#maybe the author meant for the curtains to just be blue. but if i can get something out of it anyways then whats it matter

[thatone-highlighter]

I love being pretentious about media actually. Not in a „oh you like nirvana? Name 5 of their songs“ type way but as in the curtains are blue to signify the character‘s sadness way

[pinkacademic]

Themes, Context and Problems of Studying Literature

We’re dealing with old books written by old people who had old views, so pretty frequently, we’re going to come across attitudes and language that… well, I hope none of you agree with it… but that’s not a bad thing. We should challenge our worldview, we should learn how to debate it eloquently, learn the context of why people thought the way they did, and learn how to discern between good intentions with bad choices of language, and bad intentions even with good choices of language.

I’m going to be coming back to Dracula a lot as my go-to example text because we all have ease-of-access to it through Dracula Daily, even if we aren’t participating, and I think its fair to focus on one we could all be reading for free.

Common Themes

Themes that come up a lot in any analysis of literature are always the major political issues of the world at the time the text was written, and that still widely apply eg racism and xenophobia, feminism/sex and gender, religion, environmentalism, class… Then, on top of that, there will be motifs that are specific to the book in question. For example, Wuthering Heights, as the name suggests, has a constant refrain that takes it back to pathetic fallacy- which means weather-based metaphor. And actually, the storms which can often in literature be forboding, to Cathy and Heathcliff represent thw call of the wild drawing them home to the moors.

It begs the question that many of you have probably encountered in that cringe Facebook meme about the curtains being blue.

Sometimes the character likes blue and has blue curtains and that’s it- and it is worth knowing that that can be true- but sometimes the curtains are blue because everything is blue and has been since the character’s mother designed the house, and blue is the oppressive colour of an old attitude but the main character wants to live in a modern world of yellow. Maybe, as soon as the mother dies, the main character is going to redesign the house that felt like a trap for so many years and the curtains will be yellow.

More on symbolism, metaphors, and other methods next week!

Interpretation

So, what are you supposed to do with this information? Well, pick an angle and defend it with your entire being. Here comes the Dracula because firstly, do you feel like Jonathan is a sexist because he expects Mina to be in the kitchen cooking paprika hendl for him? Or is he a true romantic who is thinking of her always on his trip to Transylvania?

This is the importance of opinion. Answering essay questions has, in my experience, always meant picking a side and gunning for it to the death. You have the evidence for your case. Look at this asshole Van Helsing being so condesceding to Mina, he’s so sexist! Alternatively, look at this feminist icon Van Helsing treating Mina as the only one with the brain cell.

It’s up to you, and that to me is the value of studying literature because it forces you to think for yourself. And the thing is, you can’t be wrong if you back it up.

Context

I think it’s important to understand where the author was in their lifewhen they wrote their book when we’re analysing its contents. I think the content should be the dominant force in your interpretations, but understanding some of the context matters.

Taking our faithful companion Dracula, it is important to know that this story where the beautiful Lucy is viciously attacked by a creature of the night was written in 1897, and that the murders of prostitutes committed by Jack the Ripper were less than a decade prior. It is also worth noting that the predominantly English cast of characters were written from the point-of-view of Irishman Bram Stoker who supported Home Rule for Ireland.

It can be useful to familiarise yourself with the language of the time, particularly when referring to issues such as sexuality, class, and race, when looking at broad questions such as, for example “is Dracula racist?” Not really, it mostly just uses period-typical language, but Jonathan himself can be pretty xenophobic because he represents the typical Englishman of the day.

That is also one hypothetical interpretation- it’s not even necessarily what I think- so, always keep these things in mind too.

My point is, understanding the time period can help you understand the work in question.

Why it is Important?

Ok, girls, I’m about to start PREACHING! As I mentioned, I think the value of a literature degree is how much it forces you to engage with challenging material, understand the nuances of creativity, and messages versus enjoying art for art’s sake. I think the reason creative subjects and humanities are underfunded because (tinfoil hat voice) THEY WANT US STUPID!! But in all seriousness, take every opportunity to expand your media literacy, your worldview, and your understanding of what counts as art, a classic, literature, and something worth thinking about.

Ok, girlies, I’m leaving it here for this week. This is my absolute PASSION, so I could talk about it FOREVER, but I’ll stop now to focus energy on the actual study section for next week!

[9w1ft]

I loved your answers about CP and folklore. Something I had to accept with the entire folklore/evermore concept, and really, a lot of what’s she’s done with the vault songs and even midnights, is she has leaned into her folklore and her fans’ views of her personal life and found a way for people to attach whatever fits their own thoughts about her personal life onto her songs. And because of that, there is no “right” answer to what they are about. In a way, we’re all both right and wrong at the same time. The way most of her work also doesn’t entirely fit her established public narrative is similar (why write divorce songs while with joe? Why write relationship songs while saying you’re not dating?) It’s a deep and artful approach to her work and in my opinion, necessary for her progress as an artist and a person. It’s fun to have two or three very different interpretations to a song’s meaning and just sit with that, and not have to choose one definitively. It’s fun to have friends you can discuss the meaning with, even if you don’t agree on the best interpretation. And it’s also fun to know that you might get more information later to help you decide which interpretation might be the most true. It’s way more interesting than simply writing a song that fits everything. Some of the vault songs are very clearly fan service, and other than the initial “ah ha! This is about X!” they really are not very interesting songs (one reason why they were left in the vault.) They add to her folklore, but are forgettable as art. But when her folklore is her art, it’s still fun.

Just as an example, you and I have had many discussions about her song meanings and we definitely don’t always agree (happiness, it’s time to go, CP) Sometimes one of us convinces the other (Maroon, labyrinth), but that’s not what’s important. What’s fun is the process. It’s why people compare her work to literature. To borrow a popular meme about symbolism in literature, people can write an entire thesis about the meaning of the blue curtains but in reality we’ll never know if the author actually meant anything deep about the curtains. But the point is the intellectual exercise, not the right answer.

Art is amazing like that.

i think i keep the majority of my wild song ideas to myself or maybe share them one on one with like minded people who will tolerate me 😂 so thank you for this 🫶 means a lot coming from you.

another thing i love is how thoughts on songs can evolve over time. like sometimes i’ll have had one idea about a song for years and then suddenly a switch will flip and i’ll see it in a different way and never be able to listen to it the same!

and one thing i do like about tumblr as a system, which i think actually you mentioned to me before, is that by and large it’s set up to be less about debate (it’s set up that way) and more about the journey of collecting favorite ideas and sharing stuff for others to collect. like.. a post sinks or swims over time based just on how many people resonate, but if things don’t resonate it’s usually just on to the next thing. by contrast i think some social media holds each statement up for immediate judgment and people rush to agree or refute each thing they read. and so people might write things in a way that avoids or elicits a certain response, instead of just writing what they wanted to write. in this way i think that tumblr (at its best) can be a great way to engage with her art in a fun way. at the very least, not everything becomes a federal case.

[sullina]

I think i just realized something about artists and the art that they create. Not sure if it's gonne be coherent, but I'm gonna do my best. It might come off as a little pretentious towards the end.

because really good art (can be anything, but always seems to have a special something about it) often seems to be created by people who are at least a little weird

and I think it's precisely because they're weird that they can create good art

because if you're weird, you're pretty much forced to analyse the world we live in in order to realize that you're different, because if you don't do that, you pretty much become super depressed, you're gonna think that everyone just hates you for no reason other than because you're you.

which doesn't change all that much once you realize that you're not normal, but realizing that you are different, that you're not normal, brings a certain confidence with it, I think. the "blame" of why you can't get along with others shifts from "you're doing something wrong that makes everyone hate you" to "they're the ones antagonizing you solely because you're not like them, you did nothing wrong" (I'm exaggerating, but you get the point)

And once you realize that, I think most people who are weird more or less start analysing what exactly makes them different from the normal people and gain a deeper understanding for how the world and how people work, in a way.

And a lot of art involves intentionally depicting the real world, be that in pictures, in stories, etc. and i feel like people who are weird can just do that better, because they have to analyse how the world works and the different reciprocal effects of it, but also how the world is.

It feels more real, because it's a less superficial depiction.

If i were to reword this post, maybe something like this would work better:

A less experienced author who has chosen a setting will throw in elements of that setting, because that's what that setting has in real life (or in other stories with the same setting)

A more experienced author with the same setting will chose the elements they use more carefully, picking what will work for the story and what isn't needed, how they can use each element and make it work for the plot and the characters they have in mind.

Think of it like the famous example of the blue curtains. In a book, where you have no visual representation of a room, only what the author gives you, you get the color of curtains. If the author has some experience, they're likely telling you more than just the color of the curtains. Why were they blue? Why not any other color? Why tell you about the curtains at all, if it's not important in some way or another? It doesn't have to be a big revelation, but it should tell you something about the plot or the character.

Maybe the curtains were red before, and they were changed between then and now. Maybe blue is someones favourite color, so when something else they have is not blue, in this story where any object can be made blue, it is something to look out for. Maybe it's a red herring.

In other words, the blue curtains in a book aren't a throwaway line, they're a detail that the author is intentionally telling you about.

The author who wrote that line thought "they're in a room with a window, so there's probably curtains there" and went "the curtains and their color is a detail important enough to tell the reader even though in real life, curtains are rather insignificant" and that's what I meant when i said that weird people are better at creating good art that normal people, because normal people likely never had to examine the status quo, but weird people do.

[rocksanddeadflowers]

Personally i always hated how it was taught to me, because it never made any sense. I absolutely adore symbolism and subtext and what have you, stories within stories, Easter eggs extra meanings details!!! But I was always taught in such a strict confusing manner, like the symbolism for why the curtains are blue can only mean that the character in the room is sad and depressed. You mean it couldn't mean anything else? Like yeah sometimes the curtains are just blue, but maybe that's just the characters favorite color, maybe in the universe blue is associated with something specific like a worshipped deity or a family crest. Maybe it means multiple things- the character is sad, but he blue curtains have always been there for another reason, and now simply emphasis the sadness, not try to explain that it's there.

I always hated when you were told to find what the author meant in symbolic looking passages, or poems or song lyrics, and if you didn't give the answer the teacher was looking for, you were wrong. I always found the beauty of symbolism to be the layers and interpretations. There's so many different things it can mean- and sure, maybe the author meant for the blue curtains to symbolize sadness all along, or maybe the author just likes blue so the curtains are blue for no deep reason, but maybe you as the reader could associate the blue curtains with something completely unique to yourself, something that makes the dull passage suddenly special again. To me one of the best things about art is how viewers can interpret it.

I'll never understand the "curtains are just blue sometimes" people. I was soooo fucking excited learning about symbolism. You have a story and what the story tells you. Then you have the fact that it was written at all by someone and that's another story. And then there's also hidden extra story info?

[my-bread]

I’m fucking tired of people deciding not having critical analysis skills is a fucking personality trait.

“Maybe the curtains were just fucking blue.”

Fuck you. Maybe they were. Maybe that’s all the author meant by it. Just picked a color for the curtains to be. But you don’t have to read it like that. Author intent =/= reader perception. Sure you can take what an author meant into consideration, but that’s not how you experienced it. What do the curtains mean to you.

“It’s not explicitly said, I think you’re reading too much into it.”

It does not matter if it’s about sexuality or gender or history or whatever, things can have meaning. Things don’t have to look at you and say it for it to be true. Or for it to be interpreted. Oh? That’s not what they meant by it? Well guess what. That’s how I interpreted it.

“Isn’t that invalidating to creators?”

Use some basic fucking judgment???? I can have critical thought about something without trying to explain it back to the creator and tell them they’re wrong. Also if a creator is invalidating people for having critical thought about their works they are an asshole.

“But your opinion is wrong.”

Cool. Let’s talk about it. Tell me your thoughts and opinions. Let’s have a constructive conversation about it. Are either of us really wrong or do we just have differing interpretations because we are two humans who have experienced life differently that have caused us to view this same thing in different ways.

“Not everything means something.”

Yes it can. You can do just as much critical analysis on the Lego movie as you can on saltburn. You can compare the cultural implications of the warrior cats in relation to the literary canon of Oscar Wilde. You can give it meaning. And shitting on people who are doing judt that does not make you cool. It makes you an asshole.

“People are being weird about it.”

People will be weird forever. You don’t have to interact with them. You don’t have to do anything. There’s a difference, between informing people that what they are doing is harmful and being an asshole. Are they hurting anyone? No? Fuck off then.

So yeah.

[milfbro]

not to 'the curtains are fucking blue' here but some of y'all just use literary analysis to try to decode books, like literature is just a way to write in a secret code you need to crack

maybe authors are not always indirectly talking about other things in code

[colorisbyshe]

One other thing about the “why are the curtains blue/how can the curtains being blue matter” topic that I don’t think a lot of the complainers get is that... while, yes, EVERYTHING in a piece of media CAN have intentional and unintentional meaning

That’s not why their English teachers made them write essays on like why is the curtain blue or whatever. Like, the English teachers aren’t going over this in class to insist there’s a definitive answer.

The point is just... to get people to think more critically about the text in general. To be aware that there’s always a chance for intentional secret meanings or accidental perspectives/messaging being thrown in. It’s literally just a lesson in critical thinking and is meant to help people spot things like propaganda and biases and double meanings.

Most scholarly work analyzing texts doesn’t focus on the minutiae of set design (though some certainly can and does) but... it is based on the mindset of realizing even small details can have great value.

This closer reading is meant to help people read and interpret the news, to understand why you can’t skim scientific texts because missing even one detail or implication can mean misunderstanding the entire thing, and can also be applied to legal documents, business contracts, and written government policy.

I feel a lot of the defenses of English class “overanalysis” is about how these lessons are taught to make people better understand books and mAYBE authors and thinks like unintentional bias, coding, etc but like... I really hope y’all know the main reason English class exists like that is for like... a million OTHER reasons as well.

And that’s the reason why you could get an A on an essay that you “bullshit,” your way through. There is no definitive answer for most English essay questions but if you provide sound logic, attention to small details, and the abilit to contextualize and REcontextualize information, you have proven you’ve gained something from the class.

And I think the reason why some of y’all don’t understand that is because... you didn’t do well in English. Your critical thinking and critical reading skills stalled out long ago

[diamondwaters]

❝ love is a choice ❞ chapter iii

summary: what was meant to be a simple, calm trip to an intergalactic museum ended up becoming a a trip through memories the doctor rather wanted to forget. only they weren't her memories. they were yours.

pairing: thirteenth doctor x reader (primary), eleventh doctor x reader

word count: 7.1k

warnings: mention of nausea, fearful situations, stress responses (not a panic attack but similar), headaches

author's note: i know i said in the last chapter's notes that that chapter fist fought me, but this chapter did that and actually did win. this one is 7k and i stayed up until 6 am two days in a row for this one. i had fun writing most of it, but the next couple chapters are the ones that im the most excited for!

divider from annaliseart on pixabay

“What do you think of this one?” 

You sat on Amy’s bed, listening to a Lady Gaga song pouring from the radio on her bedside table. You hung your left leg off the side of the bed while you flipped through a romance novel you’d stolen off her shelf. You looked up to see the costume she put on for one of her upcoming customers. You took in the plain, white, knee-length dress with poofy sleeves and pathetic little wings attached to the back. You likened her to those poor kids in the nativity plays in primary school, whose mothers made them participate. You couldn’t stifle your laugh in time at the mere thought. You tried to cover it up at her indignant grimace. 

“I like it! I like it a lot! I didn’t know they had an angel option now,” You smirked. “They got a devil one too, Ames? Ooh, maybe we could do it as a duo! Do you think they’ll pay me?” 

She plucked her halo off her head and tossed it at your head jokingly. “It was my boss’s idea. Obviously. And no, there’s no devil one and no, you’re not gonna get paid.”

“Shame,” You shook your head. “It could’ve been a match made in heaven and hell!”

“Now I wish I hadn’t thrown that so I could throw it at you now. Really, that was awful.”

The grin on her face said otherwise, though she attempted to conceal it by retreating into her bathroom to change.

On your yearly visit to Leadworth for the summer, Amy had asked whether or not you wanted to go through her various costumes for her job as a kiss-o-gram. Naturally, you said yes. You had seen a nurse, a nun, and now an angel with an unfortunate absence of an accompanying devil.

You cherished these moments. A sophomore in university, entering your junior year in the fall, you didn’t often have the time to just exist without an assignment hanging over your head like a pendulum. So, your annual visit was something you looked forward to, and so were the moments with your friend that came with it.

You grabbed the halo from off the ground and put it on your head. It was a snug fit, but you knew Amy would find it a little bit amusing.

“What d’ya think?” You grinned impishly at her when she stepped out from her bathroom dressed in a police officer uniform. 

“Funny,” Amy scrunched her nose at you. “Ironic, really. Listen, I have this appointment at noon, but afterward we can-”

In the middle of Amy’s sentence, an ear-scraping sound poured from the open windows, seeping through the house’s foundation until it reached its farthest corners. You slapped the radio off, then placed your hands over your ears. Despite the cushion of your palms, they did nothing to drown it out. Whatever or whoever it was coming from, they wanted to make their presence known.

“What in the hell is that?” You cringed.

“I-I don’t know!”

“Amelia!” A male voice shouted from where the noise had come from.

“You don’t?”

Amy pulled back her bedroom curtain with you glancing over her shoulder. Behind the overgrown foliage lay a tall, blue box. At the very top was a flashing light, and beneath that, above the thrown open doors, were the words “POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX.” They were familiar, incredibly familiar. You scrounged through your memories in an attempt to pluck one from the pile that pertained to just where you thought you had seen them.

“Amelia! I worked out what it was!”

You had forgotten that a strange man had been shouting below for a split second. You saw him begin to run towards the front door. You were sure it was locked, a piece of information that gave you respite. Then, that same front door you were grateful existed opened with its usual creak.

Sweat began to form on your brow. Every limb tensed. The creeping realization there was a strange man inside the house crawled through your skin, gripping onto your nerves tightly. Your body went into defense mode, immobilizing you on the spot while you tried to comprehend the dangerous change in situation. You were grateful that Amy began to move your body for you because you weren’t sure you had it in you to move.

“Go, go!” Amy whisper-shouted while pushing you behind her bed.

“What?” You squeaked.

“Just get down and don’t say anything!” 

You saw a cricket bat in her hand and quickly caught onto her plan. You gave a stiff nod and crouched between the bed and her wall. You held your breath, keeping your ear directed at the door so you could keep listening to the action.

“Amelia! Are you alright?”

This was the part that confused you the most. Putting the fact that a man you had never seen before had broken into Amy’s home aside, he knew her. If she knew him was something you didn’t know. You figured not based on the fact that she seemed very eager to use that cricket bat. Still, something seemed off.

“Prisoner Vero is here! Prisoner Zero is here!” The man repeated. “Do you understand me? Prisoner Zero is-!”

Beyond the door, you could hear the faintest of thuds, followed by, “It’s okay, Y/N. You can come out.”

You waited a few beats after Amy’s reassurance to rise to your feet. You peeked around the edge of the doorway to see the stranger completely knocked out with Amy standing over him.

You were able to get a better look at his face. He was white, young-looking, and had long brown hair that wisped across his forehead. His build was strong but lanky, especially when paired with his height. He wore a blue men's dress shirt with a hideously-patterned tie that clashed with the vertical stripes of his pants. The shirt had burn marks and holes on the edges and shoulders like he’d gotten into some accident as dreadful as that tie.

You glanced at Amy. She was doing more than a simple examination of his features like you had done; her eyes were practically dissecting him! She systematically swept over his face several dozen times like she was trying to find a single component that could give her the answer she was looking for. She started at the hair, the eyes, the nose, the chin, and the ears, then repeated the routine until you couldn’t contain your question any longer.

“Are you sure you don’t know him?”

Amy’s face scrunched into a frown. She was hesitating in her answer. Still concentrating on the man, she decided on, “No, I don’t.”

“Then why are you looking at him like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you do know him.”

“I don’t!”

“Then stop looking at him like that!”

Amy didn’t bother to give that demand a response, throwing you two into a disoriented silence. She turned to the unconscious man, still studying him with intent. You were doing the same, but for different reasons.

While Amy was racking her brain for whatever she was obviously searching for, you were considering what the next course of action was. “So what do we do now? Should we call the police?”

Amy glanced down at her costume. A clever smirk graced her face, “Something like that. Here, help me get him over here.”

You gripped his shoulders so that he was sitting against the wall. You took one wrist in your grasp, and Amy took the other. Together, and it had to be together because the man was dead weight, you dragged the intruder toward the radiator under the hallway window. You rested him against the metal while Amy pulled the handcuffs from her police costume from her pocket. She clasped one cuff over his wrist and the other to one of the poles.

“Ooh, smart thinking!” You commended. “Okay, now what?”

“Now,” Amy made a soft noise as she punished herself to her feet. She wiped her hands on her skirt after locking the man in. “You get out of here.”

You blinked. Perhaps you hadn’t heard her correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You can’t stay here.”

You liked to think you knew a lot about Amy and that she knew a lot about you. So, she really should’ve known that the very last thing you were going to do was leave her here with an unusual man! “I’m not just gonna leave you here with this-!”

“I’m older than you!” Amy interrupted. “You have to listen to what I say.”

“Are we really doing this now?” You rolled your eyes.

“Yes!”

The two of you had played this infuriating game for years. Anyone with an older sibling figure in their lives knew about the maddening expression, “I’m older than you, therefore you have to listen to me!” The game part came in whenever the one speaking, the oldest, wanted the one being spoken to, the youngest, to do something. The rule was that the younger participant had to adhere to their demands solely because the oldest had spent even a minute on the planet longer than them. Of course, Amy had used this strategy since you’d known each other.

When neither of you had even reached double digits, Amy hadn’t liked you very much. Her aunt and your mother were best friends, which was how the annual visit to Leadworth had begun. Your mother would drag you along during the summer, a reality that neither you nor Amy was particularly pleased about. Not because you didn’t enjoy the change of scenery, but because the two older women just assumed you and Amy would be the best of friends. You were decisively not.

You were a year and a half younger than her, and every second of time between your ages was crucial to her perception of you. A year and a half difference in age was a year and a half difference in everything, including whether you were cool enough to play with. Hence Amy used the “I’m older than you!” excuse to push you out of her room upon every visit.

You never held any of this against her. Children could be cruel sometimes, mostly unintentionally. Like that one time you took care of a neighbor’s five-year-old when you were a teenager who then asked why you had dots on your face. She had been talking about your acne. And it was a swift kick to the gut.

You both eventually grew out of this mind. That, or Amy had figured out you pathetically sat behind her door too many times and got tired of being eavesdropped on. She started inviting you to more activities, but at that point, her tendency for pretending waned in favor of trips to the mall.

Those times when you’d silently listen in on their make-believe sessions blinked in your memory. You’d have your ear pressed against the wood, taking in the described scenes. Most of them were about Amy’s fictitious friend, the Doctor. She always talked about him, making her friends play along by dressing up as him. She’d made cartoons of him, plays, and even prepared fish fingers and custard which the man had eaten during the night crashed in the yard.

You would overhear your mother and her aunt talk about how worried they were for Amy. Therapy hadn’t worked- Amy bit about four of them in total- and she was getting older. Her holding onto her imaginary friend raised concern, but you thought it was fantastic. You quite liked to think about what it might be like to travel through time like Amy said he did.

You were forced to create the scenarios in your head to play along from afar by using the drawings Amy would leave around. You had dreamed of the man with the raggedy, torn clothes. He’d show you the world’s wonders in that magic… blue box of his.

“Amy.”

Amy’s response came out weak. Her voice wasn’t really there, “Yeah?”

“That thing outside…” Your voice wavered. “And his clothes, they’re- You don’t think it’s-”

“I don’t know,” Her voice had an edge. It wasn’t a malicious one, just one that made it clear she had no idea what she was supposed to think. And that terrified her.

He wasn’t supposed to be real. He wasn’t real, and there was absolutely no way that the Doctor was sitting unconscious at your feet. It had to be some kind of sick joke, but you couldn’t think of anyone stupid enough to concoct such an elaboarte scheme. Dressing up, maybe, but creating an entire prop box that size or hiring an actor would be too much work for any one of Amy’s friends.

If this mental debacle was hard for you to accept, you could only imagine what Amy felt. The entire village knew about her fascination with her supposed imaginary friend. Some labeled it a natural part of a child’s development, but others were not as kindhearted. They told her she needed to grow up, and so she did. Long before she was ready, at that. For the Doctor to return after all these years would mean… Well, you weren’t quite sure.

“Listen,” You sighed. “I’ll go downstairs, but I’m not leaving you. I don’t care if he is-I don’t care who he is! I’m staying. Deal?”

Amy bit at her lip in thought. When the man began to churn slightly, she quickly whispered, “Fine, okay, just go.”

From the ground floor and safety of the base of the stairs, you only got bits and pieces of the conversation once the man had fully regained consciousness. It started with Amy using an assertive inflection with the man. There was something comforting about it. Amy was in control or at least made it seem like she was.

Then it got quiet. It wasn’t silent; you still heard their exchange of words, but the syllables meshed together until they were incoherent. As much as you loathed to be in the dark about the conversation, you were pacified to sit downstairs until needed. You trusted Amy. She was fearless, confident, and had a great swing apparently. Still, it was only natural to be as concerned as you felt.

A hushed hiss slithered through your teeth. You felt a stress headache forming between your eyes, so you pressed your fingertips to the offending area and massaged lightly. Chest rising and falling evenly, you willed your mind to focus on the rhythm to distract yourself from the dull throbbing.

A scream ripped through the air, also tearing through your pained state. The piercing sound sent you scrambling up the stairs without a second thought. “What’s wrong?”

Amy pressed herself into the corner beside the stranger, her wild, fearful eyes pinned to the wall adjacent to you. The man had still been handcuffed to the radiator, with the only notable difference between now and when you last saw him being his sleeping status.

The one thing you hadn’t seen while he was unconscious was his eyes. These eyes were so bold. They weren’t vibrant in color, and they weren’t even a hue you hadn’t seen before on dozens of other faces. But the way that his eyes were overflowing with a kind of intensity that was new to you. It wasn’t present with the purpose of showing it off; it was just there, like a ripple in a previously still body of water. The  ripple seemed like it was waiting. For what, you didn't know.

The same eyes you'd just commented on narrowed at you accusingly, “An angel? Is an angel your backup?”

Confusion soaked your brain. You followed his line of sight where it rested on the top of your head. You pressed your fingers to the gold-painted plastic material encompassing your head. Right. The halo. You’d forgotten you still had it on.

“Of course not!” Amy scowled at him. “Come here!”

The words were directed at you, but she didn’t have to even say them to you. You already discerned that whatever had Amy so spooked had less to do with the intruder and more to do with whatever was close to where you stood. You didn’t want to be anywhere near the spot she was staring at with such terror, even if you couldn't tell what it was.

“Well, if that’s not back up, then who is this?”

“That has a name, I’ll have you now!” You countered bitterly. “If anything, we should be asking who you are! In fact, who are you?”

“Not enough time for proper introductions,” He shook his head. In one hand, he had a silver device with a blue end that emitted a staticky sound. He kept pointing it at his handcuff. Impassively, he told you, “You two, run. Just go, your backup’s coming. I’ll be fine.”

“There is no backup!” Amy exhaled angrily.

He twisted his neck to shoot Amy a glare of betrayal. “I heard you on the radio! You called for backup!”

“I was pretending, it's a pretend radio!”

“But you’re a policewoman!”

“I'm a kiss-o-gram!” Amy ripped the police hat off her head, her red waves spilling over her shoulders.

A door fell off its hinges, crashing forward. The door in question was to a room that you were positive did not exist. You’d been in the house for three months every year since you were six; you knew the place pretty damn well. And because you knew the house as well as you did, you also knew that a balding man dressed in a denim jumpsuit with a leashed Rottweiler by his side did not inhabit these walls.

You pressed your back flush against the wall. The skin of your hands went ice cold while your forehead became glossy with perspiration. Your breath caught in your throat, constricting the startled shriek that desperately wanted to escape your mouth. You only barely managed to croak out, “T-That wasn’t there before-”

“Sure wasn’t,” Amy nodded rigidly. “But it’s just…”

“No, it isn’t,” He said, having picked up whatever Amy had meant. “Look at the faces.”

A low growling reached your ears. You pointed your gaze to the dog, but its canine face remained utterly stagnant. However, when you slid it towards the man, you saw his teeth gnashing together while powerfully barking at you. Entirely literally barking as his eyes remained unchanged in their hostile quality.

“W-What? I’m sorry, what?” Amy sputtered.

“It’s all one creature. One creature disguised as two. Clever old multi-form,” The man explained. None of the words made any bit of sense to you, but neither did anything else about this situation. He raised his voice to speak to the man, “Bit of a rush job, though. Got the voice a bit muddled, did you? Mind you, where did you get the pattern from? You need a psychic link, a live feed. How did you fix that?”

The multi-form creature seemed displeased by this observation. It continued to snarl viciously. The longer this standoff occurred, the more annoyed it seemed to get. It opened its mouth, revealing a series of long, thin, and entirely too sharp fangs. You could see a red tongue caged behind the teeth that moved with the creature’s threatening rumble.

“I’m gonna be sick-” You pressed your palm to your mouth as a wave of queasiness washed over you.

“Don’t do that,” The man beside you chided your oncoming nausea. He patted Amy’s foot with his free hand. “Now, us! We’re safe. You know why? She sent for backup.”

“I didn’t send for backup!” Amy reiterated.

“Yes, I know, that was a clever lie to save our lives. Okay! Yeah, no backup!” To some degree, this declaration appeased the monster. It ceased its growling which the man took as a cue to continue on. “And that’s why we're safe. Alone, we aren’t a threat to you, but if we had backup, you’d have to kill us!”

“ATTENTION, PRISONER ZERO. THE HUMAN RESIDENCE IS SURROUNDED. ATTENTION, PRISONER ZERO…” A deep, booming voice devoid of any emotion ruptured the confrontation. It echoed throughout the home and against the greenery outside. Just the volume of whatever that thing was had you envisioning its potential gargantuan size.

Amy whispered, “What’s that?”

“That would be backup-”

“I thought you just said backup was what would get us killed!” You reminded him with a whimper.

“Plan’s changed-”

“You had a plan?”

“Okay!” The man bit down on his words. It was a clear request for you to stop talking. You thought that perhaps when everything was over, you could request something of him as well. Maybe a swift kick to the shins. “One more time! We do have backup and that’s definitely why we are safe!”

“PRISONER ZERO WILL VACATE THE HUMAN RESIDENCE OR THE HUMAN RESIDENCE WILL BE INCINERATED.”

"I'm going to pass out."

“Don't do that either. We're safe apart from, you know, incineration.”

The creature turned its entire body with a foul-sounding squelch as if its whole body was cracking each bone with every step. You had no idea how you could hear it over that voice repeating that portending message over and over. It left the three of you in the hallway to confront whatever was threatening it.

A thudding on the carpet drew your attention which you tried to keep primarily on the potentially deadly monster currently in your guest room. The man was banging his silver and blue device against the floor, easing it to start working with additional words. Eventually, the electric sound it produced remained consistent for five seconds instead of the short bursts from seconds earlier. He kept the glowing blue end directed at the cuff.

The click of the handcuff was your starter pistol. The second you heard it, you gripped Amy’s hand and sprinted towards the front door. You didn’t even need to listen to the man’s signal to run. You just did.

In an Introduction to Psychology class you took one semester, you had to read about stress responses. There were three phases to what was known as General Adaptation Syndrome. The first is the alarm phase which consists of the immediate reaction known as fight or flight. Then, if the stress persists, you move on to phase 2. In the resistance phase, your body is still on high alert, which causes issues categorized by the third phase: exhaustion. Your mind and body have taken a toll from the prolonged exposure, and it is likely interference is required.

Most of the situations studied to reach this conclusion happened across months, even years. Yet all it took was five minutes for your body to race through all three phases.

When you had stopped your pursuit to get as far away as possible, it was not by your own choice. Amy had pulled you to her side to slow your momentum. The second your legs stopped moving, you felt each individual physiological reaction pumping you full of cortisol and epinephrine. There were so many hormones filtering through your system that you were numb to the stimuli around you.

You had heard Amy and the man arguing but couldn’t focus well enough on the words. The heartbeat thumping in your ears was already too much for your frantic brain to keep up with.

“Hey-” Someone grabbed your cheeks, not gently but not harshly either. Firmly. “With us?”

The world had been cloudy like you were there but not weighted enough to feel it. You were so caught up in escape you hadn't bothered to take much note of your surroundings. So, finding yourself on the outskirts of the center of the village was a surprise. When you thought about the pulsing ache in your muscles, it shouldn’t have been too big of a shock you’d run such a distance.

The brazen eyes you’d observed what felt like a lifetime ago took up the majority of your field of vision. As you had studied them previously, they were now studying you. You felt so small beneath them. The eyes were not unkind, not in the slightest, yet you were successfully fighting the inclination to shrink away from their sheer fervor. Whether you were coming down from an adrenaline high or because the ripple was impatiently waiting to grow under them, your entire being was working overtime to adapt to this. To him. 

“So, you- you are the Doctor?” You stammered, not quite sure how you garnered that from his eyes alone. “You’re him?”

“Sure am!” The man- the Doctor- confirmed with a prideful grin. “Never got your name, though, now did I?”

Probably for good reason. “It’s Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N!” The Doctor patted your burning cheeks. At the sensation, you realized he had his hands on your face and instinctively swatted at him. This didn’t seem to faze him.“I hope you enjoy running!”

“I don’t!”

Unfortunately, the day hadn’t gotten any less insane from there, nor did you stop running. After fleeing for your life from an alien convict who had taken up residence in a room that didn’t exist, you and everyone else on the planet found yourselves in a tricky situation: the demand for Prisoner Zero to vacate hadn’t been regarding Amy’s house, but the entire earth. If the bastard didn’t turn himself in within 20 minutes, Prisoner Zero’s guard would incinerate the whole planet. 

This would have sent you into an existential panic if you even had a single second to breathe, let alone think. The Doctor hadn’t been pulling your leg about the running. Your calves were bound to be taut and sore when you got another moment to rest. You ran into the town square then ran to Jeff Angelo’s house where Amy felt the embarrassment of a lifetime when his Gran brought up her old cartoons of the Doctor. Your last excursion was a frenzied and not at all legal drive to the hospital with Amy and her somewhat boyfriend Rory. 

Prisoner Zero had taken on eight different forms, all comatose patients at the hospital where Rory worked. The Doctor had sent you there to clear everyone out of the hospital. It wasn’t a challenging task until it became worse than challenging. See, Prisoner Zero had been lying in wait. He took on the form of a mother with two daughters, but just as he had done with the man and his dog, he got the mouths wrong. The sight of those tiny fangs alone sent your instincts into overdrive. 

The Doctor managed to trap Prisoner Zero by convincing the world’s leaders to broadcast a single number across the entire planet: 0. 

The prison guards, the Atraxi they were called, took the hint. They traced the signal of origin to the tiny Leadworth Hospital and had been there in under a minute. After a quick attempt at self-preservation by inhabiting Amy’s mind, the Doctor influenced her to dream about Prisoner Zero’s true form. He was restrained and promptly teleported off your planet. 

It was over. The Atraxi were gone, and the prisoner was gone. The sun returned to normal, and the threat of extinction was snuffed out… which was why you couldn’t wrap your head around why the Doctor phoned the dangerous aliens back to Earth. 

You sat there for a good few seconds while the Doctor strode to the next room without looking back to see if the three of you were keeping up. It seemed to be a recurring theme with this guy; he was constantly moving while not considering whether or not the people he was with were ready to roll.  

You were stuck sitting on the hospital floor. Your body refused to move while you struggled to comprehend the Doctor’s reasoning. If the breaking and entering, no matter how justified it was, wasn’t what made you want to strangle the man, placing your planet back in potential danger did just the trick. 

Mind catching up with your body, you pulled yourself together. You followed the direction in which you’d last seen the Doctor and your friends go. 

“Okay, I- What the shit ?” You screeched. 

The very first thing you saw was ass and nothing else, like it was a beacon and your eyes were forcibly drawn towards it. Connecting said ass to the mop of dark brown hair atop a very irritating man, you huffed angrily. 

Your hands were raised to your face from the sudden surprise. So with the pure instinct to grab the thing closest to you, you reached to the top of your head, where the halo was still miraculously settled. It was flying from your hand and through the air before you even registered that you had thrown it. It landed right between the Doctor’s shoulder blades. 

“Ow!” The Doctor fully turned his body, showing just as much of his frontal body as you had seen of his back. You irritably jeered at that and trained your sight on the ceiling while he bemoaned, “What was that for?” 

“What was that for ?” You repeated in disbelief. “Put some clothes on!” 

“Well, what do you think I’m trying to do?” 

“Oh, piss off!” You snapped, turning away from him. 

This man was mad. You already made that dedication several times, but it seemed he was making it a goal to keep adding points to that conclusion. When he wasn’t getting ass naked in the presence of three strangers, he was also commandeering fire trucks to ram into a hospital window! And when he wasn’t doing that, he was requesting an audience with a hostile alien race! If the aliens weren’t going to kill you, he would. 

You rubbed at your brows, still feeling the swell of the slight headache you had felt earlier. 

Something was already waiting for you when you got to the rooftop. You hadn’t seen what the Atraxi looked like inside the hospital since you were a tad distracted. The Atraxi guard was as intimidating as the voice from the televisions and what you heard outside the house. It was an eyeball with crystalline spikes surrounding it. Just looking at them had you considering the decision to back away. You weren’t anywhere close to it, but the evident sharpness of them had you ready to put your evolutionary survival tactics to use. 

“So this was a good idea, was it? They were leaving!" Amy reminded him.

“Leaving is good. Never coming back is better!” The Doctor informed you. He strolled towards the Atraxi with casual indifference. “Come on then! The Doctor will see you now!” 

The eye exited its crystal encasement. It landed directly in front of the Doctor. The Atraxi scanned the Doctor’s face with a blue light brushed over his face. “You are not of this world.” 

Aliens were not something you were ignorant to anymore. There was one right in front of you, and there was one you were running from to escape certain death. You should’ve even figured out by now that the Doctor was just as alien as the Atraxi and Prisoner Zero. Hearing it be confirmed still took you slightly by surprise. He seemed too human. Appearance-wise, at least. Every other aspect about him was still up for debate. 

“No, but I put a lot of work into it,” The Doctor replied halfheartedly. He was too busy flipping through the selection of ties he’d wrung out of the lost and found. He hummed inattentively. “I don’t know… What do you think?” 

“Is this world important?” The Atraxi prison guard asked stoically while ignoring the Doctor’s request for an opinion. 

“Important?” The Doctor scoffed. He hurled one of the many ties he’d had around his neck over his shoulder for you to catch. Ass. “What’s that mean, ‘important?’ Six billion people live here. Is that important? But here’s a better question: is this world a threat to the Atraxi?” Silence. “Well, come on! You’re monitoring the whole planet! Is this world a threat?” 

A blue, circular hologram emitted from the Atraxi’s pupil. The Earth rotated in the image of azure-colored static. A series of images flashed in quick succession. Explosions, the march of soldiers, some of the world's greatest achievements, and some of the world’s worst moments. 

“No.” They decided. 

“Are the people of this world guilty of any crime by the laws of the Atraxi?” 

More flickered images. Crowds of smiling people, cultural dancing, windmills, and elaborate monuments across the globe. 

“No.” 

“Okay! One more, just one. Is this world protected?” 

These were ones that you hadn’t been able to identify. Men made of metal marched in perfect formation. Cylindrical creatures with circles running up and down the bottom half of their bodies. A turtle? Scaled beings with a series of tentacles protruding from the area where the mouth usually was. 

“You’re not the first lot to have come here! Oh, there have been so many! And what you’ve got to ask is ‘what happened to them?’” 

A series of faces were presented in front of you. You recognized none of them. None of their features stood out to you, but there was one thing they all had in common. It was the glint in their eyes. They all had it lurking behind their stares. Chaos, ambition, protectiveness, boldness. You saw it in his eyes, too. 

“Hello. I’m the Doctor.” 

You grinned at the man before you. It was pretty badass, you had to admit. When someone saves the world and, albeit with an ego the size of the European continent, calls the aliens back for a proper scolding, it is hard not to revere them in some light. A tiny light, though. Maybe a candle’s flame and nothing more. 

Wait. Why were you smiling?

Your head began to feel a bit light. You swallowed back a discomforted groan, keeping your lips tightly sealed. You ran your palms across your upper arms, hoping that maybe it would give you something to focus on rather than the feeling of your head drifting up into the stratosphere. When that didn’t work, you put the heels of your hands, which felt like they’d been soaking in ice water, over your eyes to block out daylight. 

When your hands fell away, you felt decidedly better. You were warm, a stark contrast to the bitter cold you swore you had experienced a mere moment ago. Even the clothes against your skin were softer, plusher. You ran your fingers across the fabric to discover the wooly feel of your favorite pajamas. 

Your eyes were heavy, but that couldn’t have been right. You were just pumped with adrenaline… from what again? You couldn’t quite seem to remember. The closest thing you had that day to a near-death experience was batting off some of Amy’s younger family members from attempting to snag a couple of the wedding favors you had spent the day putting together. 

The wedding. Right. It was tomorrow, and you had a lot to do as the bride’s honor attendant. Too much to do, really. So you needed your sleep. 

You glanced at the electric clock on your nightstand. It was the early hours of the morning, but that couldn’t be correct either. It was just midday, wasn't it? Perhaps that’s what it felt like since you hadn’t had a good rest in what felt like… how long ago was it since Rory proposed? A few months? Maybe a bit more? Amy was lucky to have a best friend like you to help with these preparations. Not that you minded; you’d do anything for her, especially on a special day. 

Maybe. 

You knew Amy was beyond nervous. With the wide eyes and distant gaze she had whenever you were doing wedding preparation, you thought she would be a flight risk. You tried to do your best to talk to her about it, but Amy was under the impression that she was doing well in keeping her fears hidden. Perhaps to the people around her, she was. She was one of your best friends, though, and there wasn’t much she could or would keep from you. 

The deadline to tell someone about what she was thinking was getting closer. You feared that she might do something drastic in her attempt to mask her worries. 

As you pondered how to best help Amy with her nerves, another query formed in her hazy mind: what woke you up? 

There had been a sound, but you must’ve woken up just as it had ceased. You sat up in your bed and pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear so that you could silently listen for it. 

You didn’t hear what had woken you up, but you did hear, “That was two years ago!” 

You forced the fatigue from your muscles and stumbled to your feet, toeing your slippers on. Padding towards the window, you drew the curtain back to look down to the front lawn where you heard the shout. 

Through the pane, dirtied by fingerprints and your breath across the glass, you could make out the shape of the blue box, the TARDIS it was called, that had been seared into your brain . It was there, parked in the yard like some average car, along with the mad man who disappeared into it two years ago. 

As was Amy. Amy, who seemed to be stepping into the TARDIS with the Doctor following suit. 

“Amy!” You called out. “Wait! Amy, no, wait! Shit-!” 

You ran to your bedroom door. You hurriedly pulled your robe off its hook to protect your skin from the temperature outside. 

The dash through the hallway was messy, to say the least. 

Your robe’s tie got caught in the door when you closed it. You cursed your muscle memory as you tugged at the soft fabric. You also cursed yourself for your momentary stupidity for forgetting that this obstacle could easily be overcome by opening the door again. 

“You’ve gotta be- Dammit!” You grunted. 

Fueled by both the desire to keep Amy from running away like you surmised she would and to slap this Doctor son of a bitch, your coordination wasn’t at its best. At one point, your slipper got caught on the rug. You went to fix it, but the recognizable sound of the TARDIS lurching away rang against your ears, leading you to give up and leave it there. 

One slipper down, you bound down the stairs. You skid on the wood with one foot without traction to grip the smooth varnish. You luckily gripped the railing before you crashed, but it took away a few precious seconds to get to the TARDIS. Maybe a few seconds of your life too, with the fright it gave you. 

By the time you managed to swing the front door so hard it loudly crashed against the wall, the TARDIS had started to recreate its wheezing engine noises. The box's outline began to flicker, getting fainter and fainter by the second. 

The noise suffocated your panicked pleas to stop, but you didn’t stop issuing them. You begged your legs to move even a millisecond faster, but it felt like your heartbeat was sapping any reserved energy you had to keep up the erratic rhythm. The grass was wet with the formation of the morning dew after the night’s cold, and your singular bare foot slid against the strands as your arm reached out towards the door handle. Your fingertips barely grazed the blue-painted wood; then, you stumbled from the lack of a surface to fall onto. 

You should’ve been doing something. You were acutely aware of that. You should have been screaming at the empty space with curses and threats aimed at the Doctor echoing back, mocking you for your inability to make it in time. You weren’t, though. Staring at the dirt, you looked at the lines the TARDIS had left there. If you looked long enough with your now glassy eyes, thought hard enough, you could bring it back through the force of your abating resolve. 

“Please…” You muttered into the silent twilight. “Come back, Doctor… Please.”

You hadn’t said that back then.

“Here you are, ma’am,” The fire-scaled woman returned with a large yellow-folder with stacks of papers held together by rubber bands. 

“Right. Thanks.” The Doctor said absentmindedly. Were she presentminded, she wouldn’t have even given those women the politeness of a thank you. They didn’t deserve it.

She didn’t know you were out there that night; she hadn’t heard you. If she had, she would’ve held out her hand for you. She didn’t know if you would take it since you rather enjoyed shouting her ear off at the beginning of your relationship. But, perhaps, if you had eventually taken it, maybe after screaming at her until your voice ran raw, you would have had more time together.

It was a nice thought.

But for now, her thoughts needed to be on the contents of this folder. It was a lot smaller than she had expected. Just from a simple once-over through the many papers, she figured out fairly quickly that there were missing pieces of information. They were minute, but they were noticeable to anyone looking for it. She’d have to reflect on that information later to keep her focus on the specified times in your records.

Using her thumb to flip through the pages once more, the fluttering of the paper caused something to fall to the ground. There was a plastic bag with a folded sheet of paper inside at her feet. This intrigued the Doctor, for all the other documents were crisp and uncrumpled. This was the only one with any creases and the only thing that was sealed away. One side was rigid compared to its sister sides, as if it was torn.

She wordlessly held the folder to whomever was to her left and expected them to take it. She assumed it was Graham. Whoever it was, took it from her grasp with an irate snatch.

“You’re very welcome, Doctor,” Graham! Ah, she was right! “See that that’s always been a thing you do, huh?”

She gave a distracted hum in reply. Her fingers gently undid the seal on the bag before slipping them in and pulling out the paper. As she unfolded it, the Doctor understood what she was about to see. She knew not its words nor the information it conveyed. What she did know was its contents and where it was from-

“‘I thought that she was someone else.'” 

-because she was the one who had ripped it out.

taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added through my ask box!!): @gurkiloni @nightmonkeyparker

author's note: setting up for the part im just itching to write :) also a child really did ask me once why i had red dots on my face. i thought they were about my freckles at first, then i realized.

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

ugh I’ve read too many metas to count and I’m starting to notice this pattern where some metas are so heavily biased with a personal agenda to prove and you can tell so obviously from the way they’re written. I hardly find unbiased metas nowadays that are written genuinely. It sucks :(

I apologize for the hard times you have had anon. The best advice I can give is to always know in some part, meta itself is different from literary analysis. Meta is meant to work off of an emotional driven argument in order to persuade others to follow the stated bias of the argument one is making. By default, meta is manipulation of the text/imagery and subtext to convince an audience of something that may or may not happen (this is usually only for ongoing series and is a still up for debate on how an end or relationship resolution will occur based only on present context clues).

Then, we have full analysis, this is of a piece of media that has already concluded and has the full canonical evidence presented to its audience. There is a beginning, escalation and conclusion of all involved textually, through verbal dialogue and authorial (meaning if someone asks what happened to so and so and the author themselves states a further conclusion i.e. characters marry and authorial intent of that end).

That last point, is heavily contested of course, as how much personally does one choose to accept authorial intent, that was unstated by the work itself, as canon. Some take word of author as blatant canon as well, while others will only take written confirmed text. I have learned if an author stated intentions of a piece is said, that is from the word of the author and verified. This statedintent, can make or break subtextual assumptions by an audience.

What analysis is supported by is only the written text that we have been given. You do not use emotional wording and only the text to say "this is the text, this is what happened. This is the sequential action and conclusion we see happen that makes it verified as having happened".

For example Wendy Darling followed Peter Pan because she did not want to "grow up", but we are shown by the text, she is maturing into adult thinking, unlike Peter Pan the forever child. The conclusion at the end of the work, she inevitably goes home and becomes an adult because she is not afraid any longer of being an adult and is able to fondly hold those memories of childhood despite maturing. Peter Pan doesn't want to grow up, while she did. This is textually confirmed by the plot conclusion and the subtextual actions through the story to confirm this end for her. Was it satisfying? Debatable on who you ask, but text confirmation shows us what the end is and regardless of the maybe's the audience feels is unfulfilled personally. I can say, this was only sub-textually hinted at, if it was indeed there, by the character action presented to me only. Emotional appeal is by the arguer alone. I can say Wendy did regret this, but I need to present the proof with textual basis from the work itself to make this an actual analysis and a point that the audience was supposed to glean from the story beats.

For finished works, these meta emotional appeals do not stand as strongly, because we do have concluded text to reference in argument and those usually are counter to the argument appeal being made. The emotional argument can not be supported when the text has said otherwise on all points of a character relationship conclusion.

When in doubt, just look at what we were given on page, dialogue, metaphors, and action conclusions in order to know what the meant points the audience was supposed to learn. The curtains are meant to only be blue, unless the author meant them as more thematically and for the character conclusion ending. But what text is telling me they are more from the work itself in order to say that this was the intended purpose all along. Better have some good examples of the text itself and not your thoughts if I am to buy into that the author meant me to perceive a character or event in a certain way that is counterintuitive to what they have written in all ways.

[crymeariveronceagain]

okay its just the thing is

in classic works, ones that really stick with you, there's a reason, no matter how small, behind every scene. nothing is tossed in willy nilly, everything is helping the story along, even if you can't tell until the end

so ik shannon messenger is not as good a writer as, say, Flannery O'Connor, or Oscar Wilde, or Charlotte Bronte but I know she and I are roughly on the same-ish level of skill? Maybe? except she's better cause she doesn't write fanfiction. she does what i want to do with my life lmao. write kotlc books.

but thats beside the point

i don't know how she's writing these fricking books. like if she's writing it just from a "nothing matters throw stuff in there because it's fun!" pov or a "everything matters, that scene will relate to everything later on" pov. Because it matters!!! When you're analyzing things, you can analyze all you want, but if it never comes up again, was just thrown in for the heck of it, then it doesn't matter how much you analyze it, it's never going to mean anything anyways

*leans back in my rocking chair*

i just dont know how to read kotlc anymore

because some part of me wants to believe that shannon messenger had a meaning, a purpose, behind every scene and line that denotes something wrong.

like she's definitely writing a covert fantasy dystopia, but i'm not sure if she's got that level of detail on everything else that she's doing

like sure Tam and Linh lived with the gnomes. Sure, Fitz hid his stuffed animal dragon so well that his mother didn't know it existed until Keefe did. Like sure, Sophie was dehumanized by the Black Swan constantly throughout Everblaze and a huge vibe check is forcing them to treat her like a person and she can't believe how it happened basiclaly overnight. But that doesn't necessarily add up to anything unless shannon wants it to

like i can analyze all i want

i can watch and look and think and listen to the words the characters say and think about color symbolism(which i love to throw into my fanfics btw) and how its dystopian and how it can be viewed as an allegory for current times and all that jazz

but it means nothing if the author really did mean, "the curtains are blue"

classics writers never wholly meant it when they said the curtains were blue

i just can't tell if Shannon thinks the curtains are just blue.

[wh6res]

chase — renhyuck

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”

tw bullying, violence, swearing, yandere themes, possessive themes, blood, weapons (a gun, a grenade), implied noncon, implied kidnapping, mentions of stalking

disc i dont condone this behavior

wc 5k

‏‏‎ ‎

29 hours before the annual purge

“hold her down—i said hold her down, idiot!”

putting everything into account, they saw you more like a glorified chew toy than an actual person. 

they ruined your life simultaneously and it's ironic, that despite being sworn rivals, it seems you were their neutral ground—after one has had their own fun, you’re passed on to the other person so they can deliver that final, shattering blow that weakens your resolve. 

it was meant to be that way because it had always been that way. you’re the unlucky loser that ignited the worse sides of both lee haechan and huang renjun. 

they’re like oil and water; they don’t mix but with you, they found a compromise. stealing your lunch money, trashing your homework, quickies in between lectures. all of these should’ve been enough to give them a good power trip. but they’ve developed a hunger so severe that these past instances are but mere crumbs that hardly satisfy their cravings. 

it was beyond exhausting, being caught in between two headstrong people that were unwilling to back down at any cost. their aggression and anger towards each other directly being channeled onto you as they shove and swing you around like some ragdoll. 

you weren’t a bunch of kids, you knew that. you don’t cry and sob and say that it’s unfair, you hold your chin high and walk up to the guidance counselor’s office to report them for bullying. but you never should’ve underestimated the power of money and their respective families’ broad network of connections. 

without a doubt, the empty promises for justice is what broke your heart the most. it breaks with every bruise, every tight grip, and every nasty name the people willingly turned a blind eye to. 

it’s sad but it was a reality you taught yourself to get used to—the meek mouse learning how to evade the cats hot on her trail. 

but you weren’t as lucky today. 

“i am holding her down.”

a pair of lips comes in contact with your neck. its feathery and light at first until its biting down to mark you with his teeth. not too strong to draw blood, but enough to dent the surface of the skin. 

haechan has an oral fixation. biting his lips. his nails. whenever you see him, he always has a lollipop on his mouth and if he doesn’t, he’s painting hickeys across your skin. you hated his oral fixation, especially when makeup and clothes proved useless to hide the marks he gives you. 

“why run?” renjun asks you, slipping his fingers underneath your skirt as he kneels. “you know you have nowhere to hide in the campus.”

haechan snorts. “or anywhere else.”

it’s always the same thing. you go to school. you sit in your first period for thirty minutes until one of them shows up. then the other boy probably felt a gut instinct that he’s missing out on the fun. last time, it was an empty classroom in the abandoned left wing. 

they like taking you there all the time, it was always dark, the blinds pulled and shut tight. not to mention it was incredibly dusty. but both male knew you’re afraid of the dark, exactly why it’s their favorite spot. but empty classrooms and supply closets are close seconds, too. 

“you’re so pathetic. useless—only know how to whine like a fucking pornstar,” he quickly comments, feeling you arch against him when renjun’s tongue comes in contact with the pearl between your legs. “my cumdump.”

you feel a sharp exhale against your lower lips. you shudder. renjun clicks his tongue in annoyance. “can you shut up? you’re making my dick soft with all that talking.”

but haechan had ignored him completely, blissfully ignorant of the petite boy’s frustrations as he angles your head up to crash his lips onto yours. when he slightly pulls away, still playfully nibbling your bottom lip, what he said next made your blood run cold. 

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

6 hours before the annual purge

the price to pay for protection started rising again this year and you, much like your neighbors, are in a sense of turmoil. jamming the doors with cabinets and nailing your windows with wood is hardly enough to satisfy the gnawing feeling in your stomach. much less when you didn’t even have a weapon to wield other than a wooden bat and a cheap taser you bought on sale. 

“its not like anyone will be coming for you, right?” the little girl says, touching the randomest stuff in your apartment. her name was naeun and she never really liked pink and sparkles like most girls her age, maybe that’s why she took a liking to you. 

her mom works a 9 to 5 and her grandma stays with her on occasion. but the old lady loved to sleep, naeun said, so she gets the chance to slip out and come knocking on your door. you tried shooing her out of your apartment countless times but she’s stubborn. 

she reminds you of yourself. 

“well, i hope no one does.” you joked, putting on a turtleneck. 

naeun’s mom doesn't like you as much as it is, but if you yourself let naeun see the bruises on your skin? you’d hate yourself forever. “now, come on little missy, go back to your grandma. i need to head over to the bank to settle my protection fees.”

“but you just said no one is going to come for you anyway,” she whines stomping towards the door. “mom already settled ours yesterday becase grammy forced her to. mommy said it was just a waste of money because who’d bother to rob us anyway?”

a memory flashes in your head. two boys who’ve sandwiched you between them in the dark of a fucking supply closet at uni. wandering hands, labored whispers, curt giggles, one pair of lips trailing up your neck while the other up your inner thigh.

“needy kitty. i can’t wait for purge night.”

you needed that protection. that was no slip up because haechan never makes mistakes. if he wanted to make you feel like some animal on the run after catching a whiff of trouble then he sure is doing a good job. 

“hey! i think you just went someplace else there,” naeun says, nudging your side irritably to get your attention again. 

you try forcing out a chuckle but it doesn't work, still deeply peeved by a memory from last week replaying vividly in your mind. if they ever mean what they meant (which you know they do) then this is now more than just trying to get through the night—you have to survive, prepare, and pray neither of them finds you. 

“i think your grandma’s right in doing what she did, naeun. with humans, you’ll never know.”

and just like that naeun went silent, bid you goodbye, and disappeared behind the apartment door.

the bank was a quick walk from your apartment. you hardly broke much sweat and you even managed to stop by the grocery store to make some last-minute runs. the store’s nearly empty, deserted of any human being as the seconds slowly but surely ticked away. it was only when you walked past aisle seven did you pause, the hairs on your back standing as a slow chill crawled up your spine. 

you look over your shoulder. 

no one’s there. 

you swallow, quickly looking down your watch to check the time as you made your way to counter. 3 hours before the annual purge. you needed to get your ass moving. you just need to grab one more thing and you’ll best be on your way. 

you practically ran towards the dairy section and just as you spin around, strawberry ice cream pint in your hands, you jump as he appears before you in thin air and you drop whatever you’re holding. 

“such a skittish little kitten,” renjun clicks his tongue, bending down to retrieve the ice cream on the floor. “here you go.”

you couldn’t even stare at him in the eye. your hands shook but it wasn’t because of the cold desert. now you get it. it’s his eyes you felt on you earlier, ever intrusive and piercing as he watched you from afar. was he stalking you?

“i didn’t quite catch a thank you, kitty.”

how foolish of you to think he’ll let you duck away without at least speaking to him, hm?

“thank… thank you?”

renjun grins, satisfied with your stuttering as he raises a hand to ruffle your hair—he ignores how you flinched away from him—before walking away with one hand in his coat pocket, whistling an eerie tune that can haunt your nightmares way after purge night. 

“see you later, kitten.”

if it wasn’t the whistling that set you on edge or that clear promise of your doom—it’s the pack of zip ties and duct tape in his hands.‏‏‎ ‎

you were watching a rerun of your favorite morning reality tv when it cuts to the dreaded blue screen showing the flag of korea. 

this is not a test.

this is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the annual purge sanctioned by the south korean government. 

weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the purge. all other weapons are restricted. 

commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. 

police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning until 7 am when the purge concludes. 

may god be with you all.

you’ll never get used to the blaring siren that echoes through the empty streets. you can feel the floor vibrating and it travels throughout your whole body as the dread starts sinking deep into your skin. 

you’ve already double checked all your windows and the front door. activated the security system provided by the bank. and you’ve also already charged your taser and have hammered down nails into your wooden bat. fine. if they wanted to scare and bully you into a panicked frenzy, it did its job but fuck no will you go down without a fight. 

you shut all the lights, the apartment basking in the moonlight glow brought by the translucent curtains as you make your way to your bedroom, nearest the emergency exit just in case they barge through your front door by force. 

at first, nothing happened. it was peaceful. tranquil. you can hear a pin drop with how quiet it was. both inside and outside. you were almost tempted to cover your mouth in case you were breathing too loud. 

it’s silent. until it wasn’t.

your phone rings. it’s there, vibrating on your desk and you make long strides until you’re face to face with a set of numbers on your screen. an unregistered contact. there’s a debate inside your head whether to answer it or not, fingers hovering between the red and green button… until it eventually lands on the green. 

you put it up to your ear, hands sweating as you wait with bated breath for the person on the other end to speak. 

“kitten?”

it’s renjun. you don’t answer. 

“i can hear you breathing, you know. i can’t wait to see you. we’ll have so much fun together. it’s sad that i have to share with that imbecile but better half of you than nothing of you, right?” he laughs and you feel a rush of anger surge through you. yet, you don’t bother to give him the satisfaction of a reply. 

“i can see you’re angry, little kitty. while it’s cute and hot… don’t be. turn that frown upside down for me, wouldn’t you?”

but the blinds are drawn he couldn’t have seen you—

“you’re never going to get me, you fucking bastard. i’m not scared of you,” you sure do hope he can’t hear the tremble in your voice. “whatever you plan on doing to me, you’ll fail.”

you walk back slowly, eyes darting everywhere to look for a camera they could’ve installed in your room. they have connections and the money to do it so you won’t put it past them. 

“oh, my stupid kitty. how can we fail when we already got a head start?” 

the floorboard behind you creaks and before you could turn around, someone slams your head against the desk. you hear a crack, whether it’s the screen of your laptop or your nose, you couldn’t tell. the person is agile and silent as he maneuvers you to the ground and seals your lips with duct tape. 

“after all,” haechan giggles. “you can’t lock out what’s already inside, kitten.”

your phone lands somewhere near your head. renjun has already dropped the call and the line goes silent. 

squirming, you glared at the person on top of you. is this how you’re gonna go? you can’t deny, even you yourself find this pathetic. the security alarms you bought, the nail-studded bat, your taser, everything was all for naught? just because you didn’t check under your bed to make sure no one was there?

how long was haechan waiting? when naeun was still here? when you went out to buy groceries? 

you thought it would be fear you’ll be feeling as you get caught but the emotion isn’t present at all. instead, it’s white hot anger that overrides your system and forces you to act without thinking—and it just fucking saved your life. 

haechan always saw you as a vulnerable, sad little human being who couldn’t do shit on her own. it’s easy to underestimate you and that’s his first mistake. 

the second is rather foolish—not tying your legs up first. it’s all too easy to slam your forehead against his before jerking your leg up to knee him in the balls. 

you can see the anger in his eyes clear as day as you made a run for it to the kitchen, having come up with another escape plan—because surely if you went down the emergency exit, haechan would’ve caught up easily with those long legs after he’s recovered from your assault. 

your nose was probably bleeding and your head is in the early stages of a full blown migraine, at least you were able to function enough to wobble your way towards the trash chute situated near the stove. you had cursed that chute the first day you moved in here (who would put a trash chute next to a fucking stove) but the day has come for you to thank the gods that you have that in your house. 

going for a swim in all your neighbors’ trash is disgusting and unplanned (plus, falling down maybe six floors to your doom) but you’ll choose that over lee haechan and huang renjun any day. 

“don’t you dare fucking think about it!”

you flashed him the middle finger to tick him off. a petty retaliation for all the bullshit he and renjun put you through but it felt good nonetheless. 

“catch me if you fuckers can.”

and you were falling down the trash chute.‏‏‎ ‎

okay, yeah—maybe you should’ve thought it through before hurling yourself six floors down only for some half-filled dumpster to catch you but at least you’re still alive, right? alive and free, mind you. but you don’t have time to celebrate. 

it smelled awful and you swear your knees and elbows are bruised but you scramble to climb out and run away as fast as you can. 

it was only haechan inside your apartment. no sign of renjun but he did see you somehow and you have no doubt it was a camera inside that room. you didn’t have much time to ponder for how long they were installed in your room. it’s the least of your worries at the moment.

you’re outside. 

during purge night.

even if you did manage to escape it felt more like a win than a lose, forced out of your own apartment in nothing but shorts and a shirt—heck, you don’t even have shoes on!—it felt like they won. again. 

if you’re not going to die in the hands of some other wacko, you’ll die of hypothermia. how nice. 

you didn’t know where you were running to, the only thing you knew was you need to get the hell out of this neighborhood as fast as you can. you didn’t want to run in alleyways and risk getting stabbed for fun. maybe the sewer system… oh, right. you don’t have your phone on you and it’ll probably be pitch black down there. 

you really, truly, genuinely didn’t want to run so out in the open but it was the best you can impulsively come up with. 

when you feel like you’ve put a reasonable distance between you and the apartment, you stop, hands resting flat on your knees as you crouch to catch a breath. just as quick the adrenaline appeared as fast as it had disappeared. you feel the weight and tension crushing your legs, not to mention you’re really starting to feel that headache settle after headbutting haechan. 

you almost collapse against the brick wall. 

the last person you ever thought you’ll see jumps out from the corner of the alleyway and you almost broke their nose. 

until you saw who it was. 

“NAEUN?”

their apartment got raided, some buffy sickos who they had the misfortune of breaking into their house to purge. luckily they got away, but after getting attacked on the streets, naeun got separated after she ran for her life just like you did. you can’t help but feel sorry for the little girl, who experienced the full effect of this godforsaken holiday. 

this is bad. you can’t leave her but it’s tough enough to have to fend for yourself. you’re not so sure whether you can protect another human being but you’ll have to try. 

“did your mom or grandma tell you anything? anything at all?” you ask, crouching to her eye level. “you said your mom knew the way… where? what do you mean?”

“mom said they’re providing refuge on the other side of town but it’s a 30-minute drive. walking would take longer.”

shit. you didn’t want to risk it. you don’t have a car and you’d rather die right here right now than walk another step out in the streets—

“who’s ‘they’?”

“i don’t… i don’t know. she didn’t say.”

you licked your chapped lips. you can’t trust what she’s saying, not when you didn’t even know these people. it’s too risky, not to mention you’re already running from not one, but two people.

naeun sits next to you against the bricked wall of the alley, looking down at her lap. “i’m scared,” she admits. you hear a tremble in her voice. “are mom and grammy de—”

“no,” you cut her off, pulling her tiny body against yours. when you feel her fists clutching your jacket, you swear to protect this girl with your life. “no, they’re not. i’m sure they’re heading there now to the refuge center just like we are.”

her head pokes out, looking up towards you. “we’re going? i thought you didn’t want to.”

you shake your head, wiping her tears. “well, it’s the one way for you to meet your mom and grammy, right?”‏‏‎ ‎

walking down the streets during purge night—man, this has got to be the most ballsy thing you’ve ever done after that one time you spat at renjun in the eye. you managed to find a litter of bodies way into thirty minutes of walking and you nearly sent naeun flying onto the asphalt with how hard you pushed her back. she couldn’t see this mess, you’d be damned to allow a nine-year-old walk right into psychological trauma. 

you pocket a gun—you didn’t have enough courage to fight with a knife. you wiped the blood off using your shirt before shoving them down onto the garter of your shorts. you didn’t bother to take their shoes, none of them would’ve fit you anyway and it’ll just slow you down. 

“hey, are you alright? is that blood—”

“it’s not mine, naeun. come on, let’s get moving.”

for two hours you walked towards this mysterious refuge center on the other side of town and both you and naeun managed to evade death three times. 

the first attack: a group of high schoolers with their uniforms on. there were three of them, about your height, and while you weren’t responsible for the blood on your shirt, you’re not so sure about their lot. they looked crazy, excited even, but sloppy in the way they flung their knives and bats around. their first purge, you assumed, so it was fairly easy to take them down. a bullet to the head worked like a charm. naeun didn’t say anything when you urged her out of her hiding place to flee the scene. three bullets left. 

the second attack: it was a surprise, one that got you stabbed in the shin of your right leg. it was a drunkard with a knife, you could smell him as you walked past by his slumped form in the sidewalk. he wasn’t moving, so you thought he was dead and it was poor judgement on your part. it’s pathetic getting injured this way, you thought, but at least it was you who faced the consequences and not naeun. two bullets left.

the third attack: two men but deadlier than the girls and the drunk. you didn’t get to reason out with either of them, not when they drove their cadillac at 140 miles per hour and nearly ran you over. a chill crept up your spine when you saw the bloody, naked women strapped down onto the hood. victims. you didn’t engage in any form of combat, it’s impossible, so you took naeun in your arms and ran straight to the back alleys. number of bullets remain the same.

three lucky strikes. 

three times you’ve cheated death. 

but time is up and your luck has run out. 

“beating up a girl? what a coward, if you ask me,” you say, spitting out a tooth after someone kneed you in the face. you were in no position to say such things when they’ve got you busted up and bloody, left eye swollen after one hard punch. 

naeun is nowhere to be seen. 

good. 

who knows what these assholes could’ve done to her. you told her to run so she better fucking run and make sure she lives through this nightmare. 

another kick flies to your ribs and you lie sprawled on the dirty pavement of an alleyway—what an uncool way to die but at least you’ll die with a clear conscience. 

you passed by city hall a few minutes ago. surely, the refuge center is not too far from there. naeun will make it safe. she’ll make it. 

“what’s that look on her face? is she dead?”

another one scoffs. “well… if they’re after her then she’s as good as dead.”

you blacked out. ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

you hate the scent of disinfectant. it crawls up your nose and you hate how the stench is so strong you can taste it on your tongue. this isn’t heaven, not when you know you’re better off burning in hellfire.

unless you weren’t dead—your eyes shoot open, sitting up in haste as you clutch the thin blanket. 

rows upon rows of the same cot you were lying on greets you. people injured, some standing, some sitting. there were people treating them, too, but they were in normal clothes so this can’t be a hospital. in fact, it looked like you’re in some warehouse, stacks of metal crates sealing off all entrances. 

“it’s the refuge,” you whisper. 

“you’re awake!” before you could even turn around, a body launches itself onto you and nearly makes the cot collapse. judging by the small frame and the pitchy voice—

“naeun, be careful!” her mother hisses but the girl in between your arms couldn’t care less. if she’d been an adult, she’d be squeezing the life out of you. when she pulls you closer, your healing ribs made a strike of pain surge through you. 

you groan, bowing in the pain. distantly, you can hear the mother and daughter fighting and it was a banter you’ve never experienced with your own mom. it nearly made you tear up from the overwhelming wave of emotions you were feeling but all else disappears when a person tenderly grips your shoulder. 

“thank you for taking care of my granddaughter.” the old lady was smiling appreciatively as she stared at you. 

that was it. it could’ve been the happy ending to a gruesome and bloody storyline—it should’ve been, family of three reunites again and that was all thanks to you, right?

but even heroes have their own bad endings. 

you heard the ticking of the grenade only seconds before it detonates. the other refugees didn’t even have the time to take cover as some closest to the sealed doors were sent flying so far back they crashed into the row of crates behind you. 

you were severely injured, limping, ribs broken, and you only had one good eye to rely on—yet the first thing you thought of was protecting naeun. maybe the midget had a way of worming herself into your heart. but before you even push yourself off the cot, a figure emerges from the smoke. 

petite and harmless, pretty as the tips of his hair grazed porcelain cheekbones. renjun’s eyes are as cold and calculating as can be and it’s the only thing that terrifies you to no end. when he opens his mouth, anger is hidden well underneath that calm tone. 

“i’ll give you one minute to come here willingly.”

there’s no room for bargain, he needn’t when he knows you have absolutely nothing to offer him but yourself. he doesn’t finish his sentence but he trusts you’re smart enough to figure out the silent threat—come, or he’ll turn this place into a fucking bloodbath. 

cornered and weak, defenseless. weird how they have a fixation for calling you ‘kitty’ when they’re the cats in this chase. 

“naeun,” you whisper, trying to crane your neck to look for her in the filth of rocks and debris. please don’t be hurt.

you freeze when you feel a barrel pointing at your head. it was only there for seconds, haechan probably doesn’t have the guts to hurt you in any way permanently (unless it’s inflicted with his own hands and not through some other medium). 

“ah, look. now we have matching black eyes,” he giggles like a madman, craning your neck up and the leather in his globes brings discomfort to your skin. 

you see the way the other refugees looked at you—scum, dirt on their feet that brought about trouble in their lives. they were already badly hurt as it is and now, this happened? you don’t blame them. 

not one man tried to stand up for you as haechan hauls you up and throws you down on renjun’s feet. your ribs were screaming and you’re cold and so, so afraid. with shaky fingers, you gestured towards the crowd. “just... please, don’t hurt them. they don’t have anything to do with this.”

renjun coos. such a cruel smirk for a pretty face. “aw, such an angel my darling is. always thinking of others instead of her own safety. funny because i don’t think you’ve ever done such a thing for me and haechan, though. i wonder why...”

the latter digs his heel in your injured legs and you scream as black starts to surround the corners of your vision. you tried to crane your neck back, pleading eyes wanting to look at the assaulter but renjun’s calloused hand is gripping your chin too tight.

“should we make a bargain, kitten?”

you stare deep into renjun’s eyes. he knows you don’t have anything left, he can see it in your glassy eyes, too wide and vulnerable. he’s doing this all for show, trying to make you even more desperate and self-aware of your eventual demise.

and you thought haechan was the only cunning one.

“what… what bargain?"

renjun practically gleams in pride. “i’ll let everyone walk free—even your precious little naeun—that’s her name, right? the little girl you’ve been protecting the whole night?—we’ll let her and everyone in this building walk away unharmed. that’s my bargain. you know how those work, right? now, you need to give me something i want.”

forcing you to offer yourself up to them.

what a brutal way to crush your pride.

choice wasn’t an option. if you don’t oblige and choose to run away on your own, they’ll kill them and still hunt you down. you gotta say, it was a tempting bargain that appealed to the sense of heroics in your heart. naturally, you have to choose where there is less blood shed. and as renjun lets go of your chin and lets you look over your shoulder to meet little naeun’s eyes, how she sobbed against her mother’s arms and shook her head and screamed…

“hurry, kitten. i don’t like to be kept waiting.”

you know what needs to be done.

“me. i’ll give you… me.”‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎

they stood playing a game of pool in the dead of night. it’s peaceful inside the estate while the city beyond rampaged and burned. they achieved their goal, had finally seen an end to a plan that had been set in motion for years. they’ve succeeded and the broken woman lying on the bed meters from the pool table is proof of their victory. 

“don’t you just love it when an elaborate plan works like clockwork, injun?” he asks, voice like trickling honey as he hits number 9 with the cue ball. 

the other, more petite male, rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree. “oh, please, people like us always triumph, donghyuck. it’s nothing new. although i am surprised that little girl and her so-called “family” played along so well. almost had me fooled.”

“i agree. it's such a shame they had to go.”

‎

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[helloalycia]

The Wrong Lifetime — Ten // Wanda Maximoff

chapter nine | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter eleven

author’s note: okay so this was supposed to be published yesterday but (if anyone cares lol), basically, i finished my last year of uni two days ago and so yesterday was the first official day i had that i didn’t have to do work, so i spent the whole day playing video games 😂 but it’s here now, so i hope you liked it!

Approaching Y/B/N's study, my annoyance returned when I remembered how he acted only an hour before. I didn't bother knocking as I let myself in, seeing him loosening his bow tie and looking out the window.

"What the hell was that?" I snapped instantly.

He sighed, yanking his bow tie off and throwing it to his desk. "What was what?"

I crossed my arms to contain my frustration. "You know what, Y/B/N." He continued to play dumb, so I watched him with a frown. "Why are you so against me getting published? I thought– I thought you'd be proud of me. It's all I've ever wanted."

With a scowl, he looked the other way. "I'm the writer, Y/N, not you."

His words created an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. Jealousy was a disgusting look on him, one I never wanted to see.

"No," I said, uncrossing my arms and staring daggers at him. "You're not the writer. I am. You only got noticed because of me!"

"Shut up!" he shouted, finally meeting my eyes. "You don't get to do this! It's not about you!"

"Yes, it is!" I shouted right back. "For once, it is about me, Y/B/N! Because this is my chance to do something I love."

He rolled his eyes, getting riled up all over again. "And that's another thing. Why the hell are you putting silly ideas into my fiancé's head about making money? Are you trying to make me a fool in front of my in-laws?"

I squeezed my fists together, narrowing my eyes. "They aren't your in-laws."

"Oh, you know what I mean!"

He didn't deserve Wanda. He couldn't. She was too good for him.

"Sorry that your masculinity is so fragile that you can't let your fiancé do something she's passionate about," I said through gritted teeth.

He glowered down at me. "You need to butt out."

I smiled bitterly. "Maybe if you didn't start on Pietro for no reason, I would."

He scoffed. "Please. That man is only trying to get into your pants."

I don't think I'd ever wanted to strangle my brother as much as I did right now. Did he really not believe in me? He couldn't accept that maybe I'd earned this on my own accord? Thankfully, unlike him, I could contain my emotions and managed to swallow down my anger.

"You know that's not the case," I said with a dangerously calm voice. "You should talk about your soon-to-be brother-in-law with some respect."

Y/B/N sighed, moving to sit at his desk. I followed him with my eyes, unable to recognise who he was. I hadn't dubbed him for the insecure type, but I was being proven wrong many times tonight.

"I don't want to do this right now," he said quietly, sinking his head into his hands.

I uncurled my fists, fed up. "It's already been done."

He looked up, but I didn't wait to see his face. Maybe he wasn't the brother I thought he was.

—

"Honest opinion," Wanda said, before revealing herself from behind the curtain. "Nice or ugly?"

"Nice."

She smiled brightly, twirling around in the dress she was trying on, before going back behind the curtain to change into another one. She'd invited me over to hers to hang out, which meant watching her try on a bunch of new dresses and getting excited over each one. I wasn't complaining.

"So, that first book," she picked up from our previous conversation as she changed. She was referring to Y/B/N's first published book. "That was really you?"

"Yep." I pulled my legs up onto the lounge sofa and leaned on my hand, elbow propped on the back of the seat. "I mean, it got edited of course, but the initial manuscript was mine."

"Wow," she commented. "That must have really sucked to hear everybody praise it when it was actually yours."

"It did indeed."

She came out from the curtain wearing a dress that wasn't particularly nice looking. It had a baggy torso and slim legs, making Wanda look very unflattering. And that was saying something – she could pull off anything.

"Nice or ugly?" she asked, hands on her hips.

I squinted, tilting my head and trying to think if I should lie or not. Her blue eyes peered down at me intimidatingly and I knew I couldn't find it in myself to lie to her.

After a moment, I released a breath. "I'm sorry, love, but it's kind of ugly."

She chuckled, giving me a knowing smile. "Good. This was a test. Means you're paying attention."

"Wow. You think I'm just sat here for fun?"

She didn't respond, but an amused smile was on her lips as she headed behind the curtain to change yet again. It was quiet as she was changing, before she spoke up again.

"You know when we first met? And you showed me around your room?"

"How can I forget? You thought I was jealous of my brother," I quipped with a smile.

I could imagine the eye roll she was giving me. "That was before I knew you wrote half his stuff."

Stifling a laugh, I nodded even though she couldn't see me. "Okay, go on."

She sighed. "I told you how I fell in love with that first book. How I fell in love with the words. And the person who wrote those words.”

"I remember."

She reappeared from behind the curtain, this time wearing a stunning floral blue sundress. It fell off her shoulders, revealing cream-coloured skin and a well-defined collarbone. I smiled softly, overwhelmed with admiration for the beautiful woman before me.

"I'm glad it was you," she said, and I suddenly remembered we were in the middle of a conversation.

Her eyes sparkled brightly as she smiled my way, and then her words sank in and my heart fluttered with adoration.

"Me, too," I breathed out.

She held my gaze for a second longer before looking down at her dress, pressing her hands over it. "So. What do you think? Nice or ugly?"

I raised my eyebrows with astonishment. "Wanda, you look absolutely beautiful."

Her shoulders relaxed as her eyes flickered to mine. "So, I should keep it?"

I spluttered, "Duh!"

She laughed, before approaching me and sitting beside me. Leaning her head on my shoulder, she pulled her legs onto the sofa and sighed contently. I wrapped an arm around her, resting my cheek on her head.

"I'm glad you'll finally get the recognition you deserve, milaya (darling)," she said, lifting her hand to intertwine it with mine over her shoulder.

With an entertained smile, I held her hand firmly. "Maybe, love. I haven't said yes."

"Oh, you'll say yes."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, revelling in the warmth her body created as it pressed to mine. We had no concerns that somebody would catch us since nobody was home and the servants knew not to bother us.

"So, what was the book actually about?" she asked, playing with my fingers.

"Huh?"

"The book," she repeated. "I've heard Y/B/N's take on it, but what about yours?"

At the mention of my brother, I rolled my eyes. We still hadn't spoken since our argument and I wasn't exactly in the best place with him right now.

"It doesn't matter," I mumbled into her hair.

She used her elbow to nudge me gently in the stomach before grabbing my other hand and wrapping it around her waist.

"I like hearing you speak," she said softly. "And I love the way your mind works."

My cheeks flushed at the compliment, but I appreciated her words. She always had such an effect on me and I'd come to only care about one opinion nowadays – hers.

"Okay, I guess..." I sighed, subconsciously pressing my fingertips to hers. "The book is about a man who loses his wife to his own ignorance, right?" She hummed in agreement, so I continued. "Y/B/N always talks about how it's about a man failing to appreciate his wife, but that's not how I intended for it to be perceived."

Interest piqued, she sat up straight and turned around to face me, leaning her head on my chest and looking up with curious eyes. I smiled down at her, pressing a kiss to her nose, making her scrunch it up adorably.

"It's supposed to be about the wife discovering that she's her own woman and that she doesn't need her husband to be okay," I continued, holding her gaze. "It was her own self-discovery that pushed them apart, as well her husband's stupidity."

Wanda's lips curved into a gentle smile. "I like that interpretation a lot better than his."

Licking my lips, I breathed out through a smile. "You're biased, dear."

Her eyes flickered to my lips. "Maybe."

I chuckled before closing the gap between us, connecting our lips in a short, sweet kiss. She relaxed against me before smiling as we pulled away.

"Ya lyublyu vas (I love you)," she whispered.

I always loved when she spoke in her native tongue. She sounded so at peace when she did and it warmed my insides.

"I love you, too," I whispered right back.

She grinned, carefree, before turning to lean on my shoulder again. I held her, enjoying the silence that formed between us. Her presence was always enough and I never wanted anything more. But I knew Wanda and I knew that she couldn't stay quiet for too long, so something was definitely up.

"What are you thinking?" I asked quietly, not wanting to startle her in case she was too deep into her thoughts.

She sighed. "It's stupid."

I smiled. "I doubt that."

It went quiet and I assumed she didn't want to share, but then she played with my fingers again as she spoke.

"I was wondering what it would be like if we were able to get married," she murmured. "With the dresses and walking down the aisle and the rings."

I laced my fingers through hers, the thoughts having crossed my mind at times, too. It was nice to think 'what if', but it was also a dangerous game.

"The wedding cake would have to be chocolate," I played along, not wanting her to think she couldn't talk about it.

She snickered, loosening up in my arms. "Of course. And the colour scheme would have to be red."

"Definitely," I agreed, knowing she wouldn't have it any other way, "...it could be somewhere small but comfortable. Surrounded by nature, maybe."

"Yes. With flowers all around us and the sound of birds tweeting in the trees."

A comforting smile crept on my lips as I closed my eyes, imagining it in my mind. What a beautiful day it would be.

"I'd force Pietro to be the ring bearer," she added as an afterthought, and I laughed, chest moving up and down with her on it.

"He'd hate that," I pointed out.

"Exactly," she said with a mischievous hum.

I rolled my eyes playfully. "What about afterwards? Where would you want to live?"

She scrunched her face up before settling with, "Somewhere remote. Away from people. Maybe a nice cottage somewhere."

Nodding in agreement, I said, "We could have a beautiful garden in the back. I'd do my very best to make it perfect for you. And you could paint whatever you wanted there."

A considerate smile tugged at her lips at the thought. "Yes! And we could get a pet. I've always wanted a pet."

"I guess we could... what pet do you want?"

With no hesitation, she said, "Chickens."

I looked down at her, quirking a brow. "Chickens?"

Looking up at me, she stared like it was self-explanatory. "They're cute and they lay eggs. Think about it. Fresh eggs for breakfast every morning."

God, she was so cute. I smiled, squeezing her hand. "Chickens it is, love."

She got excited as she tugged on my hand. "You can finally get a study of your own!"

"And you can get your own studio," I added, making her grin.

"And I'd keep it sparkling clean."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Don't lie, Wanda."

She rolled her eyes, though wore a humoured expression. "Okay, maybe not..."

"You can keep it as messy as you want," I promised her, as if it was actually going to happen and we'd get what we wanted.

The dream was so vivid in my mind that it could have been a memory. Wanda and I living together, peacefully and without hiding... if only we weren't in the wrong lifetime.

"I like to pretend that you gave this to me," she said after an unsettling silence fell upon us, raising her left hand for me to see. She wiggled her ring finger, the silver band and emerald gem glinting in the light. "It makes me feel better."

I swallowed hard and forced a smile, intertwining my fingers in hers and bringing them to my lips to kiss gently.

"Technically I picked it," I reminded her to lighten the mood, but it didn't work.

A sad smile appeared on her face. "Maybe in another lifetime, we could have met in a world that allowed this."

My smile faded into a frown at her words. Like I said, considering the 'what if's' was a dangerous game, and we'd already played too much of it.

"You're going to marry my brother soon," I said quietly, the realisation hitting me. "This– us, will have to stop."

She sat up and turned to face me, eyes looking between mine as she shook her head. "It doesn't have to."

I rested a hand on her cheek and she leaned into it, kissing my palm. I savoured the feeling of her lips against my skin.

"What we're doing isn't fair on either of us," I said reluctantly, afraid to say what we'd avoided for as long as our relationship lasted.

She frowned. "I'd rather have you like this than not at all."

My heart ached because I knew she was being genuine, and the truth is, I felt the same. But that brought me to our next dilemma.

"It's not fair on Y/B/N either."

She tensed her jaw. "The world doesn't want us together, Y/N. They're the ones who forced us to be like this."

"Like what?" I asked with knowing eyes. "Cheaters?"

Her eyes glossed over and it broke me to see her so hurt.

"Is it really cheating if I never wanted to be with him?" she asked with a shaky voice. "If I'm only acting out of duty? If I never loved him?"

Realising I'd saddened her, I moved forward and pulled her in for a hug, running my hand down her hair and to her back. "Sorry... I didn't mean to make you upset."

She sniffled and I felt her tears soaking my shirt. "Don't talk like that... I don't want to lose you."

I swallowed hard, nodding into her shoulder. "I don't want to lose you either, Wanda."

But I knew that deep down, we couldn't hold onto everything we wanted to in life. Deep down, she must have known that, too.

—

"...and this is where we write up the contracts. It's where we'd write up yours if you say yes."

Pietro grinned cheekily as I gave him a knowing look. He was showing me around the publishing house – a proper tour, not just me lurking around on the few visits I'd been here for Y/B/N – with hopes of convincing me to sign a contract with him.

"Pietro, you said you wouldn't be biased," Wanda warned, and I gave her a grateful smile as Pietro chuckled.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," he apologised, though he definitely didn't mean it. "I just really think you'd be a great fit here, Y/N. I already have editors willing to work with you based on the few pages they've seen of your work."

I raised my eyebrows, startled. "Wow, seriously?"

He nodded. "Most definitely. As I told you the other night, you're talented. And with my help, you can be successful, too."

A smile fell on my lips uncontrollably. A real editor wanted to work with me. Woah.

"I'm gonna get some coffee," Wanda said, squeezing my shoulder. "I'll get you both some, too." She wagged a finger towards her brother. "Don't pressure her whilst I'm gone."

He raised his hands in defence. "Okay, calm down, sestra (sister). I'll be fair."

She lowered her finger, shot him a final look, then smiled at me before leaving for the café next door. I chuckled at how cute she was and how much she cared before returning my attention to Pietro.

"I won't pressure you," he said to me, perching on the edge of an empty desk. "I just want you to know that you'd be well looked after here. I wouldn't let anyone talk down to you, nor treat you with disrespect because you're a woman. I don't condone that here."

I relaxed at his words, offering him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Pietro. That really means a lot."

He returned the smile before his gaze moved over my shoulder. Smile fading, he cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away. I turned around, curious to what had caught his attention, and then I saw Y/B/N standing in the doorway, looking around for something. His eyes eventually fell on me and he perked up before heading our way.

I hadn't spoken to him since two nights ago after dinner. He'd actively avoided me, too and I wasn't complaining, having still harboured an unexplainable anger for him. What was he doing here?

"Y/N, hey," he said awkwardly, stopping before Pietro and I. His eyes flickered to Pietro before he asked me, "Can I speak with you?"

Instinctively, my jaw clenched and he seemed to notice as he shook his head quickly.

"Not to argue," he clarified. "Just to talk."

His eyes were pleading and I couldn't find it in myself to deny him. He was my brother after all, we couldn't argue forever. Nodding wordlessly, I smiled apologetically to Pietro before following Y/B/N to a quiet side of the room. My eyes ran along the many employees working away at their desks before falling to my brother before me.

"What is it?" I asked, maybe a little too harshly, but there was no going back now.

He frowned, eyes flittering around nervously. "I want to apologise for my behaviour the other night. I shouldn't have acted how I did."

I hugged myself as I shifted my weight between my feet. "Okay."

"You were right," he continued, finally meeting my eyes. "You deserve this. You've always been there for me, helping me with my writing when I needed it. I should have reacted better, but I let my jealousy get the better of me."

My mouth opened, surprised at his apology.

He offered me a sad smile. "The truth is, Y/N, we both know you'll be the more successful of us both. And you'll be so preoccupied with your own writing that you won't be able to help me anymore. And it was selfish of me to think that first, but I did. And I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. I'm your big brother and I should've been better."

Chewing on my lip, I let go of waist and straightened up, nodding slightly. "I– thanks. Thank you. For telling me that."

His shoulders relaxed as he nodded. "Also, you were right about what you said about Wanda. And I'm going to apologise to her first thing."

My expression softened at the mention of the girl who'd only ever been good to us. "She's seriously talented, Y/B/N."

"I know."

I nodded, stepping forward and resting a hand on his shoulder. Looking between his eyes, I only saw regret and I knew he was being genuine with his apology.

"You're forgiven," I told him with a small smile, before pulling him in for a quick hug.

He returned it and I felt relieved to know he was supportive. I didn't see a reason to not accept Pietro's deal now... everybody I cared about was okay with it.

"Wanda is here by the way," I told Y/B/N when we pulled apart. "She's just getting some coffee for us."

He nodded and we returned to Pietro, who gave me a concerned look. I smiled reassuringly and he relaxed before looking to my brother with a smile.

"Hey, Pietro, sorry for what I said last night," Y/B/N was quick to say. "It wasn't cool. I know you're not like that and I shouldn't have even thought it, let alone said it."

Pietro was one of the chillest people I'd met as he offered his hand out to my brother. "No worries, mate. Bygones."

They exchanged a handshake before my brother glanced to me.

"She's really good," he said to Pietro. "You'd be lucky to have her here."

My face heated up as Pietro nodded in agreement. The two of them looked to me with proud smiles and as uncomfortable as I felt with the attention, I was grateful to have their support.

"I know," Pietro said. "All she's got to do is say yes."

"You haven't said yes yet?" my brother asked with disbelief, before slapping me on the arm playfully. "Y/N! This is your chance!"

"And it's a big decision!" I reminded him.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but then I caught sight of Wanda over his shoulder and perked up. She smiled my way but then noticed Y/B/N's presence and proceeded with caution.

"Hey, I got you both a coffee," she said, giving Pietro his and handing me mine, but her eyes were searching mine with worry.

My hand brushed hers as I accepted my coffee and I squeezed it reassuringly. She seemed to believe me as her lips twitched into a small smile before looking to Y/B/N.

"Hey," she said to him quietly, biting her lip.

He glanced to me for encouragement and I gave him a subtle thumbs up. This seemed to help as he wiped his hands on his trousers before looking to Wanda hopefully.

"Hey," he finally spoke. "Please can we talk in private for a moment?"

She nodded, humming in response, and followed him to talk.

"Match made in heaven those two," Pietro said sarcastically, and I tried not to laugh, but damn was it funny.

"Look, I think I've made a decision," I said after a moment, feeling my heart speed up at the realisation of my next words.

"Oh? And what is it? Will you let me publish you?" Pietro asked, quirking a brow and watching me with an excited smile.

Well, there was only the future to look forward to now.

I grinned. "Yes."

[literature-is-lit]

Why the blue curtain matters actually

This post is going to be long, but I really wanted to address this. There's a tl;dr at the bottom if you want to read it.

Over the years on this site I’ve seen this thing a lot: some high school student complaining that their English teacher reads too much into a story when they say the blue curtain symbolises sadness. I’m here to bring you the unpopular opinion that your English teacher is right. Just hear me out, okay?

First of all, forget authorial intent. Most of the time the author is dead anyway, so there’s no point in wondering what the author meant with something. Instead, the point is what the reader can find. If you as the reader can find certain symbols in the story and interpret them, that’s great! You have unlocked the ability to read between the lines. Because that’s the point. Your English teacher wants you to learn to read beyond what is stated explicitly, because that’s a super useful skill to have. And it doesn’t matter if it’s what the author intended or not, as long as you can support your reading with textual evidence.

Then there is the thing that a blue curtain on its own doesn’t really say much. Symbolism is only symbolism if it is a recurring image throughout the work. It only starts to mean something when the colour blue or the curtains come up in other scenes. Or maybe the curtains symbolise that the character is hiding or refusing to face something. There are so many possibilities with this symbol and honestly, it's just fun to speculate on things like that.

But that still doesn’t prove that the blue curtain is relevant. Sure, I proved that a reader can make it relevant by assigning meaning to it, but it could still just be a blue curtain, right? Well, sort of…

Let’s get authorial intent back out of the closet, but this time we’ll look at it from the author’s point of view. Let’s say you are writing a horror story and you’ve just come to a scary scene. You’re not going to set that scene on a sunny day in a park when all the flowers are in bloom and make the air smell nice. That wouldn’t make sense, because that is not the mood you want to convey. Now go back to the curtains. Why weren’t they yellow or orange with a nice pattern? Because that was not the tone the author wanted to convey. Whether you noticed the blue curtains or not, it helped to set the right mood for the scene.

Tl;dr: Learning to find symbolism in a text helps you to read beyond the words that are explicitly said and allows you to think on other meanings. Still, a single blue curtain is not a symbol unless it is a recurring thing in the story. And finally, the colour is relevant because any other colour would have set a different mood for the scene.

No shade to people who don't like symbolism or just want to read a story as it is. I just feel like the point is generally misunderstood and wanted to take some time to explain it

[spaaaaaaaark-uwu]

ok so i have a take on this. i never actually saw this original meme, only people talking about it/repeating it, but i really appreciated it back in the day AND i think it's not the end-all be-all of literary analysis.

sometimes, the curtains are just blue. sometimes the author thought carefully about the impact that Specifically Blue curtains would have on the impression of their readers, and more often than not this will be the case when it comes to accomplished classical authors— but short of asking the author what they meant, what's more important to literary analysis is thinking about WHICH elements MADE YOU FEEL and WHY.

maybe the blue curtains didn't strike you as particularly important, but the chilling lack of adjectives when the character leaves the house did. or maybe something stood out in contrast to an earlier passage that made the character look much more agitated even when the words used were technically positive.

a good teacher shouldn't expect you to latch on to exactly the same elements as them, especially because any elements that can be considered "objective" or common enough to grade are probably really shallow and surface level anyway.

what this meme got right: sometimes English and literature teachers are assholes that expect you to find meaning in the exact same things that they did, because they're under some kind of delusion that they hold in their hands some kind of intuitive and objective Truth to literary interpretation and analysis. insisting that the color of the curtains reflects the character's mental state, while possibly true, hinders literary analysis because it presumes that everyone should have the same, objectively correct, subjective journey through art.

this is the bullshit that made me stop wanting to read for years. i only picked reading back up in my mid twenties and only because i decided i wanted to be a writer. telling people how they should interpret art is just stupid and discourages people from independent and critical thought. sometimes the curtains are just blue and your teacher is full of shit, and this meme is a very cathartic vent for that.

what this meme probably should've included if it weren't just a funny little vent image: themes, motifs, metaphors, and other literary and artistic tools can be very powerful and very subtle, and it's worthwhile to study and discuss them if you want to improve your communication with others (and more than worthwhile if you're interested in practicing the writing craft yourself!). sometimes something as simple as the color of curtains in a scene can affect the overall mood and tone of the piece, and it can be really valuable to look for elements of a story that carry that kind of depth!

The "blue curtains" meme

[worth-more-than-two-thousand]

Returning from the Dead is Easier Said than Done...

Request: Welcome, Shiny! May I request an x Reader (can be fem or gender neutral) where Echo (post-citadel) comes up to their s/o's doorstep to give them flowers and ask them on a date? A plus if the Bad Batch teases him for dressing up nicely and buying flowers. Thank you! (@handmaidenthesimp)

Author’s Note: Enjoy! If anybody wants me to repost with a gender-neutral reader, just let me know. 

Story Notes: Some swearing, not much else to warn you about. Take place in-between Season 7 of CW and The Bad Batch. No Omega this time, sorry! 

🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑

Being declared dead was uncomplicated. Your Republic file was branded with a "KIA" stamp, everyone stoically mourned, and someone just a bit shinier would step in to fill your shoes. 

Being declared undead, however, was decidedly more complicated. Oh, Echo was reassigned to Clone Force 99 easily enough. But it was the little things that seemed to get mired in red tape. Getting his few personal effects back. Re-opening his modest credit account.

Approving a rental application.

Admittedly, it wasn't that Echo really needed his own place; clones were conditioned to be accustomed to share minimalist, often-cramped quarters. And they were always on the move, so it hardly made any financial or practical sense, in the long run. 

But right now, oh, did Echo dearly wish that he was dressing up in the privacy of his own space...and not the shared cabin area of the Havoc Marauder. 

He kept his face stoic, as though readying for battle, refusing to acknowledge his teammates goggling in the background. They had returned early from their supply run. Echo had meant to be out of here an hour ago, but (somehow) hadn’t counted on just how difficult it would be to get dressed into multiple clothing pieces with a scomp link for a hand. 

So that’s how his comrades found him: trying to wrangle a neck accessory into submission by sheer will. 

Oh, if Fives could see him now. 

“You look funny,” Wrecker had declared decisively after an unbearably long silence. “What’s that thing you’ve got on?” 

“It’s a suit,” he grumbled, refusing to look any of them in the eye. “I’m going to see Y/N.”

Wrecker gasped like a fishwife. He leaned forward, and pitched his voice low. As though the others couldn’t still hear him in the tinny space.  “Your girlfriend? You mean you’re going to see her for the first time....since…” Wrecker made a muted cartoonish sound with his mouth, clenching then expanding his fingers in a gesture for ‘explosion’.

Echo stared at him for a moment disbelievingly, before nodding slowly, forcing the sarcastic response he really wanted to say back down. He couldn’t fault Wrecker for being...well, Wrecker. He had all the tact of a rampaging bantha. 

“An’ what’s that? Around your neck?” 

Echo opened his mouth, but someone cut across his response. “A bowtie,” Crosshair drolled, though his eyes glittered with amusement. Echo tensed, knowing that he wasn’t going to like what was coming next. 

“Fifty credits says he chokes, and he ends up strangling himself with it in shame." 

“No way!” Wrecker exclaimed, always the optimist. He clapped Echo on the back, who was unprepared so his knees buckled. He felt his metal joints strain. “Don’t worry, Echo,” his brother rasped in the loudest whisper known to man. “I bet she’s gonna love it!” 

“You know,” Tech piped up unhelpfully, “Your strategy may backfire. The current deviation from your usual appearance may be so jarring for your beloved that she refuses your offer out of simple self-preservation instincts.” 

Echo gritted his teeth. “Right. You have stats to back that up, I suppose?” 

Tech blinked at him owlishly. “Of course I don’t. This is an obvious possible outcome.”

“I’m trying to look nice,” he snapped, scowling. 

There was a loaded pause. “...’trying’ being the objective word here,” Crosshair smirked.  

Before Echo could wipe the look off his comrade’s face with a well-placed ARC trooper punch that would’ve made Hardcase proud, Hunter wedged his way in between them, hands up in a conciliatory gesture. 

“All right, laugh it up, fellas. Personally, I think you’re all jealous because you don’t have a girl waiting for you like Echo does.” Hunter turned to face their newest member, took the bowtie that was clenched in Echo’s fist, and smoothed it out before proceeding to tie it around his neck with surprisingly deft hands. 

Crosshair ‘hmphed’ while Wrecker verbally agreed, looking slightly put out by the undeniable truth. Tech simply nodded in neutral confirmation. The group lapsed into a somewhat awkward (but not unwelcome) silence as Hunter finished tugging at the folded ends of the bow, then double-checking to ensure it was straight. He stepped back to assess his work.

“You look good,” he said sincerely.

Echo thought he was in the clear. 

Hunter frowned. “But...it looks like you’re missing something.” 

Or not. 

“Like dignity?” Crosshair drawled from a dark corner of the ship that Echo frustratingly couldn’t glare at. 

“A sense of self-confidence,” Tech suggested. He wasn’t joking. 

“FLOWERS!” Wrecker boomed confidently. “All girls like flowers. You gotta get her some before you see her!”   

“I...fine.” Echo relented, anything to get his teammates to shut up. He shoved his way through them towards the bridge. “I’ll get her some flowers. You all stay here until I get back. I mean it, Fives!” he warned.

An uneasy silence followed him, which he didn’t register until he reached the landing ramp. 

He shot an exasperated look back at them. “What?’ 

“...Your former comrade is not here, Echo.” Tech finally spoke. His words were clinical, as always, but there was a touch of understanding underlying his tone. 

Echo froze, just for a moment, then shook off the shock of his faux pas as best as he could. 

It wasn’t the first time that had happened, after all. 

Echo descended the landing ramp, squared his shoulders, and marched into town. 

Y/N lived in a run-down but culturally distinct district of Coruscant, characterized by food stalls from species and ethnicities all over the galaxy. Children often ran through the streets, sellers in colorful robes and attire shouting their wares and art for all to peruse. It was one of the nicer markets, he thought, having come here once. He had been accompanying Y/N on her usual run for specialized ingredients that made the diner she worked at the talk of the galaxy. 

Echo elbowed his way through the crowded street, content to simply blend in with the crowd, to forget about being a soldier for a moment. 

He paused at a flower stand and was mindful not to draw too much attention to his scomp-link hand as he ordered a dozen sunflowers, which he remembered were Y/N’s favorite. When his credit chip was declined, however, he sighed and reached into his pocket to see what spare change he could muster up. Being that he was wearing a never-worn suit, however, meant that there was no change to be found, and the unimpressed florist snatched the bouquet away. 

That’s okay, Echo. Y/N doesn't need flowers. She just wants to see you.

At least, he hoped that was the case. He hadn’t exactly written to her yet, unsure that he could sufficiently explain his sudden non-death in typed words...

Surprise! I’m not dead! Hey, you know that explosion on the citadel? Well, I survived! And out of it, I got an all-expenses paid trip to  the Techno Union research facility! Why didn’t I write? Well, I was in stasis most of the time and that part’s a bit fuzzy. I also was responsible for killing my brothers by using their own battle plans against them. Oh, and you might notice that I’m missing most of my fleshy bits these days… 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, which were more rapid these days thanks to his enhancements. He was good at compartmentalizing, though. He had to be. He was still a soldier, through and through, and no one wanted a soldier who was about two seconds away from a mental breakdown.

Yeah, a letter to Y/N wouldn’t have cut it. But he still felt like maybe he could have sent ahead some sort of...heads up? A warning? A ‘Please don’t scream when you see me because I don’t think my heart could take it?’ 

His feet finally guided him to the front entrance of the building where he knew she lived on the 14th floor. Glancing around, he spotted some blue flowers sprouting in a planter near the entrance. He yanked a fairly healthy-looking handful from the soil, shaking the roots to get most of the dirt off. He tucked the strangled roots into his fist so that they would be less obvious. 

It was time. He nodded to himself, squared his shoulders, and entered the building. 

A short elevator ride later, Echo could feed the sweat beading at his forehead and neck. At least his fight or flight response seemed to be healthy and alive, and Echo tuned out everything but the door in front of him, adorned with a purple wreath of lavender flowers. 

He stood in front of the door, and raised his hand to knock. 

He stood…

In front of the door…

...and raised his hand…

...to knock, you coward. Just fucking knock. 

His raised knuckles, however, refused to move. Echo caught a glimpse of himself in the curtained window panes on the sides of the door, and at the sight of his bloodless face, suddenly felt a whole lot less sure of himself. 

He looked ridiculous. 

He and Y/N had barely gotten to know each other before his untimely death. 

What if she was with someone new? 

This was a terrible idea. Echo should leave now, before he caused himself any more embarrassment. Crosshair might get his fifty credits, after all. 

Echo had just convinced himself to turn around and admit defeat, when the door suddenly swung open. 

Two Y/C/E eyes met his. 

There were points during Echo’s battle career where time slowed to a crawl. When an explosive grenade was thrown just a bit too close, or the comrade you had just exchanged banter with received blaster fire to the face. 

Echo was experiencing the same sensation now, but he would voluntarily stay in this moment forever, if he could. He fervently hoped his nightmares would be replaced with the sight that was etched before him. 

She was wearing her yellow work uniform, white apron pressed crisply with starch...and was as beautiful as ever. Her hair was up in a messy ‘late-for-work’ up-do, a smudge of blushed color not quite within the lines of her lips smearing her cupids’ bow where she had applied it in a rush.

He couldn’t determine whether her reaction to his sudden appearance was positive or not, and so didn’t dare speak first, breathlessly afraid that if he did, the moment would shatter. 

He saw her swallow hard, glancing at him from head to toe, gaze landing on his right hand. 

He guarded his heart. 

“Ech? Echo, is that you?” she whispered. Her eyes tore away from the scomp link hand, and began searching his face as though just as afraid he would disappear. 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

The silence stretched out, and the fight or flight response was creeping back. 

“I know I look a bit different.” He tried for a light-hearted joke, but couldn’t quite get his tone to match. “Had some work done. What do you think?” He winced slightly.

She stepped forward and he froze as Y/N lifted her fingers, hesitating briefly before gently touching one of the metal bolts by his left temple. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“...do they hurt?” 

He gasped a little as he remembered to breathe again.

“No,” he reassured her, raising his undamaged hand to steady hers. “No, it doesn’t hurt.” 

“...good.” 

The wind was knocked out of him as Y/N flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, tardiness to her job completely forgotten. 

She began sobbing. It wasn’t neat little sobs, like in the scripted holovids, but heaving sobs that wracked her whole body, and he worried slightly that she was going to faint on him. He forgot about his scomp link for the first time as he rubbed it in circles against her back, murmuring nonsense words of comfort in her ear. 

After several minutes, she sniffled, stepping back. She rubbed her nose ungracefully where snot was leaking out, but Echo could have cared less about any of that. He only kept his arms out to steady her, in case she needed support again.

Y/N glanced down suddenly, and flushed.

“Oh. I’ve crushed them.”

Echo followed her gaze and saw that he was still holding the blue flowers from the planter in his good hand, the bouquet having been caught in between their bodies when she had thrown herself at him. They did look a little worse for wear. 

He shrugged unconcernedly. “They were free,” he said, not wanting her to feel guilty. 

She stared at him for a moment before a bubble of laughter burst from her lips. She still looked like she was about to sob at any moment, but she smiled tremulously at him through shining eyes. 

Desperate to make her feel better, he began rambling. 

“I can get you better ones! N-not right now, though,” he stuttered. “Actually, it turns out that I don’t have any credits on me at the moment. Everything’s still kind of backed up at the bank regarding my accounts. Also, this suit is new. Well. Not new. It used to belong to this woman’s father who we rescued during a mission on Bith. Long story.” His brain, which worked faster than usual these days anyways, still couldn’t seem to catch up to his mouth.

He forced himself to get back to the task at hand. “I was actually here to ask you for a date. I mean, assuming there’s no one else at the moment…oh, but you have your job to go do…bantha spit, I forgot about that...” He would have to ask Tech if it was possible for his brain to actually short-circuit.

Echo finally trailed off. Now he was the one blushing. 

The whole of Domino Squad was probably having a good laugh at his expense right about now, wherever they were. 

But Y/N was still smiling at him. And her chin had stopped wobbling. She gently took the flowers from Echo’s hand and placed them on one of the side tables in the hallway before intertwining her fingers with his and grasping his right hand without hesitation. 

“Forget about my job. Let’s go on that date. My treat. Though, if I know Dexter, he’ll give us a free meal, on the house. And the rest of the day off."

For the first time since he had joined Clone Force 99, since he had been rescued on Skako Minor, and even before the Citadel...Echo allowed a true grin of happiness to spread on his face. 

“A free meal,” he echoed. “Sounds like a plan.”