong winces at the volume of your declaration.

“Call me Hongjoong-”

“Actually, didn’t you go with Jongho to visit some fortune teller who told you about a sea witch who likely made you?” Yeosang interrupts the two of you and suddenly you hear something clatter to the ground behind you.

You almost jump out of your skin in fright, whipping around to see Mingi there, staring at you with his mouth hanging open, a tray with bread and cheese on the floor. Yeosang yelps ‘the food!’ and runs to pick it up, but the quartermaster simply continues staring at you in horror.

Hongjoong frowns. “Mingi, are you okay?”

The quartermaster lets out a terrified, squeaky sound that you would have never thought he could make. His face is completely white and drained of all colour as he stares at Yeosang, knees shaking. Did something happen?

“Witch?”

At that, Hongjoong snorts, rolling his eyes. “No, Mingi. They’re just talking about the time Chin Hae went to a fortune teller. It’s nothing scary.”

If that was supposed to relieve Mingi, it didn’t work, because Mingi continues shivering in fear. “But… witches…”

“Mingi’s afraid of these kind of things.” Yeosang mouths to you through a mouthful of bread and you nod in realisation.

“I don’t really believe in this kind of things, most of them are nothing but myths and legends anyway.” Your captain shrugs, setting the map down and circling something with his quill. Yeosang glances at Hongjoong for a moment as he puts another piece of cheese into his mouth.

“Don’t you have that magical knot?”

Hongjoong pauses for a moment, fingering a rope necklace around his neck. It is then you see the same short length of rope you had seen before dangling at its end, only one knot left in it. The final knot that would summon a hurricane of the seas.

“How did you get that though, captain?” You ask and Hongjoong touches it briefly, lips pulling into a frown. Yeosang passes you a piece of bread and you chew it slowly. Seonghwa’s cooking is always the best.

“Once when I was young, I was abandoned on an island and got shot in the right eye.” His fingers trace the stitching of his eye patch absentmindedly as he recalls what had happened to him years ago. Your own eyes go wide, you’d never known that had happened to your captain before. “I thought I would have died… but then I woke up to find that the bleeding had stopped and I had this rope in my hand. I don’t remember how I got it, but I simply knew how to use it.”

“Witch.” Mingi whispers as he rubs his arms nervously. You can see goosebumps on the back of his forearms. Is he really that afraid of the arcane? “And there’s a ghost on the ship-”

“What?” You choke on your bread and Yeosang rushes to you in alarm, slapping you on the back. You wave his concern off, thumping your chest as you stare at the quartermaster in alarm. “There’s a ghost on board?”

“Don’t be silly. There aren’t any ghosts on board-” Hongjoong tries desperately to reassure the two of you, but Mingi nods furiously.

“Yeah! One time Seonghwa-hyung brought back this really creepy doll from a raid and put it in captain’s cabin! It had those big glass eyes and it was made of porcelain.” Mingi shivers at the thought of it. “But Seonghwa-hyung thought it was really cute and kept it with him. He even cleaned it every day.”

You swallow nervously, hanging onto Mingi’s every word with bated breath. “And then?”

Mingi meets your eyes with grim finality. You can see the terror that lingers in his eyes after so long as his voice drops to a whisper.

“Then one day, it suddenly went missing, and till this day no one knows where it is.”

Terror creeps up in you. “Missing?” You repeat, unsure if you heard him right. “Like… missing out of nowhere?”

“Yes.” Mingi nods seriously, not an ounce of a smile on his face. He looks so grim about this that you’re actually a little frightened. “Seonghwa-hyung searched the whole cabin for it, but he couldn’t find it. Not even Hongjoong-hyung knows where it went.”

Hongjoong coughs into his hand. “Now now, it probably just rolled somewhere-”

“That’s scary.” Yeosang nods, shuddering a little as he glances around the cabin, eyes flitting from corner to corner as if he’s trying to find the ghost for himself. “From what I heard, quite a few of Seonghwa-hyung’s things have gone missing from the cabin, haven’t they? My books also tend to shift location sometimes, even when I’m very sure I didn’t touch them.”

You see your captain blanch slightly out of the corner of your eye as he coughs again. Is Captain sick? He looks a little pale.

“That sounds like something paranormal happening.” You mutter, and the quartermaster nods

“Exactly!” Mingi points at Yeosang as if the navigator is all the evidence he needs. “Even Yeosangie knows something is up! Seonghwa-hyung is really careful with his things, so they can’t have just disappeared into the air!”

“Seriously, everyone, you can’t just think there’s a ghost on board because a few things went missing from the cabin-” Hongjoong tries to calm all of you down, but he’s interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open.

You and Yeosang grab each other’s hands instinctively, while Mingi jumps behind the desk in fright, knocking over a chair in the process.

“I heard my name. Is there something all of you needed?” Seonghwa steps into the cabin with a confused frown on his face, until he sees the too tall quartermaster crouched under Hongjoong’s table. “Uh… Mingi-ah, what are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s just Seonghwa-hyung.” Mingi heaves a sigh of relief and starts to climb out from beneath the table. Seonghwa’s concerned face goes flat at those words.

“I do not know whether to be insulted-”

The door creaks open again and you and Yeosang grab at each other in fright. But Mingi jumps and knocks his head hard on the table, sending a few books sliding off onto the table and crashing to the ground. The sound must obviously be pretty loud, because the two people entering the room start in surprise as well.

It’s Wooyoung and Jongho, who both look very confused. “Did we come at a bad time?” Jongho turns to stare at Mingi, who is lying on the ground with his head in his hands, groaning and surrounded by books.

“They think there’s a ghost on board.” Yeosang supplies unhelpfully and Wooyoung glances at the two of you with your arms wrapped around each other. Something flashes in his green eyes for a moment, but then his grin returns so fast you’re unsure whether you were just seeing things. The gunner steps to bend over Mingi.

“Boo!”

Mingi shrieks and jumps into the air, bolting for the door but runs straight into the doorjamb. The poor quartermaster staggers back as Wooyoung cries tears of laughter, wheezing for air. A snort escapes Jongho, but at least the maknae goes to help Mingi up from the floor. Unfortunately for him, that was a bad choice, because Mingi is immediately clings to the shorter man like a leech, unwilling to let go.

“Hyung! Get a hold of yourself! Literally!”

“But it is true. Some of my things from earlier raids do keep going missing.” Seonghwa ponders this thoughtfully and Mingi wails in fright, long arms wrapping around Jongho’s neck as the younger battlemaster tries to fight him off.

“Heuk! Hyung, I’m choking-”

“I heard strange groaning noises once when I went into the cabin before.” Wooyoung adds with a little grin.

“Now, everyone-” Hongjoong tries to calm everyone down, but at this point, no one is listening to him anymore.

The quartermaster screeches right into Jongho’s ear and the maknae instinctively raises his hands to cover his ears.

And in doing so, he punches Mingi in the jaw.

“Ow!” The tall man stumbles backwards and you see a dark bruise starting to form on his cheek. Then the door opens once again and Mingi is clutching onto his captain like a man possessed. The poor quartermaster must be on the verge of a heart attack at this point by all these false alarms.

“Does anyone want tea?” San pokes his head in with Yunho trailing behind him like a lost puppy and Mingi screams at the number of times he’s been scared by people simply walking into the cabin.

“I don’t want your damn leaf water!” Mingi shrieks and Hongjoong finally has had enough.

“Everybody keep quiet!”

For once, the cabin actually falls silent. Wooyoung must be as surprised as you are, because he turns to his captain with an awestruck look on his face.

“Captain… people actually listen to you.”

“Shut up!”

Hongjoong takes several deep breaths to calm himself down, cheeks red from all the shouting he has been doing. “Seonghwa… I’m sorry to say this, but your doll didn’t go missing out of nowhere.”

The cook pauses, turning to stare at his captain with wide eyes. “Captain… you-”

“I threw it into the sea, alright?” The truth spills out of Hongjoong and Seonghwa steps back, stunned as if he’s been shot in the chest, his face one of utter betrayal. Then he laughs in disbelief and shock, eyeing his captain incredulously.

“You threw Pom Pom into the sea?”

Pom Pom?

“He actually named that thing?” Yeosang mumbles under his breath. From how Mingi described the doll, it must have looked rather hideous and not quite deserving of such a cute sounding name. Seonghwa-hyung must have weird taste.

“I’ve never seen Seonghwa-hyung and Hongjoong-hyung argue before, and this is seriously what they’re fighting about?” Jongho scratches head in disapproval. San shrugs, passing you a mug of tea.

“The two of them always got on so well that I’ve never seen them fight either.”

“Yes, I did.” Hongjoong tries to explain himself, but Seonghwa waves him off.

“If I had known this I would have just stayed on Nassau-”

“It was very scary to have it in the cabin though.” You hear Yeosang say and for a moment you’re grateful that the strangest things that San brings into your shared bedroom are mostly deformed sticks and herbs.

“I can’t believe you did that to Pom Pom! All she wanted was a happy life on board this ship, and you cruelly threw her away-”

They’re seriously having this argument right now. For a moment, you wonder if the two of them are still drunk from last night.

“Anyone wants some apples from the storage hold while Seonghwa-hyung is distracted?” Jongho calls and Yunho nods excitedly in agreement.

Then all of you file out of the cabin, leaving your captain to explain himself all alone.

In the end, Seonghwa does forgive your captain and the two of them make up with a hug, but you catch him religiously counting his dolls every night before bed and giving Hongjoong the evil eye when the captain steps too close.

It’s not long before you wish a ghost was the biggest problem you had.

#taeez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #jongho #san #mingi #wooyoung #yeosang #yunho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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south-park-meta · 3 years ago

Note

Brontide – The low rumbling of distant thunder. stanman

Kind of one-sided Stanman (or at least Stan being nervous about Cartman's intentions) and Style.

General psych horror warning I guess in that I find Cartman to be physically/psychologically/sexually abusive and it causes fear but he doesn't do anything he hasn't done in canon.

[Stan saw once on those court shows, like Judge Judy or something, that a guy ended up winning possession of part of his neighbor's property because he put in a new fence three feet left of the old one, and the neighbor let it go for too many years before complaining that it was on his land. He's letting Cartman redraw his property lines, giving himself up three feet at a time. "Just go to sleep," he says to Cartman in the dark. They're sharing a blanket and he thinks of ripping it off of Cartman and rolling up in it, just to stake a claim in what's his.

He doesn't.]

Cartman does this thing, pushing boundaries. He pokes and prods at them. He figures out which ones are fences made of steel and which are those paper ropes; ceremonial and easily snipped with scissors. He started inviting himself over at ten when things started going sideways in their group. He invited himself over to Kyle's, too. Cartman kept them apart, enjoyed their time all to himself, all while saying how important it was to keep the group together. How terrible it is that the broship is splitting up, Cartman would lament, shoving Cheesy Poofs into his mouth, before telling Stan how much fun he and Kyle had playing a game on their new X-Boxes.

Divide and conquer.

After the four of them tied themselves back together, Cartman started doing it again. He got better at it, cornering them each alone. He's good at it now at sixteen years old. It's strange, knowing so well what Cartman's doing this time around, but it's still somehow hard to stop it. Cartman forced a place for himself in their lives once and it's easier for him to find that place now because of it; he walked the path so many times that his feet can find it even in the dark.

It's just lucky that Stan and Kyle have gotten better at navigating, too. They aren't tripped up so often anymore.

Cartman realized when the Jeffersons were their neighbors for a couple weeks that sleepiness is a weakness to be exploited. He crawls in through Stan's bedroom window in the middle of the night and right in bed beside him. Stan wakes up and startles.

"Dude, get the fuck out of my bed," Stan says. "You're wet."

That's the reason he gives. Not that Cartman came in without asking, that he broke into the house in the middle of the night, that Stan doesn't want him there at all. The thunder rolls outside. He's making the bed cold, uncomfortable.

They look at each other in the dark. Lightning cracks close outside the window and brights the room, and Stan's breath catches. He gets the idea, that half-second of being able to see Cartman's eyes clear as day, that Cartman will suggest taking his clothes off and laying together, dry.

"Forget it," Stan says quickly, before Cartman can say anything. Just in case, so he knows Cartman will be keeping the clothes even if he's giving up the bed. He turns over, turns away. He knows he shouldn't. Not because the actual act of turning his back on Cartman is letting himself be weak, though it is; being stabbed in the back is more of a betrayal because you can't see it coming. He's aware of the vulnerability but not exactly afraid to give it. Cartman's never hurt him before. He sort of thinks Cartman won't ever try to because he's him and Cartman's Cartman and something about those two facts prevents it, and he sort of thinks he just hasn't ever given Cartman a good enough opening to take.

It's because turning over, letting this stand, is saying it's allowable. Still allowable. He let Cartman get away with sneaking into his house as kids plenty of times despite never wanting him there.

Stan saw once on those court shows, like Judge Judy or something, that a guy ended up winning possession of part of his neighbor's property because he put in a new fence three feet left of the old one, and the neighbor let it go for too many years before complaining that it was on his land. He's letting Cartman redraw his property lines, giving himself up three feet at a time. "Just go to sleep," he says to Cartman in the dark. They're sharing a blanket and he thinks of ripping it off of Cartman and rolling up in it, just to stake a claim in what's his.

He doesn't.

He doesn't shut his eyes right away. He stares at the wall and listens to the thunder. He feels the house quiver with it. He's waiting for something, but he's not sure what that something is. There's a creeping fear, but he's not sure what he has to be afraid of. Other people have reason to be scared of Cartman, because he's actually done something to them somehow. From other people, Cartman has fed off of their humiliation, over dominating them or belittling them. All Cartman's ever taken from Stan before, really, is a physical presence.

Closer and closer.

Here's the lion, knocking at your legs, trying to cut you off from your herd. Better keep up.

Don't be divided, don't be conquered.

Stan rolls back over. He has to because Cartman's in the way of his night stand. Cartman hasn't closed his eyes, either, and they stare at each other up close and personal. Stan lifts himself onto his elbow and leans over Cartman to grab his phone.

Cartman grabs his wrist and says, "Using your phone in bed is bad for your eyes," with a funny kind of smirk. Stan got his first pair of glasses this month. They look at each other for a moment longer, and then Cartman lets him go.

Can I come over? he texts Kyle, I miss you

If they were still neighbors he wouldn't have asked, but it's not a two-minute walk anymore. It's something he needs to drive to now, in the cold and rain and dark. He holds his breath. They've changed notifications and turn them on high at night, so they can wake each other if they need to. But it's no guarantee.

A few beats.

You saw me all day.

He can read the tone. It's not putting him off; it's teasing him, and he makes himself not-smile so Cartman can't catch this weakness. He and Kyle have been shifting their boundaries, too. It's nothing yet, undefinable but different than it had been before.

So? I miss you anyway

Yeah. Come over.

He has to swing over Cartman to get up. Cartman doesn't do anything with that fact besides quirk his eyebrows. No funny comment, no stopping him, no....whatever. He doesn't try anything in those last moments where he could, at the time that would be the worst. It's not that Stan wishes he would, but it's easier to draw hard boundaries with Cartman when he does something really awful. those moments that are 'Enough is Enough' moments, the ones that could do him real harm. There's been a few of those moments through the years, where he can see that what Cartman's going to do might really, irrecoverably hurt him and he clamps down on it hard to stop it. He ends their friendship clean and fast.

And then he lets it creep back up on him, because he's never been hurt by Cartman, not really. Maybe it'd be better if Cartman does hurt him, for real, just once. So he has the pain for reference and knows why he doesn't want to do it all again. So he has the reality instead of the possibility.

But maybe that's why Cartman's never really hurt him, and maybe he never really will.

He walks out, leaving Cartman alone in his room. It feels like a loss, because he's not sure at all what Cartman wanted, and he let Cartman have free rein over all of his things. But he wakes up with Kyle's arms around his waist and face pressed between his shoulder blades, and that feels like a victory.

#not tagging this because ik my stanman takes are tailored for literally JUST me #if you want a romantic cartman ship i'm not the one for it sorry #queue #not meta

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winterhawk-olympic-bang · 4 years ago

Text

Emotive Writing

Guest Poster: @thepartyresponsible

Emotive writing is about making people Feel Things. People use this all the time to sell you stuff, but we’re out here giving emotions away for free. Here are a few tips and tricks I’ve found to make people feel the most emotions.

Word choice:

This is the most straightforward part of emotive writing. Your word choices add an extra layer of complexity to your message. You aren’t just telling readers what happened; you’re signaling to them how they should feel. Most writers do this unconsciously, but being deliberate can make it especially effective.

Here’s a non-emotive, just-the-facts sentence: The soldier lifted his weapon and turned toward the enemy.

Here’s the same sentence reworked to make you care a bit more: The exhausted soldier raised his broken shield and faced the invading army.

The actions here are fundamentally the same, but exhausted and broken invoke sympathy while invading skews negative.

The words you choose are sign posts for the reader. They indicate how to interpret the story and help your readers orient themselves and form expectations. Subtly building expectation is important because, while surprise can be effective, shock is generally numbing and confusion tends to be irritating, so word choice helps you frame things and guide your reader along.

One of the keys here is to attempt some subtlety. If every sentence about your protagonist reads like an ad campaign (effervescent, brilliant, impervious) and every sentence about your antagonist reads like a political diatribe (cruel, spineless, malicious), you’re probably overusing your sign posts. People want to know who to root for, but too much emotive language can make them feel manipulated.

Think of word choice like adding spices to food. If you put oats in boiling water, you’re making oatmeal, and the spices you use won’t change that. But if you throw in some honey and cinnamon, I know we’re headed somewhere wholesome. If you sprinkle in little discordant notes of garlic powder and cayenne, what we’re cooking is a tragedy. And if you upend an entire bottle of cinnamon, a quarter cup of nutmeg, and toss in seventeen whole cloves, I am not staying for breakfast.

Narrative distance:

Narrative or psychic distance is the space between the reader and the character, usually navigated by the intermediary figure of the narrator. Your narrator can be an omniscient figure that knows the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of every character in the world. Or your narrator could be sitting on the shoulder of your main character, close enough to hear their thoughts and know their story but not so close that they speak with the character’s voice. Or your narrator could be your character.

If you want to ramp up emotion, you usually want a narrator who is very close to one character (or, alternatively, to separate characters in turn). But you don’t have to stay at one distance for the whole story, and, just like word choice, shifts in narrative distance can be helpful indicators to your reader about the story and the characters.

A sudden, dramatic shift in narrative distance is quite jarring, like a sudden zoom-in during a movie. It can be effective, but it’ll lose its punch if it’s overused. Generally, if you want to shift narrative distance, you should build to it slowly. Here’s an example of shifting from a distant third person to a closer third person:

They wake the Soldier because the archer is missing. He has a habit of slipping his lead, disappearing post-mission. The chase grew tedious years ago, but the Soldier runs it just the same. He’ll do as he’s told. But it bothers him, when he lets it. The why.

Why does he do this? the Soldier wonders, when he shouldn’t, when it isn’t his place. Where is he going? he thinks, when he can’t stop himself. Who is he running to? But he tries to think nothing at all.

Another trick of narrative distance is to suddenly pull back to show a character who’s been compromised, shocked, or deeply hurt by something. Imagine spending a long time in a close Bucky perspective, hearing his thoughts, and then being abruptly walloped across the face with: The machine went quiet, and the Soldier opened his eyes. Zooming out can emphasize what’s been lost. Because you aren’t just taking the soul of Bucky Barnes right out of him, you’re also taking that closeness away from the reader. You’re silencing the voice they’ve been listening to.

Whether you zoom in or out during highly emotional moments depends on what you’re trying to accomplish and also on who’s involved. Some characters have loud, messy emotions that will get louder when they’re hurt. Some characters will freeze over and push a narrator further away. You can use narrative distance to show a character slowly opening up or suddenly slamming a door. But you need the reader to have a solid understanding of the character in order to follow what the shift means, which leads to the next component.

Know your characters:

So, here’s the thing. You gotta Velveteen Rabbit this. Every character is Tinker Bell. If you stop believing, they die.

If you want people to care about these characters, you have to treat them like living, breathing, fully feeling people. They have favorite colors. They have phobias. They have Friday night plans and blisters from new shoes and sesame seeds stuck in their teeth. They have superstitions and secrets. You don’t need to know all of these facts, but you should try to give the impression that someone could know them. The more real your characters are, the more we’re going to care about them.

Since this is fanfiction, you start with a receptive audience. Your readers are fond of these characters. Figure out why. Figure out which parts of the character you can relate to and dig in until you feel like you can understand the parts of them you can’t relate to.

Try to collect things that make you feel close to that character. I always have music playing when I’m writing, so I make playlists for characters and playlists for stories. If I feel like I’m losing a character, I’ll go back to their playlist. But you could also use Pinterest boards, reread favorite fics or comics, rewatch movies or fanvids, or spend an unreasonable amount of time researching bows and tactical knives. Whatever works!

Also, remember, your characters don’t know what story they’re in. They don’t know it’s going to end well (or terribly). Maintain that tension, because that’s where the emotions are. When you watch a good horror movie, you’re not really scared of the monster. You’re scared for the characters, because they don’t know if they’re going to survive.

Emotions come from the characters. That’s why it’s still sad that Tony Stark dies, no matter how many times you watch it happen. Tony Stark was brave and flawed and usually right and often sarcastic, and it hurts to watch him die because that’s a full, unique human we’re losing. We know him well enough to know he’s choosing to sacrifice himself and why he made that choice and who will mourn him.

Know your characters, and let them be messy and weird and wrong and hopeful and cantankerous and unique. Fear is relatable, flaws are relatable, and awkward, ungainly, stubborn progress is relatable. Just remember what it is that makes their progress their progress because, if you can swap Dominic Toretto in for Ted Lasso and have the exact same story, you’ve probably lost your characters.

Plan your emotional trajectory:

Okay, time to get a bit technical. This is for people who like to plan. For those terrifying, godlike writers who just sit down and write, this might not be helpful. For my fellow planners:

There’s a theory (which you can get a general overview about here or, if you’re very into data, right here) that there are six core emotional trajectories in narratives:

1) Rags to riches (rise)

2) Riches to rags (fall)

3) Man in a hole (fall then rise)

4) Icarus (rise then fall)

5) Cinderella (rise then fall then rise)

6) Oedipus (fall then rise then fall)

Since rise and fall can mean different things, I find it helpful to combine these building blocks with emotional axes, which you can find some examples of here.

So, basically, for my winterhawk baseball au Got a Heart in Me, I Swear, I planned to follow the “man in a hole” trajectory (fall then rise) along the anxiety-confidence emotional axis with some bleedover from the humiliation-pride axis. Which basically means Clint started comfortable enough, nosedived deep into anxiety and humiliation, and then slowly built his way to confidence over the rest of the fic.

If the listed axes don’t appeal to you, you can very easily create your own. Just think of an emotion, identify what links it to its inverse, and then list the related emotions between the two opposites. Disgust and adoration are opposites, but they’re linked by attention, right? You can’t ignore something you find disgusting or adorable. So, here’s an example emotional axis you could follow: Disgust – Resentment – Obsession – Fascination – Reverence – Adoration. Enemies to lovers, anyone?

Emotional axes help provide a natural framework for your character’s emotional trajectory. They can be subtle; you don’t have to start on one end of the spectrum and go all the way to the other. A story that moves just a step or two on an emotional axis can be incredibly compelling. That small progress from discomfort to hope can hit really hard if the progress feels fought-for and earned and real.

Tips for writing emotions:

· Get physical: If you want to show an emotion instead of telling it, describe its impacts on the body. Most characters won’t think I’m embarrassed. They’ll feel a drop in their stomach like someone cut the elevator cables and a hot stinging in their face like they’ve been slapped by some disappointed version of themselves. The more visceral your descriptions, the more the reader will feel them. If you want your reader to feast on feelings, you have to set the table.

· Dramatic zoom: When something very intense happens, shift the narrative distance. In or out is fine, but a sudden, dramatic event should result in a sudden, dramatic change in focus. Characters might hyperfocus on their physical bodies (the mechanics of breathing, the ringing in their ears, the mad animal urge toward flight) or they might be kicked so far out of their own heads that they feel like they’re dreaming or watching the scene play out from overhead. This distance is useful for two reasons: it feels real, and it allows readers to absorb the situation in pieces, without being overwhelmed by it.

· Unreliable narrator: Some emotions can be so charged that people don’t want to own them, like grief, shame, jealousy, rage, lust, and guilt. Characters might unconsciously misrepresent these to themselves as something else. A grieving mother might insist she’s tired. A rehabilitated assassin who’s fallen in love with an absolute dork might tell himself he’s just tracking a target. Everyone knows what it’s like to lie to themselves, so this makes characters relatable. And, also, everyone likes being in on a secret, so, sometimes, this is just fun.

· Face the monsters: We’re often conditioned not to dwell on unpleasant things, which is part of why it can be powerful to examine them in stories. From small things like inglorious emotional states (envy, cowardice, resentment) to character flaws (recklessness, withdrawal, arrogance) to personal tragedies (loss, betrayal, abandonment), the negative parts of human emotional life pack quite a punch. Acknowledge them. Not only are they relatable experiences, but redemption and recovery arcs are some of the most compelling stories we have.

#whob #winterhawk #winterhawk olympic bang #writer workshops #writer workshop: emotions #guest post #thepartyresponsible

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writ-in-writings · 4 years ago

Link

Embarking on a writing project - particularly historical fiction, but any genre - calls for some dedicated research. It’s important for your own ease when writing your novel and for the reader who can feel fully immersed and trust that what they’re reading rings close to the truth. It’s also respectful to those who lived through major events or were affected by them down the road.

By itself, this task can feel daunting and there’s the temptation to charge in and figure things out as you go. I should know; I started by employing this very tactic. But in my journey, I learned a lot of dos and don’ts of novel research that I’ve now compiled here for other writers who would benefit from knowing this approach early on.

For further discussions, follow the link to my full post on Medium, but I’ll be sure to put plenty of details on here, as well as some smoking hot summary slides made via Canva, a godsend from the design deities.

Why we research

Several reasons, briefly discussed earlier: doing quality research is a service for writer, reader, and subject matter alike. Historical fiction deals with some of the most incredible, awe-inspiring (for better or worse), and/or underrepresented moments in the stunning scope of human history. To navigate this totally new world with ease, you’ll want to know about it yourself; make it your area of expertise in every sense of the word. Literally, with the senses, so your writing process can get a running start once this is done.

Then, of course, the reader can enjoy the experience as the immersive journey it’s meant to be. They can trust what you’re presenting to them and enjoy a really, really good book, learn something, and not feel the need to pause and wonder “does that make sense...? Is that true...?”

Start with Wikipedia - I promise it’s okay!

I know many of our grade school and high school teachers are turning their heads 180 degrees to stare in horror at the idea, but eventually instructors will loosen the reins. And they’ll offer the important distinction: Wikipedia is a good starting place, not a final source. It offers a fount of useful terms, a broad overview, related topics worth looking up to truly paint a true picture of the historical era, and it (usually) cites its own sources. That, in turn, lets you conduct the important step: trust but verify.

Think of Wikipedia like a web. The very center is the most basic related search term about your novel’s subject matter. From there, it branches out into new subjects that are inexorably related and relevant, that WILL fill in important gaps, even if it’s just one or two sentences - those two lines will ring true and authentic because you read a related term on Wikipedia, checked its sources, and found a valuable scholarly or firsthand account on the subject matter.

What should you be looking for, anyway?

Primary or secondary sources, or something totally different, all should provide you different pieces of information that all serve the goal of enriching your world and easing your job as a writer.

For a truly immersive experience, you want to get into the very mind of people from that time and place. This is always important because it will help set an appropriate voice for characters. Go forth into the sources you compile wanting them to give you helpful chronology, relevant players, key locations, and common practices, at the very least.

Primary Sources

These almost always have some sort of biased leanings - what doesn’t? But that too has value. They put you into a sample mind of someone from X demographic, in addition to any objective, factual information they can provide. They’re not worth overlooking or discarding, even if they should be approached with a critical eye.

But that’s part of the fun, right?

Secondary sources

Still don’t want to totally rule out a person’s own biases leaking through what they have to say. But there are some important numbers they can give. Usually, these can be considered accurate, BUT you should always verify with other sources, even when it seems something as straightforward and irrefutable as numbers, dates, locations, people involved, etc.

For example, try being a 20th century historian figuring out what happened at the Ipatiev House in 1918. Different outside sources will give WILDLY different accounts to avoid blame. Same with state-sanctioned erasure of history. Even our beloved, reliable textbooks can leave certain things out to totally re-color history. Literally.

Important source types!!!

This is one I really want you to take to heart because it made a world of difference for me. A lot of quick research can be done online these days and many sites can have well-organized content that outlines essential information in a very helpful way.

But there are some things they can’t or won’t provide for you, usually from time and word count constraints. You need the little details and some sites just don’t have a place to include that. What are the sounds of the era? The tastes and textures, sights and routines? What would you have seen if you stepped into the era of your interest? When available, videos give you just that window to the past.

Putting it all together

So you’re onto that lovely stage of using all this information you just gathered. Congratulations! Now here are some recommendations for how to actually research and keep track of everything.

Have a Word Doc or note sheets just for this. Organize it however suits you best; I went through chronology and relevant parts of my novel (since it’s set during WWII, I had separate spots for combat and civilian life, and broken down further based on setting as the front line moved).

For your own peace of mind, keep track of where you read each fact. That way if you ever doubt or want to read more or anything, you know where to find it. Remember, the reader is putting their trust in your hands (and your book in THEIR hands). Do right by yourself, your book, the subject matter, and the reader by having an earnest research system. With all this in mind, best of luck to you on all your literary endeavors.

To read more of my writing guidelines, follow me at the links below:

[Medium]

[Instagram]

[Twitter]

[The Quilted Atlas]

#writing #creative writing #historical fiction #writing tips #writing inspiration #research #verification #truth #accuracy #sources #original post

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rocorambles · 4 years ago

Text

Bad Dream

Pairing: Kageyama/Hinata (KageHina) x Reader, Yachi x Reader

Genre/Warnings: SFW, Angst, Love Triangle

Summary: They say time heals all wounds. You hope that’s true as you turn your back on Karasuno High School one last time as you graduate, walking away from the painful black, orange, and blonde memories you have.

Requested by Anon

Yachi was your first love. What wasn’t there to love about the sweet adorable blonde? You’d always thought she was cute with her side ponytail bouncing in the air as she walked through the hallways, the blue stars on her hair tie contrasting fashionably against the gold hue of her hair. Maybe she was a bit on the shy and quiet side, but you didn’t mind that. It’s not like you were going to try your luck anyway, not when it was your first year and you were still navigating the new waters of a new school, new environment, and new people. So you watched her from afar hoping that maybe one day your paths would cross and you’d be able to befriend the petite girl.

But as luck would have it, you’re paired together for a project and you can feel your heart flutter as you sit side-by-side, and suddenly you’re just as shy as Yachi as you stammer out a shaky greeting. Your first few exchanges are a bit rough around the edges, punctuated by awkwardly long silences as the two of you struggle to find a conversational rhythm, but both your well intentions finally win out and after a few working sessions the two of you are all smiles as you easily flow between chatting about your project and getting to know each other. And if you thought Yachi was cute before, she’s absolutely endearing now as she brightly smiles at you and excitedly yammers away.

It doesn’t take long for you to spend time together outside of just working on the project and when the project is handed in and completed, the two of you find yourselves walking to and from school together, working on homework and studying for exams together, going to art galleries in Miyagi together. Neither of you talk about exactly what’s developing between the two of you, but when your hands briefly linger as they brush against each other and when you instinctively brush a lock of Yachi’s stray hair behind her ear while the two of you eat together, there’s an unspoken understanding that there’s something stronger and deeper than just friendship tying the two of you together.

You’d like to think that you know Yachi well by now, but you’re taken by surprise when she tells you she’s now an assistant manager for the Karasuno boy’s volleyball team. Do you like playing volleyball? Do you know a lot about volleyball? You’re genuinely curious questions keep on being reciprocated by her shaking head and you sweatdrop in confusion, but seeing her so passionate about something makes you smile and you wish her luck. And you stare in awe as the girl who’d wormed her way into your heart blossoms even further, becoming more outgoing, more determined as the days pass and when she invites you to come to a volleyball game, you easily agree and watch, entranced by how her eyes practically glow and her body jumps in the air with every point scored.

You start coming to as many games as you can after that, always patiently waiting for Yachi to finish up practice before the two of you walk home together, and that’s how you meet Kageyama and Hinata. Sure, you’d seen and exchanged a few polite words here and there with the two fellow first-years, amusedly observing how they badgered Yachi to help them with their studies, but as you begin to tear your eyes away a bit from Yachi and actually watch the court, you watch in amazement as they work together seamlessly on the court. And when the four of you go to Ukai’s store for meat buns once in a while, you can’t help but chuckle at how different they are on versus off the court as you watch the two bumbling idiots bicker with each other. But they’re fooling no one with their pretend animosity and you share a knowing look with Yachi when the two of you trail behind the boys and you see them subtly link their pinkies together.

Maybe back then if you had known how messy things would be, if you had known that you would end up being more than just a bystander of the relationship between Karasuno’s first-year star athletes, you would have stopped interacting so much with the setter and middle blocker. Maybe you would have dedicated yourself solely to Yachi. But ignorant of what’s about to be set in motion, you grow closer and closer to the two boys and you’re not quite sure when it happens, but suddenly you’re rarely alone with Yachi and life is a little noisier, a little more chaotic with Kageyama and Hinata constantly tagging along, but you love every second of it. You love it too much and it’s too late by the time you realize the butterflies in your stomach aren’t just because of Yachi anymore.

You know you’re in the middle of a teeter-tottering seesaw when your heart beats faster when Hinata beams at you as he loudly asks you a question, when your face heats up as Kageyama silently hands you a carton of milk he’d bought you, when you’re still just as lovestruck as always while Yachi asks for your opinion on a new poster design she’s working on. You try to play it off, telling yourself it’s more than possible to remain friends with all three of them, that you won’t give into temptation and choose one side over the other (not that you could choose even if you had to), that you’re looking too much into it and it’s not like either side even reciprocates the budding feelings that grow and twist inside of you more with every passing day. But even as determined as you are to pretend everything’s platonic, it becomes a game of wills and Kageyama, Hinata, and Yachi are more than worthy opponents when it comes to resilience.

It becomes impossible to ignore the way Kageyama too slowly, too intimately wipes some crumbs accidentally left on your face. It becomes impossible to ignore the way Hinata boldly grabs your hands and refuses to let go as he talks to you. It becomes impossible to ignore the way Yachi leans her head on your shoulder, eyes too intently staring up at you, straying too much, too often to your lips for it to truly come off as just a friendly gesture. And you’re not the only one fully aware of the changing dynamics as blue and hazel eyes battle it out with light brown eyes in a silent heated battle every time they cross paths with you caught in the middle.

Unfortunately for everyone around, they intersect too often between classes and volleyball and really, it was only a matter of time, a ticking time bomb before the shaky truce the four of you had fell apart. And like they say, when it rains, it pours.

You’re ecstatic as you wait for the team to exit the court and make their way to where you’re waiting for them in the hallway, still feeling the high of shock and pride from the fact that they had beaten Shiratorizawa and guaranteed themselves a spot in Nationals. But you yelp in surprise when instead of your usual high five and hug, you’re tackled by a ball of orange and the world freezes when you feel something pressing hard against your lips. You’re frozen stiff, the whooping cheers and exclamations of both surprise and congratulations from the rest of the team just vague background noise as your lips remain locked, but when you feel a taller figure at your back, gently placing his hands on your hips, you whip your head behind you and your heart thunders as you stare into blue eyes flooded with love. And suddenly you’re all too aware of the sandwich you’re in and it feels so right, so natural, so perfect to be between the two toned figures.

But the picture perfect feeling shatters to pieces when Hinata is being shoved off of you by an outside party, when Kageyama’s hands are being ripped off of your body, and suddenly you’re face to face with a familiar face you’ve come to love, and yet, it looks so different, so twisted and marred by the hate and anger you see shadowing it. Your body runs on autopilot as it immediately reaches out to comfort and soothe Yachi, hating the hurt you see in those beautiful eyes, but you’re halted by a softer pair of lips and you can’t help but instinctively close your eyes and sink into the sweet feeling of finally sharing such a tender moment with your first love.

And that’s when chaos ensues and suddenly there are hands everywhere, there’s screaming and shouting, harsh and terrible words being venomously launched and you watch in horror as Tanaka and Daichi wrangle Kageyama and Hinata away, as Kiyoko forcefully pulls Yachi away, as the rest of the team, even sweet Suga-senpai, send accusing disappointed looks your way. You feel nauseous as you run away, clumsily making your way into the nearest restroom, and your body shakes from the force of your sobs as you harshly rub your lips as if rubbing them raw would make up for anything. Of course it does nothing and you sink to the ground, huddling into a tight ball as you wonder where everything went wrong and only when the gymnasium has long cleared and you’re being forced to exit the venue as they lock it up for the night do you come to a decision. It’s time to make things right.

It’s hard to muster the strength to be alone in the same room as the three of them, but when you see the scathing looks they shoot at each other, Kageyama and Hinata on one side of the room, Yachi all the way on the opposite side, your resolve hardens and you don’t waver as you completely cut ties with them. It hurts and your heart screams at you, begs you to at least try and repair your friendship even if nothing ever happens beyond that, but your mind knows better, knows that the four of you can never truly go back to what you used to be. And maybe the other three realize it as well as their shoulders slump and they make no move or sound to stop you as you swiftly turn on your heels and retreat.

You laugh humorlessly at yourself in the following months. Pathetic. How many other people had gone through horrible break-ups, divorces, deaths, and come out strongly? And yet here you are, heartbroken, a mess from ending things that couldn’t even be considered real relationships. But the mental kick you give yourself doesn’t do anything to help the giant hole you feel inside of your heart, your soul and you let your internal wounds fester until they ooze into your well being like a rotting infection. Sleep escapes you at night while tears stream down your face and you trudge throughout the day with blood-shot eyes that droop heavily as you sit in class. Dark circles stain the skin beneath your lids and your mind is a hazy fog as it tries to push on, tries to soak in the droning voice of your teachers as they lecture, tries to compute the lines of text in your homework assignments. But there’s only so much it can do with no sleep or nutrition to help it along and you try to muster up apology after apology as teachers worriedly, but sternly pull you aside, citing your rapidly dropping grades and lack of attention.

You’re a shell of who you used to be and even in your barely functioning form, you’re more than aware of the whispers and strange looks your classmates are sending your way. But you tell yourself it’s for the greater good. At least the ones you love are finally moving on with their lives as they should and you bitterly smile at the thought of Yachi, Kageyama, and Hinata exchanging jokes and encouragements as volleyballs are passed around. So you’re in shock when a small hand gently grips your hand and pulls you aside as you’re on your way to school and you turn to see one of the three faces that have been haunting your thoughts and dreams.

Your sleep deprived mind is too slow to react accordingly and you’re thankful for Yachi jumping in first and you sheepishly thank her when she points out that you’d been walking in the wrong direction. It’s silent as the two of you continue trekking along, walking past the school gates, walking down the hallways, but even with the extra space between your two bodies as you take step after step, you can’t ignore the way light brown eyes worriedly scrutinize you and you almost protest when Yachi insists on walking you to your desk, but you’re too exhausted to deal with her stubbornness and you let her unpack your backpack for you, a painful pang in your chest when you see how she sets up everything exactly how you like it, pencil at the top right, notebook slightly tilted in a diagonal line to accommodate the way you naturally slant your writing.

She knows she’s overstepping her boundaries and you’re grateful that she at least has the restraint to not verbally confront you about the mess you’ve become, but you still can’t help but feel uneasy as she pushes her luck more and more everyday despite your reminder that nothing’s changed since you had burned the bridge of your bond. And your pleas for her to go on with her own life and leave you alone begin sounding empty even to your own ears and a small insistent part of you wonders...would it really be so bad to let whatever this is develop?

But when your lack of care finally catches up to you and you find yourself falling to the ground, mind slipping under after a particularly strenuous gym class, strong arms catch you and the last sight you see before you give into darkness are blue and hazel brown eyes. And that’s the sight you wake up to as well as you groggily try to sit up in the nurse’s office, only to be forced back down and scolded by two familiar voices. You wince as your already dizzy head throbs from the loud and harsh words being spat at you. What are you doing? Why aren’t you taking care of yourself? How could you be so careless with your life and health? They’re so demanding, so angry, and you try to cover your ears to drown them out, only to freeze when you hear the underlying worry, concern, and love they still had for you as their frenzied rants continued. And it’s Hinata’s final sentences, spoken in a quieter tone than anything else uttered that finally break you.

“Just choose Yachi or us. Please. Just choose one of us and be happy. We hate seeing you like this.”

You stare in disbelief at the two boys sitting by your bedside and like a dam that bursts, all your emotions come flooding out of you and your voice raises almost to a hysteric tone as you rave at them.

“Do you think it’s that simple? Do you really think I can just choose as easy as 1, 2, 3 between the three of you? Don’t you think I would have done that already if that was an option? I can’t because I love all three of you equally! I can’t choose. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t…”

Your words are becoming less and less coherent as they get muddled by the choked heaving sobs shaking your entire body and when a calloused hand gently rubs your back in a comforting motion, you violently shove it off, anger and frustration beginning to seep into you.

“If you really want me to be happy, you’ll leave me alone and let me move on. I’ll be happier having nothing to do with any of you anymore.”

You’re not sure who’s hurting more after the harsh words slip past your lips as you stare into two pairs of heartbroken eyes full of unshed tears and feel your own heart shatter knowing you’re the reason for their pain. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve made your point loud and clear and the silence is suffocating as both athletes stand up and shuffle out the door, not even glancing back at you once as they close the door behind them and the image of their retreating backs is one that will be ingrained in your memory for years to come.

Unknown to you, a small blonde girl had been quietly hiding outside of the room, listening to every word and when the boys come face to face with their manager, neither side can hide the hate-filled sneer on their faces as they part ways, Kageyama and Hinata attached to the hip as they make their way to the club room, Yachi purposefully going in the opposite direction, taking the longer detour to avoid being anywhere near the two of them as she also gets ready for practice.

Things never do get better after that. That’s life, you suppose, and sometimes there aren’t happy endings. There certainly isn’t a happy ending as Yachi and Kageyama and Hinata barely acknowledge each other over the years despite their close proximity on the volleyball team, silently weaving around each other with barely contained contempt and just enough toleration to not be lectured by Coach Ukai. There certainly isn’t a happy ending as you pass the three of them in the hallways, never exchanging even a single word during the long three years you all spend at Karasuno. And there certainly isn’t a happy ending as the four of you graduate without a backwards glance, intent on going your separate ways, intent on completely leaving behind any bitter memories, intent on letting each other fade away like a bad dream.

#haikyuu angst #yachi x reader #kageyama x reader #hinata x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fic #haikyuu #haikyuu writing #haikyuu imagines

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letterboxd · 4 years ago

Photo

Careful How You Go.

Ella Kemp explores how film lovers can protect themselves from distressing subject matter while celebrating cinema at its most audacious.

Featuring Empire magazine editor Terri White, Test Pattern filmmaker Shatara Michelle Ford, writer and critic Jourdain Searles, publicist Courtney Mayhew, and curator, activist and producer Mia Bays of the Birds’ Eye View collective.

This story contains discussion of rape, sexual assault, abuse, self-harm, trauma and loss of life, as well as spoilers for ‘Promising Young Woman’ and ‘A Star is Born’.

We film lovers are blessed with a medium capable of excavating real-life emotion from something seemingly fictional. Yet, for all that film is—in the oft-quoted words of Roger Ebert—an “empathy machine”, it’s also capable of deeply hurting its audience when not wielded by its makers and promoters with appropriate care. Or, for that matter, when not approached by viewers with informed caution.

Whose job is it to let us know that we might be upset by what we see? With the coronavirus pandemic decimating the communal movie-going experience, the way we accommodate each viewer’s sensibilities is more crucial than ever—especially when so many of us are watching alone, at home, often unsupported.

In order to understand how we can champion a film’s content and take care of its audience, I approached women in several areas of the movie ecosystem. I wanted to know: how does a filmmaker approach the filming of a rape and its aftermath? How does a magazine editor navigate the celebration of a potentially triggering movie in one of the world’s biggest film publications? How does a freelance writer speak to her professional interests while preserving her personal integrity? How does a women’s film collective create a safe environment for an audience to process such a film? And, how does a publicist prepare journalists for careful reporting, when their job is to get eyeballs on screens in order to keep our favorite art form afloat?

The conversations reminded me that the answers are endlessly complex. The concerns over spoilers, the effectiveness of trigger warnings, the myriad ways in which art is crafted from trauma, and the fundamental question of whose stories these are to tell. These questions were valid decades ago, they will be for decades to come, and they feel especially urgent now, since a number of recent tales helmed by female and non-binary filmmakers depict violence and trauma involving women’s bodies in fearless, often challenging ways.

Emerald Fennell’s Promising Young Woman, in particular, has revived a vital conversation about content consideration, as victims and survivors of sexual assault record wildly different reactions to its astounding ending. Shatara Michelle Ford’s quietly tense debut, Test Pattern, brings Black survivors into the conversation. And the visceral, anti-wish-fulfillment horror Violation, coming soon from Dusty Mancinelli and Madeleine Sims-Fewer, takes the rape-revenge genre up another notch.

These films come off the back of other recent survivor stories, such as Michaela Coel’s groundbreaking series I May Destroy You (which centers women’s friendship in a narrative move that, as Sarah Williams has eloquently outlined, happens too rarely in this field). Also: Kata Wéber and Kornél Mundruczó’s Pieces of a Woman, and the ongoing ugh-ness of The Handmaid’s Tale. And though this article is focused on plots centering women’s trauma, I acknowledge the myriad of stories that can be triggering in many ways for all manner of viewers. So whether you’ve watched one of these titles, or others like them, I hope you felt supported in the conversations to follow, and that you feel seen.

Weruche Opia and Michaela Coel in ‘I May Destroy You’.

* * *

Simply put, Promising Young Woman is a movie about a woman seeking revenge against predatory men. Except nothing about it is simple. Revenge movies have existed for aeons, and we’ve rooted for many promising young (mostly white) women before Carey Mulligan’s Cassie (recently: Jen in Coralie Fargeat’s Revenge, Noelle in Natalia Leite’s M.F.A.). But in Promising Young Woman, the victim is not alive to seek revenge, so it becomes Cassie’s single-minded crusade. Mercifully, we never see the gang-rape that sparks Cassie’s mission. But we do see a daring, fatal subversion of the notion of a happy ending—and this is what has audiences of Emerald Fennell’s jaw-dropping debut divided.

“For me, being a survivor, the point is to survive,” Jourdain Searles tells me. The New York-based critic, screenwriter, comedian—and host of Netflix’s new Black Film School series—says the presence of death in Promising Young Woman is the problem. “One of the first times I spoke openly about [my assault], I made the decision that I didn’t want to go to the police, and I got a lot of judgment for that,” she says. “So watching Promising Young Woman and seeing the police as the endgame is something I’ve always disagreed with. I left thinking, ‘How is this going to help?’”

“I feel like I’ve got two hats on,” says Terri White, the London-based editor-in chief of Empire magazine, and the author of a recently published memoir, Coming Undone. “One of which is me creating a magazine for a specific film-loving audience, and the other bit of me, which has written a book about trauma, specifically about violence perpetrated against the body. They’re not entirely siloed, but they are two distinct perspectives.”

White loved both Promising Young Woman and I May Destroy You, because they “explode the myth of resolution and redemption”. She calls the ending of Promising Young Woman “radical” in the way it speaks to the reality of what happens to so many women. “I was thinking about me and women like me, women who have endured violence and injury or trauma. Three women every week are still killed [in the UK] at the hands of an ex-partner, or somebody they know intimately, or a current partner. Statistically, any woman who goes for some kind of physical confrontation in [the way Cassie does] would end up dying.”

She adds: “I felt like the film was in service to both victims and survivors, and I use the word ‘victims’ deliberately. I call myself a victim because I think if you’ve endured either sexual violence or physical violence or both, a lot of empowering language, as far as I’m concerned, doesn’t reflect the reality of being a victim or a survivor, whichever way you choose to call yourself.” This point has been one many have disagreed on. In a way, that makes sense—no victim or survivor can be expected to speak to anyone else’s experience but their own.

Carey Mulligan and Emerald Fennell on the set of ‘Promising Young Woman’.

Likewise, there is no right or wrong way to feel about this film, or any film. But a question that arises is, well, should everyone have to see a film to figure that out? And should victims and survivors of sexual violence watch this film? “I have definitely been picky about who I’ve recommended it to,” Courtney Mayhew says. “I don’t want to put a friend in harm’s way, even if that means they miss out on something awesome. It’s not worth it.”

Mayhew is a New Zealand-based international film publicist, and because of her country’s success in controlling Covid 19, she is one of the rare people able to experience Promising Young Woman in a sold-out cinema. “It was palpable. Everyone was so engaged and almost leaning forwards. There were a lot of laughs from women, but it was also a really challenging setting. A lot of people looking down, looking away, and there was a girl who was crying uncontrollably at the end.”

“Material can be very triggering,” White agrees. “It depends where people are personally in their journey. When I still had a lot of trauma I hadn’t worked through in my 20s, I found certain things very difficult to watch. Those things are a reality—but people can make their own decisions about the material they feel able to watch.”

It’s about warning, and preparation, more than total deprivation, then? “I believe in giving people information so they can make the best choice for themselves,” White says. “But I find it quite reductive, and infantilizing in some respects, to be told broadly, ‘Women who have experienced x shouldn’t watch this.’ That underestimates the resilience of some people, the thirst for more information and knowledge.” (This point is clearly made in this meticulous, awe-inspiring list by Jenn, who is on a journey to make sense of her trauma through analysis of rape-revenge films.) But clarity is crucial, particularly for those grappling with unresolved issues.

Searles agrees Promising Young Woman can be a difficult, even unpleasant watch, but still one with value. “As a survivor it did not make me feel good, but it gave me a window into the way other people might respond to your assault. A lot of the time [my friends] have reacted in ways I don’t understand, and the movie feels like it’s trying to make sense of an assault from the outside, and the complicated feelings a friend might have.”

Molly Parker and Vanessa Kirby in ‘Pieces of a Woman’.

* * *

A newborn dies. A character is brutally violated. A population is tortured. To be human is to bear witness to history, but it’s still painful when that history is yours, or something very close to it. “Some things are hard to watch because you relate to them,” Searles explains. “I find mother! hard to watch, and there’s no actual sexual assault. But I just think of sexual assault and trauma and domestic abuse, even though the film isn’t about that. The thing is, you could read an academic paper on patriarchy—you don’t need to watch it on a show [or in a film] if you don’t want to.”

White agrees: “I’ve never been able to watch Nil by Mouth, because I grew up in a house of domestic violence and I find physical violence against women on screen very hard to watch. But that doesn’t mean I think the film shouldn’t be shown—it should still exist, I’ve just made the choice not to watch it.” (Reader, since our conversation, she watched it. At 2:00am.)

“I know people who do not watch Promising Young Woman or The Handmaid’s Tale because they work for an NGO in which they see those things literally in front of their eyes,” Mayhew says. “It could be helpful for someone who isn’t aware [of those issues], but then what is the purpose of art? To educate? To entertain? For escapism? It’s probably all of those.”

Importantly, how much weight should an artist’s shoulders carry, when it comes to considering the audiences that will see their work? There’s a general agreement among my interviewees that, as White says, “filmmakers have to make the art that they believe in”. I don’t think any film lover would disagree, but, suggests Searles, “these films should be made with survivors in mind. That doesn’t mean they always have to be sensitive and sad and declawed. But there is a way to be provocative, while leaning into an emotional truth.”

Madeleine Sims-Fewer in ‘Violation’.

Violation, about which I’ll say little here since it is yet to screen at SXSW (ahead of its March 25 release on Shudder) is not at all declawed, and is certainly made with survivors in mind—in the sense that in life, unlike in movies, catharsis is very seldom possible no matter how far you go to find it. On Letterboxd, many of those who saw Violation at TIFF and Sundance speak of feeling represented by the rape-revenge plot, writing: “One of the most intentionally thought out and respectful of the genre… made by survivors for survivors” and “I feel seen and held”. (Also: “This movie is extremely hard to watch, completely on purpose.”)

“Art can do great service to people,” agrees White, “If, by consequence, there is great service for people who have been in that position, that’s a brilliant consequence. But I don’t believe filmmakers and artists should be told that they are responsible for certain things. There’s a line of responsibility in terms of being irresponsible, especially if your community is young, or traumatised.”

Her words call to mind Bradley Cooper’s reboot of A Star is Born, which many cinephiles knew to be a remake and therefore expected its plot twist, but young filmgoers, drawn by the presence of Lady Gaga, were shocked (and in some cases triggered) by a suicide scene. When it was released, Letterboxd saw many anguished reviews from younger members. In New Zealand, an explicit warning was added to the film’s classification by the country’s chief censor (who also created an entirely new ‘RP18’ classification for the Netflix series 13 Reasons Why, which eventually had a graphic suicide scene edited out two years after first landing on the streaming service).

“There is a duty of care to audiences, and there is also a duty of care to artists and filmmakers,” says Mayhew. “There’s got to be some way of meeting in the middle.” The middle, perhaps, can be identified by the filmmaker’s objective. “It’s about feeling safe in the material,” says Mia Bays of the Birds’ Eye View film collective, which curates and markets films by women in order to effect industry change. “With material like this, it’s beholden on creatives to interrogate their own intentions.”

Filmmaker Shatara Michelle Ford is “forever interrogating” ideas of power. Their debut feature, Test Pattern, deftly examines the power differentials that inform the foundations of consent. “As an artist, human, and person who has experienced all sorts of boundary violation, assault and exploitation in their life, I spend quite a lot of time thinking about power… It is something I grapple with in my personal life, and when I arrive in any workplace, including a film set.”

In her review of Test Pattern for The Hollywood Reporter, Searles writes, “This is not a movie about sexual assault as an abstract concept; it’s a movie about the reality of a sexual assault survivor’s experience.” Crucially, in a history of films that deal largely with white women’s experiences, Test Pattern “is one of the few sexual-assault stories to center a Black woman, with her Blackness being central to her experience and the way she is treated by the people around her.”

Brittany S. Hall in ‘Test Pattern’.

* * *

Test Pattern follows the unfolding power imbalance between Renesha (Brittany S. Hall) and her devoted white boyfriend Evan (Will Brill), as he drives her from hospital to hospital in search of a rape kit, after her drink was spiked by a white man in a bar who then raped her. Where Promising Young Woman is a millennial-pink revenge fantasy of Insta-worthy proportions, Test Pattern feels all too real, and the cops don’t come off as well as they do in the former.

Ford does something very important for the audience: they begin the film just as the rape is about to occur. We do not see it at this point (we do not really ever see it), but we know that it happened, so there’s no chance that, somewhere deeper into the story, when we’re much more invested, we’ll be side-swiped by a sudden onslaught of sexual violence. In a way, it creates a safe space for our journey with Renesha.

It’s one of many thoughtful decisions made by Ford throughout the production process. “I’m in direct conversation with film and television that chooses to depict violence against women so casually,” Ford tells me. “I intentionally showed as little of Renesha’s rape as humanly possible. I also had an incredibly hard time being physically present for that scene, I should add. What I did shoot was ultimately guided by Renesha’s experience of it. Shoot only what she would remember. Show only what she would have been aware of.

“But I also made it clear that this was a violation of her autonomy, by allowing moments where we have an arm’s length point of view. I let the camera sit with the audience, as I’m also saying, as the filmmaker, this happened, and you saw enough of it to know. This, for me, is a larger commentary on how we treat victims of assault and rape. I do not believe for one goddamn minute that we need to see the actual, literal violence to know what happened. When we flagrantly replicate the violence in film and television, we are supporting the cultural norm of needing ‘all of the evidence’—whatever that means—to ‘believe women’.”

Ford’s intentional work in crafting the romance and unraveling of Test Pattern’s leading couple pays off on screen, but their stamp as an invested and careful director also shows in their work with Drew Fuller, the actor who played Mike, the rapist. “It’s a very difficult role, and I’m grateful to him for taking it so seriously. When discussing and rendering the practice and non-practice of consent intentionally, I found it helpful to give it a clear definition and provide conceptual insight.

“I sent Drew a few articles that I used as tools to create a baseline understanding when it comes to exploring consent and power on screen. At the top of that list was Lili Loofbourow’s piece, The female price of male pleasure and Zhana Vrangalova's Teen Vogue piece, Everything You Need to Know about Consent that You Never Learned in Sex Ed. The latter in my opinion is the linchpin. There’s also Jude Elison Sady Doyle’s piece about the whole Aziz Ansari thing, which is a great primer.”

Sidney Flanigan in ‘Never Rarely Sometimes Always’.

Even when a filmmaker has given Ford’s level of care and attention to their project, what happens when the business end of the industry gets involved in the art? As we well know, marketing is a film’s window dressing. It has one job: to get eyeballs into the cinema. It can’t know if every viewer should feel safe to enter.

It would be useful, with certain material, to know how we should watch, and with whom, and what might we need in the way of support coming out. Whose job is it to provide this? Beyond the crude tool of an MPAA rating (and that’s a whole sorry tale for another day), there are many creative precautions that can be taken across the industry to safeguard a filmgoer’s experience.

Mayhew, who often sees films at the earliest stages (sometimes before a final cut, sometimes immediately after), speaks to journalists in early screenings and ensures they have the tools to safely report on the topics raised. In New Zealand, reporters are encouraged to read through resources to help them guide their work. Mayhew’s teams would also ensure journalists would be given relevant hotline numbers, and would ask media outlets to include them in published stories.

“It’s not saying, ‘You have to do this’,” she explains, “It’s about first of all not knowing what the journalist has been through themselves, and second of all, [if] they are entertainment reporters who haven’t navigated speaking about sexual assault, you only hope it will be helpful going forward. It’s certainly not done to infantilize them, because they’re smart people. It’s a way to show some care and support.”

The idea of having appropriate resources to make people feel safe and encourage them to make their own decisions is a priority for Bays and Birds’ Eye View, as well. The London-based creative producer and cultural activist stresses the importance of sharing such a viewing experience. “It’s the job of cinemas, distributors and festivals to realize that it might not be something the filmmaker does, but as the people in control of the environment it’s our job to give extra resources to those who want it,” says Bays. “To give people a safe space to come down from the experience.”

Pre-pandemic, when Birds’ Eye View screened Kitty Green’s The Assistant, a sharp condemnation of workplace micro-aggressions seen through the eyes of one female assistant, they invited women who had worked for Harvey Weinstein. For a discussion after Eliza Hittman’s coming-of-ager Never Rarely Sometimes Always, abortion experts were able to share their knowledge. “It’s about making sure the audience knows you can say anything here, but that it’s safe,” Bays explains. “It’s kind of like group therapy—you don’t know people, so you’re not beholden to what they think about you. And in the cinema people aren’t looking at you. You’re speaking somewhat anonymously, so a lot of really important stuff can come out.”

The traditional movie-going experience, involving friends, crowds and cathartic, let-loose feelings, is still largely inaccessible at the time of writing. Over the past twelve months we’ve talked plenty about preserving the magic of the big screen experience, but it’s about so much more than the romanticism of an art form; it’s also about the safety that comes from a feeling of community when watching potentially upsetting movies.

“The going in and coming out parts of watching a film in the cinema are massively important, because it’s like coming out of the airlock and coming back to reality,” says Bays. “You can’t do that at home. Difficult material kind of stays with you.” During the pandemic, Birds’ Eye View has continued to provide the same wrap-around curatorial support for at-home viewers as they would at an in-person event. “If we’re picking a difficult film and asking people to watch it at home, we might suggest you watch it with a friend so you can speak about it afterwards,” Bays says.

Julia Garner in ‘The Assistant’.

But, then, how can we still find this sense of community without the physical closeness? “It’s no good waiting for [the internet] to become kind,” she says. “Create your own closed spaces. We do workshops and conversations exclusively for people who sign up to our newsletter. In real-life meetings you can go from hating something to hearing an eloquent presentation of another perspective and coming round to it, but you need the time and space to do that. This little amount of time gives you a move towards healing, even if it’s just licking some wounds that were opened on Twitter. But it could be much deeper, like being a survivor and feeling very conflicted about the film, which I do.”

Conflict is something that Searles, the film critic, knows about all too well in her work. “Since I started writing professionally, I almost feel like I’m known for writing about assault and rape at this point. I do write about it a lot, and as a survivor I continue to process it. I’ve been assaulted more than once so I have a lot to process, and so each time I’m writing about it I’m thinking about different aspects and remnants of those feelings. It can be very cathartic, but it’s a double-edged sword because sometimes I feel like I have an obligation to write about it too.”

There is also a constant act of self-preservation that comes with putting so much of yourself on the internet. “I often get messages from people thanking me for talking about these subjects with a deep understanding of what they mean,” Searles says. “I really appreciate that. I get negative messages about a lot of things, but not this one thing.”

Michaela Coel in ‘I May Destroy You’.

* * *

With such thoughtful approaches to heavy content, it feels like we’re a long way further down the road from blunt tools like content and trigger warnings. But do they still have their place? “It’s just never seemed appropriate to put trigger warnings on any of our reviews or features,” White explains. “We have a heavy male readership, still 70 percent male to 30 percent female. I’m conscious we’re talking to a lot of men who will often have experienced violence themselves, but we don’t put any warnings, because we are an adult magazine, and when we talk about violence in, say, an action film, or violence that is very heavily between men, we don’t caveat that at all.”

Bays, too, is sceptical of trigger warnings, explaining that “there’s not much evidence [they] actually work. A lot of psychologists expound on the fact that if people get stuck in their trauma, you can never really recover from PTSD if you don’t at some point face your trauma.” She adds: “I’m a survivor, and I found I May Destroy You deeply, profoundly triggering, but also cathartic. I think it’s more about how you talk about the work, rather than having a ‘NB: survivors of sexual abuse or assault shouldn’t see this’.”

“It’s important to give people a feel of what they’re in for,” argues Searles. “A lot of people who have dealt with suicide ideation would prefer that warning.” While some worry that a content warning is effectively a plot spoiler, Searles disagrees. “I don’t consider a content warning a spoiler. I just couldn’t imagine sitting down for a film, knowing there’s going to be a suicide, and letting it distract me from the film.” Still, she acknowledges the nuance. “I think using ‘self-harm’ might be better than just saying ‘suicide’.”

Mayhew shared insights on who actually decides which films on which platforms are preceded with warnings—turns out, it’s a bit messy. “The onus traditionally has fallen on governmental censorship when it comes to theatrical releases,” she explains. “But streamers can do what they want, they are not bound by those rules so they have to—as the distributors and broadcasters—take the government’s censors on board in terms of how they are going to navigate it.

“The consumer doesn’t know the difference,” she continues, “nor should they—so it means they can be watching The Crown on Netflix and get this trigger warning about bulimia, and go to the cinema the next day and not get it, and feel angry about it. So there’s the question of where is the responsibility of the distributor, and where is the responsibility of the audience member to actually find out for themselves.”

The warnings given to an audience member can also vary widely depending where they find themselves in the world, too. Promising Young Woman, for example, is rated M in Australia, R18 in New Zealand, and R in the United States. Meanwhile, the invaluable Common Sense Media recommends an age of fifteen years and upwards for the “dark, powerful, mature revenge comedy”. Mayhew says a publicist’s job is “to have your finger on the pulse” about these cultural differences. “You have to read the overall room, and when I say room I mean the culture as a whole, and you have to be constantly abreast of things across those different ages too.”

She adds: “This feeds into the importance of representation right at the top of those boardrooms and right down to the film sets. My job is to see all opinions, and I never will, especially because I am a white woman. I consider myself part of the LGBT community and sometimes I’ll bring that to a room that I think has been lacking in that area, when it comes to harmful stereotypes that can be propagated within films about LGBT people. But I can’t bring a Black person’s perspective, I cannot bring an Indigenous perspective. The more representation you have, the better your film is going to be, your campaign is going to be.”

Bays, who is also a filmmaker, agrees: representation is about information, and working with enough knowledge to make sure your film is being as faithful to your chosen communities as possible. “As a filmmaker, I’d feel ill-informed and misplaced if I was stumbling into an area of representation that I knew nothing about without finding some tools and collaborators who could bring deeper insight.”

Carey Mulligan and Bo Burnham in ‘Promising Young Woman’.

This is something Ford aimed for with Test Pattern’s choice of crew members, which had an effect not just on the end product, but on the entire production process. “I made sure that at the department head level, I was hiring people I was in community with and fully saw me as a person, and me them,” they say. “In some ways it made the experience more pleasurable.” That said, the shoot was still not without its incidents: “These were the types of things that in my experience often occur on a film set dominated by straight white men, that we're so accustomed to we sometimes don’t even notice it. I won’t go into it but what I will say is that it was not tolerated.”

Vital to the telling of the story were the lived experiences that Ford and their crew brought to set. “As it applies to the sensitive nature of this story, there were quite a few of us who have had our own experiences along the spectrum of assault, which means that we had to navigate our own internal re-processing of those experiences, which is hard to do when we’re constructing an experience of rape for a character.

“However, I think being able to share our own triggers and discomfort and context, when it came to Renesha’s experience, made the execution of it all the better. Again, it was a pleasure to be in community with such smart, talented and considerate women who each brought their own nuance to this film.”

* * *

Thinking about everything we’ve lived through by this point in 2021, and the heightened sensitivity and lowered mental health of film lovers worldwide, movies are carrying a pretty heavy burden right now: to, as Jane Fonda said at the Golden Globes, help us see through others’ eyes; also, to entertain or, at the very least, not upset us too much.

But to whom does film have a responsibility, really? Promising Young Woman’s writer-director Emerald Fennell, in an excellent interview with Vulture’s Angelica Jade Bastién, said that she was thinking of audiences when she crafted the upsetting conclusion.

What she was thinking was: a ‘happy’ ending for Cassie gets us no further forward as a society. Instead, Cassie’s shocking end “makes you feel a certain way, and it makes you want to talk about it. It makes you want to examine the film and the society that we live in. With a cathartic Hollywood ending, that’s not so much of a conversation, really. It’s a kind of empty catharsis.”

So let’s flip the question: what is our responsibility, as women and allies, towards celebrating audacious films about tricky subjects? The marvellous, avenging blockbusters that once sucked all the air out of film conversation are on pause, for now. Consider the space that this opens up for a different kind of approach to “must-see movies”. Spread the word about Test Pattern. Shout from the rooftops about It’s A Sin. Add Body of Water and Herself and Violation to your watchlists. And, make sure the right people are watching.

Brittany S. Hall and Will Brill in ‘Test Pattern’.

I asked my interviewees: if they could choose one type of person they think should see Promising Young Woman, who would it be? Ford has not seen Fennell’s film, but “it feels good to have my film contribute to a larger discourse that is ever shifting, ever adding nuance”. They are very clear on who can learn the most from their own movie.

“A white man is featured so prominently in Test Pattern as a statement about how white people and men have a habit of centering themselves in the stories of others, prioritizing their experience and neglecting to recognize those on the margins. If Evan is triggering, he should be. If your feelings about Evan vacillate, it is by design.

“‘Allies’ across the spectrum are in a complicated dance around doing the ‘right thing’ and ‘showing up’ for those they are ostensibly seeking to support,” Ford continues. “Their constant battle is to remember that they need to be centering the needs of those they were never conditioned to center. Tricky stuff. Mistakes will be made. Mistakes must be owned. Sometimes reconciliation is required.”

It is telling that similar thoughts emerged from my other interviewees regarding Promising Young Woman’s ideal audience, despite the fact that none of them was in conversation with the others for this story. For that reason, as we come to the end of this small contribution to a very large, ongoing conversation, I’ve left their words intact.

White: I think it’s a great film for men.

Searles: I feel like the movie is very much pointed at cisgender heterosexual men.

Mayhew: Men.

White: We’re always warned about the alpha male with a massive ego, but we’re not warned about the beta male who reads great books, listens to great records, has great film recommendations. But he probably slyly undermines you in a completely different way. Anybody can be a predator.

Searles: The actors chosen to play these misogynist, rape culture-perpetuating men are actors we think of as nice guys.

White: We are so much more tolerant of a man knocking the woman over the head, dragging her down an alley and raping her, because we understand that. But rape culture is made up of millions of small things that enable the people who do it. We are more likely to be attacked in our own homes by men we love than a stranger in the street.

Mayhew: The onus should not fall on women to call this out.

Searles: It’s not just creeps, like the ones you see usually in these movies. It’s guys like you. What are you going to do to make sure you’re not like this?