#now mind that I *have* rearranged some of these several times between creating the card and now

[strixcattus]

Right. Here we are.

I kind of switch between you/us/the player, but they all mean the same thing. I tried to have at least one square for each affected chapter—the expanded chapters, the new chapters, and the chapters that lead to the new chapters. "But some of these contradict each other—" They might, yeah. That's why I've tried not to put them in the same row. "The blade gives you more options" means that in Spectre/Prisoner/Damsel, more Chapter IIIs will be accessible when taking the blade than when not. "Nontraditional stairs" just means we get something other than a staircase, like the EotN's cliff. Or a ladder. I'm still hoping for a ladder.

[bookishofalder]

Celebrity Swingers Club

Request: @bbarton -hi!! could i request adam driver x reader <3 they are dating and one night they go out or something and someone starts hitting on the reader aggressively and he gets very protective and jealous :)

A/N: Honestly the idea for this stemmed from a random and hilarious conversation I was having with my friend the other day. I wanted to keep this one light and silly, so I hope it makes you smile!  🥰

Warnings: Dash of SMUT, language. 

Adam was missing you today, even though he’d seen you mere hours ago, wrapped in his arms in bed at the hotel. And you were on set today as well, even. But this happened towards the end of filming, for a lot of actors. The inevitable mixture of melancholy, pride, restlessness and exhaustion. It was exacerbated by being on location, though he had to admit of all the locations he’d been to for a film, he had little to complain about here in Hawaii.

But nearing the end of filming meant that time became more constrained, and you and he saw less of one another. He supposed it was part of the honeymoon phase, after all, you’d only been married about 5 months before production started on this latest project.

Today, he just wanted to see you, even if just for a short while.

So when they called lunch, he was quick to depart the set and make a beeline for the cafe, where he had two orders of lunch preordered for pickup. He thanked the staff, having a brief conversation with the cafe crew about how much he had to bribe them for the recipe to his favourite meal (seriously, it was one of the best dishes he’d ever encountered, but they wouldn’t give it up!). With a laugh and a shrug of defeat, he said his goodbyes and started toward the makeup trailers.

He figured you’d be working with your assistant to tidy up from the morning, as many fake injuries were needed for the scenes they were filming. You complained that these left your workstations a disaster. But he knew you loved creating the wounds, a macabre alternative to the glamour or ‘regular’ looks you specialized in. It had been alarming the first time he’d walked in on you in the bedroom you shared at home to find you looking at horrifically graphic photos and making notes.

As he approached your trailer, your assistant, Bailey, was making her way hurriedly down the steps. Adam greeted her with a wide grin. “Hey Bailey, sneaking away?”

“Sneaking away is accurate, Carter is in there,” She replied, her lips set in a thin line, “Seriously, I know he means well, but he really is a bit much.”

Adam nodded in understanding, as he too found the young actor a little...obnoxious. And while Adam had no illusions to his idiosyncrasies and perpetual ‘asshole’ persona; he still made a point of not falling into conversation with Carter. It was tiring, as the kid would speak non-stop, jumping from topic to topic so quickly it gave his listeners whiplash, and when he’d finish, he’d merely take a breath and launch into another speech unless he was cut off.

But he was a good enough kid and a great actor. Someone that, professionally, Adam was happy to work with. Just like Bailey, however, he had his limits when it came to patience in dealing with Carter offset. And Adam knew his wife all too well, he knew you were in the trailer, abandoned by Bailey, being an absolute gem to the kid. Letting him talk your ear off while you no doubt worked to get your station fully tidied before being called to set after lunch for touch-ups.

“Well, I’d better go rescue her, I’ll see you later.” He sighed, and Bailey gave him a sympathetic, knowing smiling before running off.

You kept your trailer especially cool, which Adam had always appreciated. You said it was for your art, but he also knew you did it for him, as he always ran a lot warmer than most. Stepping inside, he first turned left toward the dining area and set the food boxes down on the table. When he glanced around and didn’t see you in the main room, he made his way to the door that led into the meeting room, which had a large sink that you used for cleaning off your palettes and brushes. The door was halfway cracked and as Adam stepped up, he heard Carter’s voice.

“Honestly, totally no big deal, (y/n). Married, single, divorced-whatever,” Adam was right at the door now, looking in he saw your back, shoulders rigid in a way that he knew meant you were uncomfortable, and pointedly washing off a palette with determined vigour. “You’re fit, and I’m an honest person, so I just wanted to put it out there. You could even ask Adam if you-“

Leaning against the door frame, Adam slid the pocket door the rest of the way open, his eyes focused on Carter. “Ask Adam what?” His voice low, he was trying to control his temper-he didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

Carter had broken off the moment he saw Adam in the doorway, mouth slightly open in surprise. “Oh, hey Adam!” He quickly rearranged his expression to a more pleasant one.

But when you spun around and Adam saw the genuine relief flush across your face, his heart rate increased. He crossed his arms, inwardly happy that he was still wearing only a t-shirt, his muscles flexing slightly.

“Ask me what, Carter.”

The kids’ eyes widened, “I was, well, I mean I was saying to (y/n)-“

Adam cut him off again, “My wife. You were saying to my wife.” Out of the corner of his eye, Adam could see you biting back a smile.

Carter stuttered, “Yes! Of course, I was saying-to your wife-that I’d be down for a, you know,” He shrugged, though his tense posture and wide eyes gave away how utterly not calm he was, “Some fun, Hollywood style, uh, fun.”

At this, Adam frowned with confusion, glancing between Carter and you, and you rolled your eyes, “He means sex. You know, like how all celebrities are here for a good time, so we can swap partners and have sex parties and all that fun stuff we do on weekends.”

Adam’s eyes snapped to Carter, who visibly paled. Gulping he watched as Adam stepped away from the door and into the room, his eyes narrowed. “You asked my wife to fuck? Are you kidding me?” Moving nearer to you, Adam pointed at the door, “Get the fuck out of here, stay the fuck away from my wife, and expect a call from my manager.”

Though his voice had been quiet, the message and severity of his words were all too clear to Carter, who uttered a quick apology before running out of the trailer at full speed. When the door slammed closed behind him, you burst out laughing, peals of giggles that brought a smile to Adam’s face despite his anger.

“Oh god, that poor kid actually thought we had like, celebrity swingers clubs,” You broke down in another fit of giggles, one hand clutching your stomach, and Adam couldn’t help but join in.

After a few minutes, he stepped closer to you and pulled you into his arms, where you rested your head on his chest, your arms snaking around his waist. It hadn’t been the first time he’d encountered someone unabashedly hitting on you, though this was the most unique proposition he thinks you'd been offered.

“That was the first time that one could interpret that I was included in the deal,” He considered aloud, causing you to laugh loudly again. “I’m not sure if I should be more, or less, offended.”

“Carter is a gullible fantasist. I’d put money down that someone told him there was a sex club he was missing out on.”

“If that’s the case,” Adam replied, pulling back slightly to look down at you, “Then whoever told him that is going to get a piece of my mind when I find out who they are. I fucking hate when men hit on you.”

Your gaze softened, a small hand reaching up to stroke his jaw in a soothing motion that always seemed to work on him. “I know, babe,” You whispered, your hand sliding from his jaw to grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer. With your mouth a breath away from his, you added, “I missed you today.” And then your lips pressed to his.

Without hesitation, Adam deepened the kiss, his blood rushing as your mouth opened for him and then he was licking into you, tasting you. A small moan escaped you as you pressed yourself against him, returning his fervour. One of the things he adored about you was the energy that you saved just for him. Every kiss, every touch, they were always fire, always intense and needy. You kissed him like it was the first time, every time, no matter how tired you might be, how hard you might have worked that day.

He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours, each of you panting. “I love you, sweet girl.”

“Love you too, big.” You murmured, your lips wrapping seductively around the nickname you had for him. He smiled, reaching his hands up to cup your face, thumbs stroking the soft skin.

“I brought lunch, by the way.”

You pulled back further, leaning around him to look toward the dining table. Eyes lighting up upon seeing the take out containers that held your favourite meal, you glanced between Adam and the food a few times.

“Seeing you get all jealous worked me up,” Your words were thoughtful, brows furrowed in mock consideration, “I think we have time for a quickie before we ea-AH!”

You shrieked a giggle as Adam lifted you up, pressing his lips to yours before seating you on the table. He reached toward the door and quickly shut it, turning the lock, before looking back down at you.

With a dark look in his eyes, he stepped between your legs, hands gripping your shoulders gently, “Might need to leave a mark or two, remind everyone who you belong to.” And then his lips were on your collarbone, biting possessively before his tongue would lave out to soothe the mark. Your hands found his hair, fingers carding through the raven locks as you moaned in delight.

“All yours, big.” You sighed, and Adam smiled against the skin of your chest, his hands dropping to your hips so that he could ease your leggings off and bring your bodies together.

The food would go cold, but the trailer had a microwave. And really, neither of you were all that hungry at the moment, anyway.

Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (9/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Please go away and don’t read the stuff I write.

They have been out to sea for twenty minutes now, Arendelle’s coast disappearing in the distance the same way Elsa’s hope for this day to go any way even close to how she hoped vanished before her eyes. 

After the safety briefing from the crew (which she barely heard) she had attempted to direct the conversation towards the contract, the parts and pieces that needed to still be negotiated and finalized, but Mister Westergaard had other ideas. 

Eat first. He had said. We have all day.

Bits of polite conversation had floated around her. Hans Westergaard entertained the group with intentional questions, occasionally including her but in some ways almost purposefully excluding her. She is simultaneously thrilled and annoyed, but she is not prepared to deal with either emotion.

So she had picked at the sumptuous fare: cold roasted squash wrapped in hickory smoked bacon, miniature parfait cups with berry compote and tangy greek yogurt topped with a sprig of mint, delicate quiche bites that even served cold are still creamy and without a hint of the rubbery texture she always achieves when cooking eggs. There is mixed fruit salad with a lime reduction glaze, brown sugar crusted salmon delicately seated on lemon buttered crostini, and single waffle quarters served with ten dozen options for toppings including jalapeno infused maple syrup. The list goes on.

Elsa is accustomed to tastings and decadence when it comes to food but nearly always when planning it for someone else, some other occasion. She had little experience being the recipient of such gourmet assortments and has never bothered to learn to cook. Still knowing they will sail she does not feel a great need to indulge as she is not sure she will handle the sea well. Her stomach is already a mess.

Her team dives in, filling actual china plates with their choice delicacies as the crew comes to take drink orders. They are each handed a menu printed on thick card stock that feels like silk. The drink options are embossed into the surface of the luxe paper. The feel of it in her hand along with the weight of her plate in the other and the heat of Hans Westergaard at her side is a sensory overload she never imagined having. 

“Coffee,” she does hesitate, “with just a splash of cream.” 

The crew member nods and takes her drink menu for her. She notices later that a smattering of those menus were artistically mounted on stainless steel stands just in case she wants to indulge in a mango-passion-fruit mimosa or a mint lemonade slush infused with vodka. While both sound tempting she needs to stay alert. Especially with him sitting so close. 

His plate is balanced on one thigh with an assortment of the fare that errs on the sweeter side. She notes the same way she would for any client. Hans Westergaard likes dessert. 

She does not consider why knowing that makes her uncomfortable.

He also orders the same coffee as she. 

Again she cannot be certain if this is intentional or just another ploy to generate a doomed connection. She will always lean towards the latter. 

He is still close, but at least she had the sense to extend his arm over the empty seat away from Elsa instead of behind her back. There is a limit even to her control and if he touched her she may explode right out of her skin.

Her team seems to be enjoying the royal food treatment. Rapunzel feeds Eugene her favorite flavor combination, something unusual certainly, and slaps his chest at the grimace. Kristoff loads up on the protein while Anna selects sweeter alternatives. Elsa takes a single quiche, vegetable options, and crostini. She does not want to seem ungrateful but she also does not want to appear over eager or succumb to sea sickness and never be able to eat salmon again. 

She nibbles the barest tip of the roasted summer squash and tries to not notice his plate while also engaging him.

“This is lovely. Thank you,” her team was watching, nodding and eating politely in agreement. 

“Of course. I want you to get a sense for what I want.” 

He now has retreated even further, inches between their bodies, an appropriate distance but still somehow feels too close. She is thankful and suspicious all at once. He leans in again, but just his head. The rest of him is conspicuously distant. His eyes had been green at the wedding but now they almost appeared gold. Were they hazel? 

“That is my team and I would love to talk with you about. We know so little about this initiative, what we are creating, and while this is lovely -”

He cuts her off by pressing two fingers on her mouth.

She had not seen it coming and the feel of it shoots heat previously unknown through her body. She can practically hear the collective gasp from the watching four and her embarrassment is palpable. His fingers are gone as quickly as they had arrived. She didn’t even have the chance to pull back. The heat and pressure of his touch lingers and it takes every bit of self control to not pressed her lips together to try to erase the electric tingling dancing there. 

If she had not been so caught off guard by the sensations racing through her body at the contact she would have had the sense to be furious.

“All in good time.” He leans back and puts the hand on his knee, the other gripping his plate. “But first a tour perhaps?” 

He is already standing and Elsa can just barely catch a breath. 

Her team all stand, albeit cautiously, watching her while she attempts to mentally reboot. Hans Westergaard offers her his hand, the same hand that had pressed her lips just moments before in a facsimile of a kiss. What would it be like to kiss him? 

That inquisitive thought is enough to launch her to her feet without assistance. She sets her plate and attache case down with more force than necessary, straightens, and steps away from him. It takes all of her mortal strength to meet his gaze. 

It is soft and warm but also fearful. That disconcerting humanness there again like he never did anything to upset her. Like he is afraid of rebuttal for his forwardness, like he knows he oversteps but couldn’t help himself just like she cannot bring herself to truly be upset by the touch. Like maybe it undid him the same way it undid her. 

That idea is just as bad, if not worse, than his action.

She needs to put it behind them. Now. No. Sooner than now. 

She lifts her chin and clears her throat. “I think it is best if we stick to business.”

She is responding to his offer for a tour and hopes that is how her team takes it, how he takes it. Clearly she does not need to invite trouble when he is more than willing to produce it on his own. His expression rearranges itself to something more polished, but no less intense. She can practically see his strategy shifting behind those color changing eyes and she steels herself against it. 

Whatever he dishes out she can take. She has overcome more than most and there is not much that can throw her, but the way he looks at her makes her realize she has met her match. 

This is not an arm’s length situation.

But to be close to him?

Close to anyone?

“I agree.” The sound of his voice snaps her back. “Which is why I absolutely insist on a tour of the vessel. It is integral to the process.”

She does not understand. Her mind reels, but she acknowledges that a tour could give her time to regroup and she needs that. 

“Then by all means, lead the way.” She takes several steps away from his projected footpath putting the ornate seat they had shared well between them. 

If there is any hesitation she cannot be certain. Instead he sweeps to the front of the ship where more chrome and glass greet them. “This way then.”

Thus begins a tour of a yacht that is more ornately equipped and furnished than most homes. Right of the main bow deck there is a leisure room filled with plush royal blue and rich chocolate furniture, stainless steel fixtures along with cream carpets and accents. There are florals, books, and staggering decor pieces that would be excessive and gaudy in any other context but here they all flow together seamlessly. The streamlined design of the furniture and the ship is accentuated with the extravagant accents. No. It this the height of refinement, elegance. 

And this is just the first room.

There is more.

There is a board room with a massive white oak table and yellow leather swivel chairs that scream their cush. There is a movie theater complete with leather reclining seat, popcorn maker, and a custom bar.  The floors are either lush carpet, marble, or white oak that gleamed so brightly she swore it was covered in glass. There is a large bathroom that is all Italian marble with fixtures that may actually be gold plated.

The second level bow mirrors the first but without the infinity pool. Instead it boasts more seating and several marble top cocktail tables that almost seem to grow out of the pristine deck. He takes them back then through the main bar, the library, and the gaming room complete with a billiard table that was once Marlon Brando’s. 

“There is more above, but those are the private quarters. We have capacity for up to twenty guests to stay comfortably. Plus the sauna.” He says. “But since those are not strictly business I doubt they will interest you.”

He is teasing, directing his attention at her specifically for the first time in this tour, but she will not take the bait. She is almost ruffled by the sudden attention, by the lack of it beforehand, but the majesty of the ship had distracted her. 

She had never conceived a vessel could be as luxurious as anything she had seen in the last twenty minutes. 

She thought she had understood wealth, had worked with her share of affluent clientele, but nothing like this. Outside the challenge of Hans Westergaard she is quickly realizing just how out of their depth they may be. The challenge of it looms like an insurmountable cliff face. Thirty eight days to meet the highest standards she has ever faced professionally all while tiptoeing through the minefield of working with a man that clearly lacked any sort of boundaries. If she even had a chance of scaling that rock wall it they needed to start immediately. 

“As curious as I am sure we all are I think it best we maximize what little time we have, Mister Westergaard, and begin discussing how we can help your initiative.” Elsa responds diplomatically. 

“Your every wish is my command.”

He smiles at her then, teeth impossibly straight and white. The look in his eye seems to say he only sees her. Like somehow the whole world melts to nothing and she is the sole light of his entire universe. The intensity of it is staggering and she sways a bit under the weight. His hand is on her elbow immediately, close and hot. 

“Whoa there. You’ll get your sea legs before long.” His breath hits her burning cheek as she extracts herself from his hold as quickly as possible. 

She steps away, careful to not make eye contact with any of the group, and gives a sharp nod. “I’m sure I will.” 

There is the slightest pause before and she can feel him staring, willing her to meet his gaze, but she doesn’t. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s return below board and we can discuss what comes next.” 

Elsa is careful to fall behind, and Anna matches suit with Rapunzel. 

“So you weren’t kidding about him coming on strong. Is this okay? Are we okay? Do we need to call this off?” Anna rattles off her questions on a quiet breath as Kristoff and Eugene engage Hans about some of the more technical aspects of the ship.

“Yeah. Or do we need to get you two a room?” Rapunzel asks, green eyes wide. “When Eugene looks at me like Hans looked at you I know we are about to have a really good time.” Typically her innocent honesty is one of her more endearing characteristics but now the implication of her sentence makes her grit her teeth.

“He’s a flirt. That’s all. We’ve all dealt with his kind before.” She tries to keep her whisper lighthearted, but she can sense how little her companions believe her. “I’ve got this under control.” 

She gives them both a pointed look at Anna lifts a brow and purses her lips. “Do you? Because you really don’t have to.” 

Elsa gapes, nearly stopping in her tracks at Anna’s presumptuous question. 

And just like that she swears the ship rolls and she nearly loses her balance only to be caught by her sister and friend. 

“Look. All I’m saying is the guy clearly likes you and isn’t afraid to show it.” Anna forces her to keep pace with the men ahead of them as they venture through one well appointed room after another. “And to be honest - you could use a little fun.” 

“Yeah,” Rapunzel nods emphatically. “You literally have nothing to lose anyway since you’re totally into him too.” 

Elsa stops in her tracks, red from head to toe. “I am not!” 

Anna rolls her eyes and grabs Elsa’s wrist to drag her along. “Okay fine. You’re not, but you could be. I know you want to keep your professional distance or whatever, but why not just tell him the truth about everything and let him make up his own mind?” 

Elsa’s mind goes blank for a moment at the possibility she had never considered.

Tell him the truth? She never told her clients the truth. Hell, she hadn’t told Eugene or Rapunzel until they had been on board long enough to get suspicious after her second unexplained, prolonged absence. And she definitely never told any of the dates she has had the truth. She just gave them enough time to get bored, to move on, and enjoyed a few less lonely nights. She never looked for long term because she wasn’t going to last long term. So why couldn’t she just approach Hans Westergaard with the same fatalist sensibility?

Why did the idea of telling him everything seem appealing? 

She knows why, but she is not ready to admit it, never will be. That niggling What If that has haunted her since that first insanely frustrating day: what if this could work? 

What if he wouldn’t be afraid, would be down for the ride as long as it lasted? What if she had the luxury of considering the possibilities? 

But she doesn’t. She made her choices two years ago and she is not going to put herself through that again. She is not going to put anyone else through that. She is just going to enjoy what time she has left and leave it at that. And she is going to do it in the familiar comfort of solitude.

“The truth isn’t relevant to the job, and that is all this is. This is a job and it is a bitch of a job. If we are going to pull this off I need to focus on what is important, and dating my client is not one of those things.” 

Anna and Rapunzel share a meaningful glance. 

“Don’t do that.” Elsa shakes her head. “This is professional. Nothing more.” 

“Okay,” Anna rolls her eyes again.

“Okay,” Rapunzel echos with a gallic shrug. 

And somehow even though they are agreeing with her Elsa feels like she lost this conversation at some point. 

She knows what they want and she doesn’t suppose she can blame them. They want to give her a reason to stay, to fight, to try. They want to give her a reason to change her mind as if it was that simple. She cannot blame them for not understanding but she cannot make this harder on herself than it already is. She has enough goodbyes to say without adding one more.

They are back to where they started now. The original spread is still in place but their requested drinks are waiting, all just the right temperature, wait in addition. 

She stays close to Anna as she takes her coffee and conspicuously jams herself between her sister and an armrest. Between Anna, Kristoff, and herself the new seating arrangement is a bit tight but she has a point to make not only to her crew and Hans Westergaard, but to herself. She is a professional adult and is perfectly capable of acting like one.

So there.

He seems to take it all in stride, not batting an eye when he takes his coffee in hand and sits comfortably spread out on the couch that Elsa had strategically vacated. As they all settle in, Mister Westergaard reaches for a few more treats for his plate and the rest follow suit. Elsa carefully balances her coffee as she selects one or two choice morsels. The sea hadn’t caught her yet but she couldn’t be too careful. Her stomach is already in knots. 

He leans back, thick auburn hair catching just the smallest corner of light and setting aflame. His high cheekbones cut with highlight and shadow of the mid-morning light. She remembers the feel of his cheek sliding along her own, the slightest brush of the silk fringe of his hair against her fingers as she had clung to him, and her eyes jerk back to her coffee. 

“This is a lovely ship, Mister Westergaard,” she breaks the strange silence. “I assume you have a purpose for showing her off?”

It is not the most graceful entrance to a negotiation, but it is all she can muster. She lifts her gaze to his and sees the calculation, the wants - feels it.

“It’s my father’s. My ship - well - it won’t do for what I have in mind but I think this ship will do nicely.” He sips his coffee as Elsa sets hers aside to reach for her attache case and open it. 

She withdraws her multi-function tablet. “And what exactly do you have in mind?” 

They have loaded his client file with offline capability for which she is glad as she cannot bring herself to ask for a wi-fi password. She notes that the rest of her team are also bringing out their matching tablets and she hopes that they will not have too many corrections and overlaps when they finally get back to the mainframe. 

He settles further into his seat with a smirk and it almost feels like he is building fortification, bracing himself for a fight he is all too sure to enjoy. 

“Your company primarily plans weddings,” he does not ask as he pops a berry into his mouth. “According to your online portfolio your business is about seventy-two percent wedding related, a few baby shower, a Quinceanera, and a few corporate events. Would you say this is a fair assessment?”

So he had done his homework. Or had someone else do it for him. Had he known all of this before he came in yesterday and asked her to recite job titles and functions that were all available on their website? Was this a test the way she had felt yesterday had been a test? 

She sits a bit straighter: “I don’t have the precise statistics in front of me but the majority of our clients have been wedding related, yes.” 

Her mind goes to the contract, unsigned and un-amended. Had he not signed it because he didn’t want them anymore? Did he want someone with more experience outside of the wedding industry? Would she have to go to battle to prove to him that weddings were just as demanding, if not more so, than a standard corporate event? Would she have to fight for this client she wasn’t even sure she wanted? 

It takes all of her self control not to fidget. 

“Why is that? Why the wedding specialty?” 

It is a good question. Most would assume it is the money, but there is much more money to be had planning outside of weddings and for less stress. She has a prepared answer, the standard line, but she nearly chokes on it. 

She holds his gaze, levels the barrel, fires, “We believe love is worth it.” 

The corners of his eyes tighten in - amusement? She cannot quite be sure yet. 

“Has that been your professional experience?” His eyebrow quirks and it appears he takes a bite of his mini-berry tart to keep from smiling. It irks her just how much he irks her. 

Anna clears her throat and Elsa realizes she has leaned forward, gripping her tablet between her hands like her life depends on it, and dear gods she might as well be foaming at the mouth for how crazy she is acting. She straightens, squares her shoulders, and meets his gaze. 

“Our professional experience has been delivering exactly what our clients ask of us to create their ideal atmosphere and execution.” 

She mentally pats herself on the back.

He nods as if to agree with her hidden sentiment. “Good. I don’t want something cold and corporate. I want something beautiful and intimate. I want what you did with Eric and Ariel’s wedding. There was - what? Two hundred people there, three?” 

“Two hundred and eighty eight,” Rapunzel offers with a  grin and Eugene squeezes her knee. 

Hans looks to Elsa with raised brows as if asking for confirmation. Elsa nods her head. “Rapunzel is never off on numbers.” 

“It never felt like that. It was a big event but it felt like having the most amazing dinner party with your closest friends. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.” He addresses the entire group and Elsa feels her insides warm involuntarily at his praise. She doesn’t want his approval to matter, but apparently it does. Then he meets her eyes and everything runs cold, hot, frigid, scalding. The look in his eye sends her heart soaring and stomach plummeting all at once, “It is a night I will never forget.”

And then they are the only two in the world again and her only saving grace is that she is sitting down. She looks down at her tablet screen but her eyes will not focus. 

“We are happy to hear you enjoyed the event,” Anna jumps in this time. “We thought it was a smash. What stood out to you as being a highlight?” 

Elsa’s head jerks up at that question. His gaze catches her with an easy smile that she can feel all the way to her toes, but it isn’t self-congratulatory. He is not commending himself. He smiles as if he is savoring something sweet, something secret.

“There were too many to single out just one, but I remember the dancing being outstanding,” he speaks as if the words are for everyone, but when his gaze settles on her she knows they aren’t. They are for her. 

“So you want dancing at your event, Mister. Westergaard?” She uses his proper name as always, instating her distance the same way she had by forcing her seat next to Anna. 

He shrugs. “To tell the truth I am not a big dancer. It all depends on the partner.” 

Elsa’s ears burn and she nearly chokes on a swallow. No one else knew about their rendezvous. There was no way they could pull the subtext from what he said, but she stills feels it creeping across their conversation like steaming lava. 

She forces a laugh to offset the tension she feels and is relieved when it comes off sounding halfway natural. “Well that does not give us much to go off of, Mister Westergaard. While we are thrilled that Ariel and Eric’s wedding left such a positive impression on you that does not particularly give us a trajectory for your event.”

“I understand.” He nods and turns his head towards the horizon off the bow before bringing his gaze right back to hers. “So why don’t I show you?”

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[reginaldvonspiffington]

The Curse of Creativity by Richard V Kelly Jr

(disclaimer: This piece is edited by the author’s daughter posthumously. No new words were added, only passages deleted or rearranged)

1. The Wrong Kind Of Creativity

At the advanced age of 59 I found myself in a hospital psychiatric ward full of dejected people. I had reached the point of near catatonia, almost unable to interact with the world, unable to sleep, barely able to speak, spending all day in bed staring at the ceiling. My diagnosis was “Major depression with psychotic expressions”. 

Before this, I had composed symphonies and film scores. I had written textbooks, short stories, magazine articles, and half a dozen novels. I had sculpted in wood. I had written the code to create educational and artistic Virtual Reality and Artificial Intelligence applications. I had helped design a new school for creative kids. I had made educational films, created animations to teach Chinese, and written courses in every subject from neural networks to cryptography to architecture. 

Most of my existence had been spent in a world of ideas and imagination. My mind had been a sparkler, shooting off scintillas in every direction: fragments of music, lines of lyrical poetry, drawings, sculptures, computer programs, virtual worlds. But that life was gone. And here I was lying in bed fixated on the light of a bulb leaking in from an air vent.

I was still inventive at this point, but it was the wrong kind of inventiveness, the frightening unacceptable form. I had broken the membrane that separates playful imagination from gibbering lunacy. I still made up stories in my head, but they were all dark, bleak, lugubrious tales. The vent I was staring at obviously led to a parallel world where “they” were watching my every movement. I could feel the heat emanating from the wall, a form of thermal ray designed to cook my brain and mold my behavior. I had progressed beyond the creative person's liberation-from-the-mundane to the disturbed person's liberation-from-the-real.

There was no sense in moving from the hospital bed. Movement didn't matter. Nothing mattered. There was no future. And all the things I had created in the past seemed like a colossal waste of time. What was I thinking writing books no one would ever read and composing music no one would ever listen to? What was the point of that? Or anything else?

* 

The disease I was suffering from, depression, is astonishingly common. Almost 10% of Americans are taking anti-depressants right now. In fact, anti-depressants are the most prescribed drug in America. Almost 20% of women between the ages of 40 and 60 take them. And one in five people will eventually experience depression. So, pretty much everyone knows someone who has suffered from this illness.

But there is a level even deeper than the bottomless well of depression. 20% of people diagnosed with major depression (“major” in this case signifies acute, rather than chronic) also develop paranoia or other symptoms of psychosis including delusions and hallucinations. I was one of those people. I was terrified by my diagnosis, not because of the word “depression” – I knew there were treatments available - but because of the word “psychotic”. This was a term I had often used to describe crazy violent people for whom there was no cure. I pondered my possible future life as a babbling derelict. 

The new psychiatric resident assured me that the psychosis of depression and the psychosis of schizophrenia “are completely different disease processes originating in different parts of the brain”. And I knew intellectually that paranoia was misuse of my imagination. It was the dark side of the creativity that had sustained me my entire life. It was creativity as self-torture. But, even though I understood that my internal chemistry was creating false stories to misguide my thinking, I still felt hopeless, dejected, and persecuted. 

Staring through the fog of delusion, I realized that I had finally reached my secret goal of living in a world entirely of my own creation, but not in the way I had intended. I had hoped to spend every day reading my own novels, watching my own movies, laughing at my own animations, and listening to my own music, comforted by a sensible lyrical self-made universe. Instead, I was enwrapt in a vivid nightmare. My own creative thoughts were tormenting me. I couldn't wake up to escape them, and I couldn't sleep to avoid them.

*

The onset of depression is a slow process. One day I stopped reading. The flavor had gone from my favorite activity, so I dropped it. Then I stopped listening to music; it no longer provoked any feelings. I couldn't write anymore; creating worlds had lost its joy. I stopped watching TV and movies; they were pointless and unfulfilling. Everything I loved doing slipped away. I felt like crying all the time. The future turned black. I stopped working. And I hardly slept, so I became sleepy enough at the wheel of the car that I stopped driving for fear of hurting someone. This led to a shut-in's existence. I became what the Japanese call hikikomori – someone so tired of the world or sensitive to its vileness that they have pulled themselves inward and withdrawn from all contact, often never leaving their room.

Paranoia crept in. I thought the backyard garden was somehow being tended at night by persons unknown who were fertilizing and weeding it while I slept. I thought the morning bird calls were synthetically generated. I thought black and white cars were following me. I avoided my computer because I assumed it had been hacked by a malevolent villain who presented bad news to me in order to blame me for something I didn't entirely understand. And I all but stopped eating because I imagined that each food had a particular meaning, incriminating me in some crime. After 3 months I'd lost 30 pounds. 

As the disease progressed, I spent hours at a time in a swimmy somnambulance, as if I'd been drugged. Think of this predicament for a moment. Imagine being unable to read, write, exercise, work, garden, fix things around the house, chat with spouse or friends, eat, sleep, play cards, surf the net, or watch TV or movies. What would you do? Try it for a day. Eventually, I was reduced to pacing the living room, sitting for hours lost in rumination, or trying to sleep and being unable to. I had always thought of a person's mind as their only defense against a hostile world. Now that my mind had abandoned me, the hostile world came pouring in.

I began to develop severe cramps in my abdomen that curled me up like a baby at night. I felt as if I was giving birth. I developed headaches – a malady I'd never been bothered with before. And I became preoccupied with delusions. I imagined my wife had somehow been divided into different people: a 54 year old, a 40 year old, a 30 year old, and a 20 year old. I spent many nights awake, staring at her as she slept, waiting to see if she would switch to a different version of herself.

By summer's end, my existence consisted of getting out of bed, passing like a weary ghost through each day, void of joy or even interest, enveloped in rumination, miserable at the prospect of another excruciating night featuring nothing but heat, pain, and wakefulness. And it all felt as if it was being done to me. Eventually, I ended up just lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

I knew what was in store for me because my wife's brother had died by his own hand after a similar bout of depression. But, through the miasma of pain and woe, I insisted all was well. My family tried intervening to get me to a doctor, but I refused. And, eventually, my wife, conspiring with my doctor, cried as she urged me to go to the hospital for “just an evaluation”, which I assumed consisted of a casual chat in the emergency room followed by a prescription. I ended up in a locked ward in a hospital bed for a week having horrific nightmares as the medicine kicked in while listening to patients cry out at night for help.

I learned that there are three different psych wards in a large hospital: one for schizophrenics, one for depressives, and one for Alzheimer's/dementia patients. Because there were no spots open in the depression ward, they put me in the dementia ward with people twenty years my senior who had much bigger problems than I had. One woman had no family to look after her outside the hospital: no husband, no siblings, no kids, no living relatives, only a friend. Many people had lost all that was important to them in their lives, and were now losing the memories of their own life stories. The place was frightening, humbling, fascinating, and one enormous eye-opening lesson in appreciation for the wife, family, and friends who came to visit me every day or called me on the phone.

By studying the subject of depression, I learned that the trigger can be many years ahead of the expression, so I may never find out what provoked my downward spiral. Genetics probably had something to do with it. A difficult childhood was certainly a factor. But my guess is that trying to be a creative person in a world that consistently crushes or exploits creative people had the most to do with it.

Depression is like being anesthetized then dropped into a bathtub that slowly fills. The water rises to your back, then your sides, then your chin, then your eyes, then over your head, until all you can do is look at the surface above and blink. 

Depression is like having life peeled away from you layer by layer until nothing is left. Wake up one day and there is no literature. The next day music is gone. Then movies disappear, then working, then moving, then talking, until only breathing remains, slow, mechanical breathing.

Depression is like being overcome by an illness, as if a degenerative virus has taken control and sapped the strength of your muscles, then infected your bones, then infiltrated your nerves, and finally seeped into your head so that every part of you is diseased. 

Depression is like becoming a statue. A running animated active body slows down and finally stops. Arms, legs, and mind freeze up. The inner armature stiffens. Movement ceases. A shell forms and hardens until only an effigy remains that is gradually overgrown by vines and bramble. It starts with a slow numbing to the world, a withdrawal, a closing off to pleasure until the mind turns to marble, motion stops, the last spark of optimism is snuffed out, reason is suspended, rigid misery sets in.

Depression is like being a sun that slowly burns itself out, gradually losing the coronal fires, the heat diminishing, the plasma churning less and less every day, cooling to a smoldering ember, the flames snuffing themselves into smoke, and becoming quiet until all that is left is a burnt brown rock that gives no light or warmth, a cold stone floating in limitless space. 

It took time to recover. After the hospital, I went to a two-week out-patient group with other folks also recovering from anxiety or depression. And, a few months after the hospital visit, I was feeling much better. The two drugs they gave me – one for depression, one for psychosis - worked miraculously. The medicine and the realization that I was actually surrounded by people who cared about my welfare set me back on the road to health. The paranoia dissipated. I gained 14 pounds in two weeks. I started reading again. 

I came away with the impression that this could happen to anyone. There's nothing that separates me from the homeless people in the street except a simple exceeded threshold of neurochemicals.

And I received two great gifts from the experience. The obvious one was the realization that I had a wonderful wife, family, and friends who would help me, people I had formerly taken for granted. But the unexpected gift was the experience – because of the anti-psychosis medicine - of becoming a non-creative person for the first time in my life. That encounter with the non-creative worldview was as interesting an experience as the depression and paranoia had been. 

2. My Non-Creative Life

Within a month after starting treatment I had risen from a waking death. I was talking to people, reading, and watching movies again. But the chemical I was ingesting to stave off paranoia had the effect of preventing me from writing stories, composing music, scrawling art, scribbling computer code, building animations, or even thinking creatively. I could ingest the world again while taking the medicine – through books, movies, music, podcasts – but I could not actually produce anything. The portcullis gate had come crashing down. Access to the creative part of my mind had been blocked.

The disease of depression was about closing off inputs. I couldn't read, watch, or listen when depressed. The cure was about re-opening inputs, but closing off outputs. I could take in the world again, but I couldn't write, film, draw, program, or compose. Under the depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. Under the cure, I could absorb the world, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

The mechanisms of the brain that allow someone to make up stories in order to become paranoid are the same mechanisms that allow someone to make up stories to write fiction. So, the medicament I took, designed to eliminate the alarming connections of paranoia inside my skull, also eliminated the lyrical connections of story-telling. For the first time in my life I got to feel what it was like to be non-creative.

No more five-new-ideas-before-breakfast. No need to keep a pen and an adding machine scroll of  paper beside the bed to jot down nocturnal inspirations. No more getting up in the middle of the night to write a paragraph that had evolved during the murky half-asleep state. No more days spent in animation development. No more running to the keyboard with a new melody in mind. I stopped composing music. I put aside my novels. I stopped thinking in the way a creator thinks. It was as if half of my mind had been carved away. It was as if I were grounded in the material world for the first time. I began to adopt what I imagine the life experience of most people to be. It was fascinating.

*

I've heard people say, “I don't have a creative bone in my body.” My response to that statement had always been mystification and a shocked wonder at what that must feel like. I thought turning off creativity would be like turning off hunger, joy, or reason. I had experienced exactly that - turning off hunger, joy, and reason - during the depression. But I was still creative then. With depression, I couldn't take in anything new, but I could still confabulate. With treatment, I could absorb the world again, but I couldn't create any new worlds in my head.

This was rather astonishing to me. Ordinarily, I'm only thinly connected to the palpable realm. I live so much inside my own head that the physical world is all but meaningless to me. I eat when I'm hungry. I get cold in the winter. It hurts when I step on sharp rocks in bare feet. But, beyond those links to the realm of atoms and sensation, I don't have much of a relationship to the tangible plain. All of my time is spent with ideas, words, interpretations, interconnections, the embrace of novelty, the prosody of life, everything that is above “the stuff” of existence. I usually live a sort of meta life – in the world, but not of it. For the first time, because of the medicine, I could experience only existence, only “the stuff”.

For a year, I woke up, washed, ate, evacuated, watched movies, chatted with people, watched more movies, poked around in the garden, and slept. Then I got up again the next day and did the same. I had no original thoughts. I wrote nothing. I composed nothing. I invented nothing. I began to wonder if I ever would again. I just walked through life, taking it in, but not putting the pieces together to produce anything new. I responded to the world around me as life happened, but I did nothing more than respond. I thought, “So, this is how other people feel? This is what it's like to not have a creative bone in your body?”

I figured my brain needed time to heal, so I let it heal. And I appreciated experiencing the mental life of an ordinary person. I would not want to live that way forever. But it was restful to live without layers of meaning. Everything was only what it was. I could pick up an orange and think only “orange”. There were no associations, no mental rambling, no blaze of connections, no desire to interpret experience, no wish  to create something new, only the requirement to react to what already existed.

Before I knew it, a year had gone by. I began to taper off the paranoia medicine. And then, one day, I stopped it altogether. The day after stopping, my creative mind switched back on. I returned to my usual state of entertaining 40 ideas at once, all jostling for space in a crowded little wet bone box. 

I'd pick up an orange and review in my head the discovery of sweet oranges in the New World as opposed to the sour oranges from India that Europeans had always known. I'd ponder the differences in the etymology of the word “orange” across all the European languages (many countries refer to it as a Chinese Apple). I'd consider the place the color orange fills on the visible light spectrum, the fact that cats and dogs don't eat the fruit – and don't see the color - because their bodies make their own vitamin C, the use of the peel in cleaning products, the vesicles holding liquid in pouches divided into segments to encourage sloths and mammoths to eat them in Pleistocene America. I'd dwell on the toxic coloring sprayed on the rind by growers who want all the fruit to appear ripe, the carnauba wax coating to seal out air and preserve freshness, our past family experiments with planting the seeds to grow indoor orange trees. And then thoughts would flow to kumquats and other indoor citrus plants we'd grown that were invaded by rancher ants that carried in aphids to suck the sap so the ants could drink their sweet excrement, to the plum curculios attacking the Asian pear trees outside, to the use of chickens to clean the ground of curculios, to ...

It was no longer just “orange” in my head. It was endless layer upon layer of simultaneous meaning. The word itself led in a hundred directions. The idea of the fruit led in a hundred more. The color led to yet another hundred. Everything intertwined. And I could see all the interlacing between the items. It was like looking at fabric that stretched to the horizon: the tapestry of past experiences, the rococo filigree of facts, the warp and woof of book learning, ideas knitted together by other languages, the mesh of mental images, braided databases filled with concepts. And there were countless sheets of this fabric, one of top of the other, each one interwoven with all the others.

With the medicine, an orange was a unitary experience. A thing was only a thing. An idea referred only to itself. A word had one meaning and no connection to any other words. Life was stark and simple.

Without the medicine, it was all a multi-colored rain of associations that poured, spat, gushed, spurt, surged, and inundated the landscape, tumbled, turned into braided streams, cascaded off cliffs, fed tributaries, swelled into rivers, and emptied into an ocean of sensation, memory, abstraction, fact, and imagination. And each raindrop was itself a kaleidoscope, a shifting hologram that held its own image in its separate pieces and recursed back onto itself and then out into the vastness.

Sooner or later, I'm going to long for the simplicity of “orange”. But when the medicine stopped, I leapt aboard ship and began sailing again on a sea of associations. The waves splashed me. I linked together the drops and began inventing things again, spinning stories, tying together melodies, inventing characters and worlds, re-immersing myself in the act of creation. 

Being non-creative meant holding only one thought in my head at a time. Being creative meant having an uncountable number of thoughts and tying them all together to make new thoughts that no one had ever come up with before.

Being non-creative was like listening to one radio station all day. Being creative was like listening to sixty radios at once and making up new songs by dipping into the individual songs being played and selecting out pieces that went together in new compositions.

Being non-creative was like being a lumberjack. I would wake up, see the trees, and cut them down. Being creative was like being both the gardener who plants the acorns and the furniture maker who uses the harvested wood.

Being non-creative meant engaging with the quotidian world on its terms. Being creative meant devising a new world on my own terms.

Being non-creative was like eating and sleeping. Being creative was like having children.

3. The Creative Life

Ride the bus to school and watch the kid drawing manga characters in his notebook. Visit a  grandmother's house and watch her sew a dress for her granddaughter. Observe the people who write stories their whole lives – for no other reason than to write stories. Watch the musicians alone in their rooms experimenting with new guitar riffs, new violins arpeggios, new piano chords, new vocal arrangements. Study the people who, unwilling to wait for a real-world teacher, learn from the internet how to make films, video games, and electronic art.

There are people who dance in their rooms at night, trying out new moves in the mirror. There are people who practice story-telling among friends. There are media artists who can't keep their hands off a new technology, who need to twist it to some artistic purpose as soon as they get their hands on it. There are people who make their own furniture to feel the lines of something that came from their own hands. There are people who blow and spin enough glass ornaments to fill the houses of their relatives. There are people who write the screenplays for the movies they want to act in. Creative people are everywhere. But most of us are invisible to the rest of the world.

*

I am one of millions of people who insert their art forms into the cracks of their daily life. They design and sew their own clothing at night. They compose songs to express their feelings. They draw comics and animations to make the mundane fantastical or the fantastical ordinary. They write books without any audience in mind just to create new worlds. They manipulate photographs because they have the urge to bend reality in a different direction. They fill their closets with water colors because no one will take any more of their paintings. They write fan fiction, invent electronic gadgets, build miniatures, construct robots, act in community theatres, slave over computer programs, and carve decoys, not because they see their obsession as the surest way to get rich, become famous, or entice sexual partners, but because they find a kind of joy and satisfaction in the act of creating that nothing else provides.

I am one of these people – someone who has sat at his sequencer, composing music on a Friday night after work, watching the sun set, dabbling at the keyboard, feeling joy, concentrating, and then looking up to see the sun rising again – so focused on the ecstasy of creation that no memory of time passing remains.

I am one of the people who, while getting paid to write software for financial applications at the state treasury, wrote miniature novels in the comments sections of the computer programs. I would adopt different voices – the cowboy, the cheerleader, the astronaut, the 1940s gangster – and write instructions to fellow programmers in those personae. 

I am one of the people who made up stories for his kids every night – a different story each night,  composed on the fly, weaving details of ordinary life into tales of talking animals and villains who always got their come-uppance.

I am one of the people who carved a wooden Christmas creche using penguins as models instead of people. I am one of the people who made enough money in the stock market one year to quit work and then spent his free time making animations, writing stories, and composing nocturnal jazz until the money ran out. I am one of the people who spent a lifetime choosing jobs, not for the money they brought in, but because they featured a creative element that could be explored. I'm also one of the people who got fired from jobs for being creative instead of political.

I am not famous. You have never heard of me. To the world at large I am invisible. But I am creative. In fact, the vast majority of creative people are invisible. And it's not because they are less talented or less dedicated to their craft than the famous people.

The famous people will certainly claim that talent, hard work, and persistence got them where they are, but there is an enormous amount of serendipity involved in becoming famous that no one talks about. For every famous creative person there are thousands of others with more talent and more dedication who are invisible. They are less pretty than the famous people. They are the wrong color, gender, persuasion, size, age. They live in the wrong place, in cultures that don't value their art, or among non-creatives who are mystified by anyone who spends their time having ideas or perfecting skills that do not lead to money, power, or sexual partners. Does that stop the no-names from being creative? Of course not.

These people are creative in ways that society does not value. But so what? Creativity is its own reward.

[parkeraul]

spill your guts or fill your guts

a/n: anon suggested me but for a reason i couldn’t load this gif on the post, so it’s gonna be here lol. as the hoe that i am for james corden and this very specific part of the program, i’m unable to say no.  warnings: disgusting things, cursing. 

“Okay, Shawn-Shawn-Shawnie-Boy,” James calls Shawn, spinning the table filled with all the stuff he likes to call “delicacy”. She’s sitting in front of him, James standing in the middle between them both and, so far, the questions were not that hard to answer (they were but the foods and the smell of them made they both gulp and think twice). “I’m gonna give you...” The host is prolonging the tension, making Shawn turn his face away and look at the crowd, awkward smile showing up. It doesn’t matter what he’s gonna pick, Shawn might probably answer whatever it is so he won’t have to swallow down a bird’s saliva or a thousand-year-old egg — and let’s not get started on the cow’s tongue and fish eye. She’s biting on her lip, nervous for him because it’s not like she can’t suffer along with him, she’s the one who kisses his lips (maybe not for the next couple of weeks, though.) The table stops and James takes his hands off the wood, “I’m gonna give you the bull’s penis.”

Shawn sighs, putting both elbows on top of the table and facepalming with both hands, still not ready to face the weird thing standing below his face. He’s holding his breath, covering his eyes and pressing his palms even harder against his cheeks, blocking every single way so maybe the food will take the hint, create some legs and walk away. His desperation makes him consider that this idea can actually happen if he asks with all his heart.  The audience is clapping and screaming like crazy, making James smile devilishly and feel internally proud of his choice. Y/N, on the other hand, waits for the noises to shut down so she can let go of her lip and breathe before saying.  “You know you’re consequently dragging me down with him, right?” She points to her husband, who hasn’t moved a inch yet.  “Of course!” James says, chuckling. “But after some rub-rub of tongues the taste will go out, I promise you.”  She pokes her tongue out just to the thought of tasting it on Shawn’s mouth. She’d probably make him brush his teeth for the next several hours and drink all the vodka in the world to burn the flavour somehow.  “There’s no fuckin’ way I’m eating this,” Shawn tilts his head up to stare at James, who’s getting a card and tapping if twice against the table. “I don’t care what you have in there, I’m not gonna put this thing in my mouth.”  “Well, Shawn,” James starts, reading the question all over again and struggling to hold back the giggles. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” His shoulders are shrugging repeatedly from the laughing and he starts whimpering, bringing the crowd to giggle with him and at Shawn’s discomfort. “Okay,” He breathes in, laughs fading out and everyone goes silent to hear the question. Every muscle on Shawn’s body starts tensing for dear life — he doesn’t give a shit, he’ll answer whatever he needs to answer: about his career, his childhood, his secrets, the times he didn’t feel good on stage, the place he loved playing at the most... Anything that can free him from eating a bull’s penis. “Shawn Mendes...”  “James Corden.” Shawn answers, legs shaking uncontrollably under the table.  “You and Y/N have two lovely children, that I even met sometime ago...” James says after laughing at his instant reply, highlighting his name like it’s the most normal thing to answer after someone calls your name.  “Yeah, we do...” The audience yells again and clap their hands, Shawn and Y/N smiling proudly although his heart is sinking, wondering what the hell does their children have to do with this clownery.  “And you say you can’t ever favourite one of them, correct?”  “I could never.” At this moment, Shawn’s heart starts beating more calmly, thinking of his babyboy and babygirl at home with Karen, probably asleep one on top of the other with the blankets they carry around the house.  “But,” Corden calls out, raising his index finger in the air. “Which one of them did you have the most fun conceiving?” And as if this question alone wasn’t enough, he completes: “And where did it happen?”  Both Shawn and Y/N’s mouths fall open and they’re silently hoping the kids are sleeping or playing somewhere far far away from the TV. They aren’t older than 10 years old but they’re also not stupid — and oh God they’d hear lots and lots of questions back home, as tortuous as the questions they’ve been answering during the show.  “That’s fucked up, man,” Shawn takes a sip of water, wishing this sip could last forever so his mouth would be filled with something actually decent and he’d be unable to answer. “That’s... Shit!” He hisses the last word, placing his glass back to where it was before. “I... Lemme think.”  “What?” She nearly screams, looking at her husband totally shocked. “Are you actually thinking of answering this question?”  The people are laughing hard along with James, having the time of their lives and for a second no one — I repeat, no one, Shawn included — can imagine what his decision is gonna be and he wishes he was just joking to build up extra expectations, but the memories are rushing back inside his mind and they’re too delightful — if he’s honest — but ugh there’s fucking bull’s penis sliced in front of him and ugh his children are involved and ugh people would probably tweet about this until the end of his days.  “I mean... I think I remember when Raul was—“  “Oh my God, he’s answering!” James can’t believe his ears, he thinks he’s hallucinating or whatever.  “Lord Jesus Christ, Shawn,” She thinks she’s never been this religious before, not only mentioning but praying to all the names she knows that her husband is only playing around. “Do you still wanna be married after this?”  James throws his head back and Shawn, who was starting to gesture his hands in the air, looks at her and laughs nervously. Little Raul was the first one and, although he wasn’t exactly planned, it was a nice story to be told. It happened 5 years ago but it was one of the best unexpected things that’s ever happened to him — in all possible meanings — and he finds himself reliving the moment here and there.  “Don’t you remember, honey?” Shawn asks her, like they’re at home without five or six cameras pointed at them while they’re live for the whole world to see. He lifts his hands up so he can draw the moment better. “Like, we were at—”  “Shut up?!” She kind of asks too, sounding extremely squeaky as she feels her heart missing the beats and the wedding ring on her finger getting cold along with her fingers. She thinks she might faint at any time if he doesn’t stop joking around right now. “Will you shut up, please?!”  “This is so good!” They hear from James who’s nearly crying his eyes off from how much he’s been laughing at the situation, barely okay to speak like a regular person.  “Babe, it’s bull’s penis,” Shawn emphasizes, widening his eyes and grabbing the little bowl and moving it next to her. She pulls her hair back and smells, quickly getting back to stay away from that horrible thing. “It’s simple: we’ll just never tell Raul about this or... Let him watch this interview.”  “So Raul was the best?” James asks, his big smile swelling his cheeks up and almost hidding his blue curious eyes.  Shawn goes speechless, smelling the food and putting the bowl back to its place. Fuck, it’s really disgusting. He looks at it and imagines that the texture is probably awful, and the taste has to be even worse. Knowing little Raul and concluding that he might only grow up smarter than he already is, Shawn rubs his whole face before placing both hands down on the table, tilting his head when he thinks about the other situation.  “Well... Now that you asked I might say that Isabella was also very very fun to—” “No way!” Corden comes out very loud and everyone laughs, some people covering their mouths just like Y/N is doing right now. Yeah, no way.  “I can’t believe this is happening...” She mutters to herself but audible enough for the mic to capture, making the crowd go wilder with her reactions as she looks down with her hand doing its best to support her forehead leaned against it so heavily.  “What?” Shawn opens his arms like he’s questioning a normal thing. “She’s going to be so mad at me if I don’t bring her up! You know she’s jealous.”  “I’m gonna be mad at you if you bring her or Raul up,” She says through gritted teeth, only facing him to point a finger towards his chest like she’s promising to bury a knife deep down his chest at home if he keeps on rambling. “Eat your penis.” She says and Shawn knows she’s not asking, covering his lap with the napkin they’ve offered. She’s coming off dramatically to increase the fun, but a huge part of her is being dead serious. Lord knows what the kids would say and how much they’d be teased in school. They can’t take the risk, that’s not even an option.  There’s a moment of silence when Shawn rearranges himself on his chair, gulping harshly as his hand threatens to go inside that bowl, moving back and forth repetitively.  In a lack of sanity, with a grimace taking over his whole face — hard enough to the skin under his hairline move so strongly that some curls fall from their place — Shawn takes three pieces between his fingers and shut his eyes close, shoving the food inside his mouth and chewing sloppily while he reaches the bucket on the floor, covering his whole face with it and spitting the food as fast as possible.  “Who-hoa!” James says, laughing weakly to let his words out. “That’s Shawn Mendes, everyone!”  People go back to clapping, screaming and whistling and Shawn practically swallows down his water in two large gulps.  “Thank God.” She says under her breath, relaxing in her seat.  “Is the marriage still up?” Eyeing her, Shawn asks raising an eyebrow and his grin is undeniably cute as his sweet puppy eyes study all her face, waiting for her response while he run his fingers through his curly hair.  “It is.”  “Then kiss me.”  “Na-ah!”

[aelaer]

So I have a request: A Stephen who, in the Canon compliant universe, returns to the Sanctum for the first time in 5 years, breaks down and is completely devastated and exhausted from everything that happened. And then a time skip, to Stephen now having moved on, in acceptance. He may still feel a little guilty, but is immensly thankful for intimately knowing the beautiful souls who sacrificed themselves and resolved to cherish and celebrate their lives with their friends and family.

So my goal for this was to keep it under 1500 words. I completely failed that goal.

But that is what I am going to attempt to do with my ask prompts (should I get any more in the future), mostly because I have three multi-chapter stories completely spiraling out of control (and a fourth that needs its last chapter completed) and I will never get my Stephen Strange bingo card done by November if I keep on writing these super long things for every square XD

I’m not terribly pleased with the ending but oh well. Nothing was coming for days and I figured I sat on this for long enough.

Fill for @stephenstrangebingo​ square ‘It’s not your fault’. Warning for canon compliance and my obsessive need to explain away plot-holes with magic-science for a few paragraphs before actually addressing the prompt :P

Title: Black TagRating: GenPairings: NoneWord count: About 3k

The sun was setting over a celebratory New York City when Stephen came again to the New York Sanctum after five years gone. The powers that surrounded the building muffled the cheers and shouts and crying out on Bleecker Street from all the locals, unaware that the man who had helped instigate all their suffering was within the neighborhood.

It had been well over thirty hours since he had come back with the rest of the Disappeared. He was done with giving his report to the other Masters of Kamar-Taj and done with his part in what immediate reorganization was needed for their order. They had finally let him go to rest; he was alone. Wong, for instance, was still settling things as one of those who had survived the Decimation, and still helping others come to terms with what had passed.

And now, now all Stephen could think of was bed. He had washed up a bit in Kamar-Taj, thankfully, for he did not know if he would have had the stamina to do it now. The Cloak more-or-less carried him to his room as his body trembled, complete exhaustion overwhelming his entire being. He fell asleep near instantly.

It wasn’t until twelve hours later, as the dawn broke through his (unnatural) window to an untarnished view of the eastern coastline, that his exhaustion had dimmed to weariness and his mind had time to sort through everything that had happened.

Stephen had not spent his five years gone idle; unlike most other souls that were caught within the Soul Stone due to Thanos, he had an awareness of consciousness due to his connection to the Mystic Arts that made him able to utilize his time, even if time was not something he could feel passing. In those five years he had drawn power from the Soul Stone, a continuous draw into his own spirit to prepare for what he had to do upon his return.

(He knew, of course, that the Stone’s housing was disintegrated into atoms back in 2018. However, its raw energy was not actually gone, just scattered like the rest of the Infinity Stones. The first rule of thermodynamics was something Thanos did not consider, or maybe he did not care so long as that power was not easily obtainable for some time to come. In the end, he supposed it really didn’t matter.)

When he came to on Titan once more, he spared a minute briefly explaining the situation to the others, then asked for complete silence as he got them back to Earth, and more; for he had taken his borrowed energy to send a mental message to all warriors across the universe that he had found within the Soul Stone: The one who sent you away for five years must be defeated. Prepare for battle.

And then he made portals. So many fucking portals, portals he had no business having the ability to create, portals connected to the locations of those warriors across the universe, portals created with the power of the Soul Stone accumulated over five years and fully spent over the course of five minutes.

It was a damned miracle he had anything left in him for battle, but the Soul Stone was unlike any power source he had ever used before, including the Time Stone. Channeling the energy of Infinity Stones was unique to the standard rules of magic already, but the Soul Stone’s power was— indescribable.

So he had been able to battle. To hold himself up. And to watch as people from all over the universe, both the newly resurrected and those that had lived in a broken world, were slaughtered by Thanos’s armies. Slaughtered and with no way to return, not this time; he had used the Time Stone once to reverse death, and he had paid the price with several (hundreds, thousands) of his own deaths.

But the fabric of reality surrounding the battlefield was already torn by the combined actions of both the Avengers and Thanos, and it would tear even further with the final sacrifice; to use the Stones again at that moment, even one, was to rip the threads of the universe to pieces.

And so the dead remained dead.

Even though Stephen knew this, knew the logic behind his actions, knew that in triage situations, some people got the black tag—  it did not stop his stomach from twisting into a knot as he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and weighed down by the consequences of his actions.

In the silence and loneliness of the Sanctum, even while logic echoed in his head, guilt settled in the depths of Stephen’s core and began to make a home there.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Despite pretending everything was okay and despite going through the motions of his duties, the guilt grew into a beast that swiftly consumed Stephen’s being. He felt little need to eat and his sleep was plagued with new nightmares that caused him to work himself into exhaustion (and thus dreamless nights).

By the time Tony’s funeral arrived, he had lost several pounds and the raccoon eyes were becoming more prominent. A small glamour spell helped conceal that, but still Wong looked at him with thinly-veiled concern.

“Are you sure that the invitation was not just for you?” Stephen asked as he found a suit, miraculously still intact after years (literally years) of no wear.

“Of course I’m sure,” Wong said slowly, his voice carefully even. “You were mentioned by name.”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be ready in time, then.”

Wong was still looking at him with that expressionless and yet all-knowing look, so Stephen turned away and went to the ensuite bathroom to avoid uncomfortable questions. They didn’t have time to prod into that right now.

After all, it would be rather rude of him to be late to the funeral of a man he had black tagged.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

His lack of regular meals and general lack of care for eating was a new thing for him in this post-Thanos world (but he just didn’t have time for such trivial pursuits as food, not when he had five years to catch up on and a very damaged border between realities to monitor, to attempt to repair). Stephen got away with not really eating anything substantial for two weeks after Tony’s funeral.

Apparently someone (probably Wong) noticed this and the trend came to an abrupt halt. 

It started with the steward of the New York Sanctum. The steward’s role fulfilled the very real need of seeing to the general care and maintenance of the very magical and rather finicky building; it could only be fully overseen by a fully-trained disciple while its Master was dealing with the mystical threats in their part of the world. Stephen’s steward had been snapped into oblivion at the same time as he and was replaced with someone who spoke very little English. He remained at the post after the return of the Disappeared and generally avoided him, which was all well and good for Stephen. However, two weeks after the funeral, his steward was suddenly transferred to London (with no input asked from him either, the nerve) and the London steward came to New York.

His new steward was a woman: Italian, about sixty years old, five feet tall, and potentially the scariest woman he had ever met.

If anyone ever discovered his thoughts on the matter, they might wonder how that was possible when Stephen had been under the tutelage of the Ancient One. To him, she was the most powerful woman he had ever known, but he did not equivocate power with terror.

Ludovica Guerriero, on the other hand, was downright frightening. She seemed nice on first meeting; he learned she had come to be a part of the order a year after the Decimation, for all her children and grandchildren had been lost in that event (and with that story his guilt buried itself deeper into his soul). Unlike some of the new recruits who left for their families once they returned, Ludovica stayed on; she liked keeping busy and could ‘go visit the family whenever I want to, anyway’.

At first it was fine. Her first day there, she rearranged things her way while Stephen beat back some inter-dimensional boggarts and sealed a rip between dimensions in Guatemala. When he portaled back to the Sanctum, something that could only be called Italian was permeating the halls that led to the kitchen with a rich mix of smells. Unwittingly, his stomach growled.

He stepped towards the kitchen, then paused. He did not have time to sit down and eat if he wanted to finish his research before his body ultimately gave out on him. But as he started towards the stairs, Ludovica’s voice came to him with, “Doctor Strange? Is that you?”

Stephen sighed quietly and then called, “It’s me.” He took the few remaining steps towards the kitchen and halted at the doorway. “Smells good, Mrs Guerriero.”

“I’m glad you think so. I thought I’d do something special for my first night in New York for our dinner.”

Best to tell her immediately of his plans. “Actually, I—”

She continued on as if he hadn’t said a thing. “This was my nonna’s recipe. Parmigiana di melanzane with tomato, aubergine, the freshest mozzarella cheese; all ingredients picked up in my home town today.”

He blinked, momentarily sidetracked. “Sorry, uh, aubergine?”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that not the right word? It is melanzane, you know—” She cut herself off and pulled a stem with only part of the purple fruit remaining upon it. “This plant.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, that’s an eggplant.”

“Eggplant? What a strange name.” She started dishing out the bake. “Would you mind setting the table, doctor?”

“I…” he started in protest, but the look she gave him was so sweet and imploring and kind. It reminded him of his grandmother from when he was young. He exhaled slowly; so much for his plans. “Sure.”

And that parmigiana di melanzane was really fucking delicious. It had no right to be that good.

About a week later, when he realized he had somehow been corralled to the dinner table every night since her arrival (and was a couple pounds heavier because of it), Stephen Strange realized that, underneath that sweet exterior, Ludovica Guerriero was an emotionally manipulative mastermind that knew exactly what to say to get him to do exactly what she wanted. This was absolutely terrifying.

Stephen was going to kill Wong.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Despite the terrible emotional manipulation being forced upon his person regarding (incredibly delicious) food, Stephen somehow maintained the status quo with his duties for five weeks after the funeral. He would work himself to utter exhaustion and only then find some rest (though even with this method the nightmares came on occasion, when he was just not exhausted enough, in his opinion).

(The part of his mind well-versed in psychology laughed incredulously at that line of thinking. He told that part of his mind to shut up and mind its own business, then threw himself in his work again.)

But eventually it all came crashing down. Of course it did; that was his life the last… however many years. Two or seven depending on how one counted.

The most embarrassing part was the situation that ended up being the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was stupid, completely irrelevant, and shouldn’t have even happened, but here he was.

It went like this:

Ludovica was out for the day with her family in Italy, Wong was over to discuss things, and they were both hungry. Neither of them felt like cooking, so.

“What do you want to eat?” Stephen asked as his glamour spell transformed his robes to something more normal for New York. “Pizza? Sandwiches? Thai? Something else?”

Wong thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.”

Stephen stilled his steps; that sounded familiar. Why did that sound familiar? It was just a sandwich—

‘I’ll tell the guys at the deli. Maybe they’ll make you a metaphysical ham on rye.’

Stephen blinked and placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. He heard Wong say, “Stephen?” but it sounded muffled and distant.

‘A… buck and a half,’ Wong admitted.

He sighed. ‘What do you want?’

Wong clapped his hands together and followed him down the rest of the stairs. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a tuna melt.’

The crash of breaking glass and wood, emitting a sound loud enough to almost contest the car accident.

Bruce Banner. Tony Stark. Thanos is coming. Ebony Maw. We swore an oath to protect the Time Stone with our lives. Fourteen million, six hundred and five. 

One.

“…en. Look at me, Stephen. You’re in the New York Sanctum Sanctorum. You’re safe. The cloak wants to reach out to you, Stephen, but I batted it away until you can look at me. You’re safe.”

Wong’s words managed to break through the cacophony of madness splitting his mind and he gasped as he focused his eyes on Wong. At some point he had ended up on the floor. His heart attempted to beat itself out of his chest.

When they made eye contact, Wong said without breaking it, “You can rest on him, but get back if his heart rate increases.” Then he continued, as the cloak gently settled itself on Stephen’s shoulders, “Copy my breathing, Stephen. Inhale… and exhale. Good, just like that. Again, inhale… and exhale. Again.”

His breathing evened out and his heart rate eventually slowed to something approaching normal, and Stephen was finally able to manage words. “Where—  where did you—  learn how to do—  do that?”

Wong didn’t answer. Rather, he asked, “Can I help you off the floor?”

Still in a daze he nodded his acquiescence, and Wong took an elbow and forearm and hoisted him up with the assistance of the cloak. He led Stephen to one of the smaller, quieter parlours within the Sanctum and sat him down in a comfortable chair. “I’ll be right back.”

'Right back’ was certainly not immediate, but Stephen lost track of time and Wong seemed to return nearly instantly, this time with a couple fresh cups of tea. He did not attempt to give it to Stephen, but rather set it down beside him. Clearly he saw just how badly his hands were trembling.

Wong took a seat across from him and brought his own cup to his lips. He said nothing as Stephen further calmed his heart rate and the tremors in his hands became less prominent.

Several minutes of silence later, Stephen murmured, “Sorry.”

“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” was Wong’s answer. Stephen swallowed and said nothing. “You cannot continue going on like this.”

Stephen’s instinctive reaction was denial, but he could feel Wong’s eyes on him and his retort fell before it could even begin. “There’s too much to do,” he said instead.

“There always is,” was Wong’s reply.

The silence sat between them again when Wong did not expound further and Stephen battled against a myriad of emotions within his own mind. He tried to distract himself with tea, but the shaking in his hand was too prominent, too debilitating, so he withdrew it.

Another two minutes passed. “I have been given another chance in this world,” he tried instead. “All my efforts should go to protecting it.”

Wong eyed him expressionlessly. “Your efforts have gone above and beyond most. They have seen the resurrection of all life that was unjustly taken five years ago.”

“Those were not my efforts,” Stephen argued. “That was the Avengers.”

“And you set them on that path.”

The tremors increased. He swallowed heavily. “My efforts caused the entire universe to suffer for years. My efforts brought an intergalactic war to Earth’s soil. My efforts brought chaos and despair that led to so much death.” His voice broke on that last word and he turned his head away from Wong.

Wong permitted him a moment before speaking again. “I was told it was over fourteen million futures you saw.” A shudder ran through Stephen in reply. “At what point did you see this future?”

He swallowed. “Somewhere around four million.”

“And you searched another ten million after.”

His hands would not stop their violent shaking. He loosely gripped at the cloak and it curled around his hand. “I’m not—  I’ve done triage before,” he started. “Battle of New York. We didn’t have the resources to—  to save everyone. We had to pick our cases. Before the accident, it was one of the most difficult moments of my life.

“But this reality was—  it was too much to ask. There were too many black tags. I knew there… there were hundreds of millions of permutations. Maybe billions. But I could not sustain the strength needed to search further. I was not… not strong enough.” And to his horror, he felt tears falling from his eyes. He could not look at Wong.

“Stephen. Stephen, look at me.” Reluctantly, after a brief moment, he turned his face towards him. Wong’s steadfast look was blurred by the unwanted tears. “You are the strongest man I have ever known. What you did no other human being could have accomplished.” Stephen’s gaze lowered. “And you must remember: you saw the paths of the future, but you did not control its course. Everyone had their own free will to make the choices they made; they knew death was a real possibility, but they chose to fight.”

Another shudder ran through his entire body and he felt the cloak increase its pressure against him ever so slightly. He placed his face in his trembling hands and just tried to get a grip.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Stephen,” Wong muttered.

His tenuous grasp on his emotions completely broke. Another full body shudder ran through him before an ugly sob broke past his lips. Once it started, it was as if a dam had been broken; all his grief and guilt released itself then, the all-encompassing pain overwhelming his entire being. Even as he wept and mourned everything that had been lost, the cloak carefully curled about him and Wong remained a silent, steadfast presence at his side. His hand never left his shoulder.

And with the brick wall he had put about his heart finally breaking down, Stephen began to take his first steps towards recovery.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“Oh, Doctor, you have mail.���

Stephen looked up from the tome to stare at Ludovica. “Mail? As in… from the mailbox?”

“Where else does mail come from?” she answered with a soft tut. He took the envelope from her and she left the study.

He frowned at the address. Upstate New York. What was in upstate New York? He carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

Oh. They finished rebuilding the Avengers compound. And… a celebration. A memorial, for Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and all those who gave their lives over a year ago.

And he, Wong, and any sorcerer who wished to attend were invited to celebrate their lives.

Stephen’s eyes grew distant for a moment as his mind went back to that day. The ache was still there, but it did not consume him anymore. It had joined the other poignant, bittersweet reminders of days past, of those gone but still within living memory.

He softly exhaled before standing to head down the hall to Kamar-Taj. He was sure there were many who would be interested in attending, and to remember those gone so that they would not be forgotten.

——

A/N: Someone with the dedicated duty of basically babysitting Sanctums while their Masters fight off things was lovingly borrowed from keshwyn on AO3. Her series of one-shots around this figure are super super super gorgeous, go read them. Wonderful character development (I’ll write a proper fic rec soon)

(had to save it as jpg because for some reason it’s not letting me save as a png on photoshop atm? ugh)(and formatting should be fixed double ugh)

[lady-griffin]

Crypt Teaser

I’ve been wanting to talk about promo since I first saw it, but work has been overwhelming and I needed time to write my thoughts down. So sorry, if no one cares about this promo anymore.

I’m going to be talking about what I think the Crypt promo is hinting or foreshadowing at. But first…

It is very interesting Sansa is made to be in the center at the end, especially since Jon is at first in the center - standing between both Arya and Sansa as the three meet up.

But then as they walk to their statues, he moves around Sansa to be on her side, which puts her in the center. This is a 100% deliberate choice, they could’ve easily had them all walk straight towards their own statues with no rearrangements.

They literally have Jon stay behind Arya and Sansa and then move around Sansa, so he wouldn’t be in the center.

So why?

One reasoning, is that it might actually be to avoid certain Targaryen imagery -- specifically Aegon the Conqueror who in official art (?) and fan art is often flanked on both sides by his two-sister-wives.

The second, I imagined Jon being in the center, flanked on either side by his sisters, my mind went to Aegon and his sister-wives… so perhaps, it’s best to avoid that idea altogether. Especially if you don’t want your audience to be weirded out by Jon and Sansa (if I think what is happening is happening).

It could also be that visually Sansa is the tallest one, so it creates more of a symmetrical aesthetic.

Especially, when both Jon and Arya draw their swords to face the upcoming danger.

If Sansa was on the side as both Jon and Arya pull out their swords, that would’ve sideline her from the action – keeping her in the center, keeps her in the scene.

It could also just be to cement the idea that Sansa is a major player to this season and to the end of the story.

Basically, from just a promo standpoint, it makes sense to put Sansa in the center, though this promo is all about Jon. Either just to avoid certain Targaryen visuals or to reinforce already existing ideas.

Now let’s go into some of the story/plot-driven reasons for this promo and its choices (foreshadowing).

One idea (and I’ve seen this a lot) is that this promo is hinting at the Winterfell Crypts residents waking up and attacking. Now there are many theories about this, so I’m not going to go into all that much. But that seems like a possibility…

Winterfell’s Crypts are mentioned a great deal and the Big Bad is a being who can raise the dead and we know Winterfell will be a major setting so it  all adds up. But in all honestly, I think this a more of red herring idea than actual foreshadowing.

One of the main reasons is that “realistically” most of the bodies in the crypts are just ashes and pieces of bone, so what exactly is going to be reanimated?

Really, I think this season is all about the politics and the Walking Dead is a red herring/false start, so that’s what this promo is potentially foreshadowing for us, not the old kings literally coming back and attacking, but more who will become the next “Stark Kings" or those remembered by history (more about that later).

But reanimated old Kings would be fun to see. 

Jon, Arya and Sansa's meeting or their walk coverging is very nice. It gives the impression of the Starks being a united front and it’s also a nice homage to when Sansa and Arya were first reunited in front of Ned Stark’s statue.

But really, the meet-up/convergence of these three, is reflecting the past tension between Sansa and Arya in the past season(s) (and when they were young).

Their past fights and “stand-offs” are no longer important or relevant when the three walks converge as the two sisters have a new mission when Jon enters the scene. They can’t find amongst themselves, when they have Jon to protect.

But yet, the promo doesn’t end indicating that Sansa and Arya will protect Jon. But instead, that Jon and Arya will protect Sansa.

The idea of Sansa potentially being kidnapped is a possibility and Arya and Jon drawing their swords to protect her, could be hinting at this. But this moment could also just be showing that Sansa is more vulnerable to outside threats, but nonetheless is protected by the Stark family.

The two Starks that might be viewed by outsiders as “wild-cards,” the King who bent the knee and the girl who grew up to be a “Faceless assassin,” have no hesitation in standing against the upcoming threat and protecting their own.

The Starks are a unit or pack.

Also, while I’ve brought it up, it is important to note that Jon was in the center, but moved to Sansa’s side. This might be a stretch, but this might indicate that Jon is not the key to get the Stark Alliance.

Daenerys and her camp (as well as Cersei) both focused on Jon being the key to getting the North (which makes sense, he was the King). But Jon moving to the side, putting Sansa center and front, shows the audience who the central figure to the Stark Family is.

Which leads into the idea, that Sansa is central to the Starks’ Future.

Multiple times she has been referred to as the Key to the North and has been viewed as the legitimate heir to Winterfell. And both Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton (and Littlefinger) believed whoever sired a child with Sansa, would be in control of Winterfell as that child would be the future Lord.

So, Sansa is definitely a key to the future of House Starks in several ways.

The real interesting thing though, is this promo isn’t about Sansa or even House Stark as a whole.

It’s all about Jon.

All the lines pertain to him and it’s about who he really is and his story, and yet Sansa still gets a lot of attention. More so than Arya, as the time between them isn’t split evenly. Hinting that Sansa plays an important part to who Jon currently is, but also where his story and future are going.

And I know I keep repeating this, but it’s odd to make Sansa the central character in the end – as

A. The Promo isn’t about her B. Jon is a more central character to the story

But really a main idea that I think some people are overlooking, is that Jon is heavily connected to the Starks and their present and future. He is an integral part to the Stark Pack.

The Intro Walks of Jon, Sansa and Arya.

Jon’s 1st walk is 17/18 seconds long Jon’s 2nd walk is 9 seconds long 

26/27 seconds altogether

He gets the most time and two separate walks to boot.

This makes sense, as he is the focus of this promo and is one of the biggest focuses of the show’s overall story.

Jon walks right past Lyanna’s statue. This is a reflection of Jon always wanting to know who his mother was, but was blind (lied to) about the truth. He walks right past the truth and his real mother and later pauses and stares directly at the man (Ned) he based so much on who he is now.

It is telling that Lyanna’s line is spoken before Ned’s though.

Indicating, that Jon will learn of his true parentage, falter in his identity, only to be reminded (by Ned’s line) that he’s never been a Stark in name and yet, has always been a Stark in blood.  

When Ned’s Line is spoken and Jon is looking at Ned’s Statue, it really does come across that Ned is directly talking to Jon in that moment. While Sansa also looks at Catelyn’s statue, it’s different as we don’t get the impression she can hear Catelyn’s words.

Jon can hear Ned’s words.

Also Lyanna’s line, while I think is reminding us of who “Jon really is” isn’t the one where she told Ned that Jon was Aegon Targaryen, instead it’s her begging Ned to protect Jon.

Though Robert, who Lyanna afraid would hurt her child, is now gone. So who is this past plead about now? The Starks? Maybe. Or perhaps, another Targaryen who might see Jon as a threat.

Lyanna’s line is also interesting, because her pleading is connected to Jon being taken in by Ned and Ned claiming him as his son, which caused a rift in Ned’s marriage and in the Stark family.

Finally, I think both Lyanna and Ned are indicators of who Jon will choose in the end. Jon is a Stark through Lyanna, but also chooses to be a Stark through the father he chooses.

This is further emphasized by the statue of Jon in the end. As in the books, the statues are really only reserved for the former Kings and Lords of Winterfell, but will get to that in a bit.

Jon’s parentage reveal will have a big impact on Jon, as it should.

A big portion of Jon’s identity is constructed around him thinking Ned is his father and he himself is a bastard. Learning that he’s not Ned’s son is going to shake Jon’s world, no matter what, but also learning that he is a Targaryen and has a claim to the Iron Throne is a whole other thing on top of that.

Before Jon’s first walk ends, he looks back and pauses, almost as though he heard the feather fall, only to turn back to continue forward.

This could be interpreted as many different things, but for me it really comes down to Jon “hearing” Lyanna. Everyone is so focused on Rhaegar being Jon’s father, that they forget Lyanna is the mother Jon never knew he had and has wanted from the very beginning.

I think there will be a moment where Jon is in front of Lyanna’s statue, perhaps finding a connection to a woman he never noticed all the times he was in the Crypts of Winterfell as a child. Always so focus on the Old Kings of Winterfell and how he would never be one.

Jon turning back to continue walking leads into Sansa’s walk beginning – at first this makes it seem as though she is just following him down the same corridor, but she is not.

But nonetheless, the feather falling ends Jon’s walk and begins Sansa’s. 

Sansa’s Solo Walk is 6/7 seconds long

Her walk is less “dynamic” than Jon’s, less overall shots and plot info being laid out, but she looks back onto her mother’s statue as we begin to hear Catelyn’s voice and the beginning of her quote --

“All this horror that has come to my family…”

Catelyn’s full quote is about how all the tragedies that have fallen upon the Starks was because she couldn’t love Jon.

What has happened to the Starks has nothing to do with the fact that Catelyn ostracized Jon, but it is still an important character moment for Catelyn and one of the few lines she has about Jon.

It also puts a certain idea into the audience’s head –

The salvation for the Stark family, the future where they won’t be the victims of countless tragedies, is contingent on them embracing and loving Jon.

However, unlike Cat, who couldn’t love Jon because she thought he was Ned’s son, the Stark children (Arya and Sansa), might have the opposite problem.

Finding it difficult to accept Jon when they find out “he’s not one of them.” Though that might be more Arya and less Sansa, but will get into that in a bit.

I would like to point out that both this teaser and the Tapestry one, bring to the forefront the pain Catelyn felt for Ned bringing Jon home and the rift it caused in their relationship.

You could easily bring up Jon’s parentage without that aspect, so it’s interesting that idea keeps being mentioned. But back to the walk -

Jon’s walk ends with him looking back as the feather (Lyanna) fell to the ground.

Sansa in the show has been associated with both the feather and Lyanna’s statue as well as sporting if not the same hairstyle in the promo, one very similar to Lyanna’s when she was married to Rhaegar. Possibly indicating a bridal future for Sansa, but also -

That Jon’s connection to the Starks are through his mother and Sansa (possibly his future wife).

Overall the emphasis on the feather is quite interesting.

Though it makes sense, since it’s the only iconic item to Lyanna Stark within the active narrative of show, the blue rose is hinted at in the promos, backgrounds, and extra featurettes of the show, but it’s not as prevalent in the show as it is in the books.

When I first watched the promo, I really thought Sansa was going to pick the feather up from the ground –

Showing the connection between Lyanna, Jon, and Sansa, as while as telling us that Sansa will carry on Lyanna’s dying wish of protecting Jon. And connecting aunt and niece as connections for Jon to his Stark family.

The first part of Catelyn’s quote is the end of Sansa’s walk, but the second part is the beginning of Arya’s quote.

Arya’s Solo Walk is about 4 seconds –

Arya’s walk is shorter than both Jon and Sansa’s and she doesn’t look at any statues (past figures). So, you might think there’s less to discuss.

However, the second part of Catelyn’s voiceover is over Arya’s walk.

“…it’s all because I couldn’t love a motherless child.”

Catelyn line being over both Arya and Sansa, connects the two sisters to not only Catelyn, but also Jon and put forth the challenge of them being better than their mother in how they treat him.

However, the part of how Catelyn couldn’t love Jon, could be hinting at a future struggle for Arya.

Arya has certainly changed from the girl she used to be.

In many ways, her world view has become more than a bit severe. And Arya has grown a strong sense of place with her identity as a Stark and seeking revenge for those who’ve wrong the Starks in the past.

She slaughtered the Freys for the Starks and was more than willing to behead the Northern Lords in order to protect Jon.

While that last one might indicate Arya would never “turn” on Jon, it also shows that Arya’s loyalty might not be exactly to who Jon is now, but to her memory of him. To her family.

If she feels he doesn’t have the same loyalty, then….

Arya is also not exactly the most open person anymore, nor understanding – especially when it comes to political games or shows.

Sansa might be willing to give Dany Winterfell or at least be willing to say as much and bear and grin it, but Arya might have a harder time swallowing her tongue.

While Jon and Sansa take after who Ned really was, someone who was quite capable of deceiving those he loved and doing dishonorable things for a greater purpose. Arya (and Robb) seem to take after the image of who their father was, the honorable man who never strayed from the path of what he believed was right (though Arya is a much darker and twisted take on that idea)

And Arya also has gained some of Catelyn’s less than admirable traits, so...

Plus, Catelyn’s struggle was that she couldn’t love Jon, because she believed he was Ned’s bastard. So, it would be interesting that Arya might struggle with her relationship with Jon, because he’s not Ned’s bastard.

Perhaps not that literally, but --

Arya and Jon always got along, as the two outsider children and Arya found comfort in Jon being different in how she thought she was different (though arguably young Arya was likely projecting onto Jon).

But Jon being revealed to not being her brother and him possibly playing the political game and showing more loyalty to Dany, even just for show, might not go over well with Arya.

I’m not saying Arya is going to hurt Jon, but there might be some tense moments. Especially since…

Jon and Arya’s reunion has been built up so much by the fans and the characters within the show as being this wonderful and sweet reunion to happen - so there being tension between these two wouldn’t surprise me.

But while I think this might a struggle for Arya and the seed for some tense moments, Arya will protect her family, no matter what.

The Statues in the crypt are great in my opinion. Doing the wonderful surface-level job of hinting at their deaths (like many of the season promos have done). Especially since, Jon and Sansa, walked past fallen characters who now have their own statues.

Perhaps this is telling us these three will die in the upcoming battle, or perhaps the statues are telling us who will be remembered in history.

You can’t have a legacy until your dead (and you will die in the end).

Jon, Sansa and Arya will be remembered. The Statues to me don’t really signify their upcoming deaths, but that they are immortalized by their actions and the present for future generations. 

Bran being absent is very telling. Showing us what role, he might play in this story.

Bran and his story are strongly tied to magic and the Night King, his own absence from the trailer and his lack of statue, indicates that while he might be integral to defeating the Others (him, not dragons), he won’t have a role to play afterwards.

He might not be remembered as an important figure in history or at least not in the political history. While Jon, Sansa and Arya will be remembered just as Arya remembered Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys.

Its also possible, Bran might get his own promo highlighting his importance to the story, but separating him from the Stark narrative.

Basically, I believe, the statues are telling us who will be important in the history books. Those three will be the ones who future generations remember when they’re playing with each other as kids and who the future songs will be about.

The Torches Going Out

This is far from new. The candles, torches or fireplaces going out representing the Others and Winter coming has been a stable to GOT promos, since pretty much the beginning. But it’s also starting to take on a different meaning, or not different, but clearer.

Fire may destroy the wights, but we’ve seen within the show itself that even dragon fire is nothing to the Night King. Fire (the dragons) aren’t effective when it comes to White Walkers.

Actually, and this is random, but when I saw this and when I was thinking about it, I thought of the matching phone game – Empires & Puzzles. In the game,

Fire is effective against Nature and Nature is effective Ice and Ice is effective against Fire.

Fire (dragons) can destroy the Weirwood Trees (Winterfell)

The Weirwood Trees (Bran) can destroy the White Walkers

The White Walkers can destroy the Dragons

Similar to the Tapestry Promo, this may be less of a war between two opposing force, but three forces.

Either way I think promo worked really well and I’m excited to seeing the Starks once more (which is the true goal of a promo). Sorry for the messy writing and analysis. 

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

The Eel River Inn (13/?)

Bucky stays with you, looking after you and making sure that you don’t do anything too bad. Your library of books gets reorganized several times, the whole house gets cleaned from top to bottom and your tools get rearranged in order of exact weight while you struggle to rein in all the impulses.

He keeps an eye on you but otherwise just lets you do your thing and reminds you to eat and pushes Gatorade on you as often as you’ll let him. On Monday, he drives you to see your therapist. You’re not wearing shoes and your feet are on the dash bored. You look a little like a sulky teenager. You don’t want to do this, he knows you don’t. But between this and seeing your mom yesterday, you had to. Bucky put his foot down, he might have done it gently but he still didn’t give you many options. You could get in the car willingly and he would drive you or he’d set up the laptop in your office and you could skype... The second option had been your preference but the connection had been shaky. So now he was driving you to town.

He pulls up to the curb and opens your door. He’s going to walk you in and wait. You like to wander off when you're like this, according to Sarah. He sat in a waiting room chair and watched as Your therapist took a quick mental assessment of you. You were clean and your hair was in a messy bun to get it out of your face. The only out of place thing was the lack of shoes but... On the grand scale of things Jamie had seen, that was just symptomatic of shoes being irritating and you not caring enough about the social convention to power through. The therapist gave Bucky a small smile and let the door shut. 

Bucky played with his phone for something to do. He had an hour to kill. He hoped you actually stay the whole hour. A lot of the time you didn’t. You liked your therapist but you hated talking about your feelings. And your symptoms. Or your problems. You were the least complain-y person Bucky had ever met. Bucky complained all the time. He vented to you about missions. About Sam. About Steve. About how much he really wanted Cherry pie but no one apparently fucking sold it. He liked bitching. It wasn’t productive but after he got it all out he felt better... You wrote about it. Handled it privately and then let everyone read it. 

When the office door opened you’d been crying. Evidently, some nerves had been touched on and it was painful. You walked out to the car and paused for a second, leaning against the building and looking up at the sky. You wish you had a cigarette. Preferably menthol. That had hurt. You didn’t like talking about your childhood. About your mom. Or the slew of not so great stepdads and boyfriends. Bucky gave your therapist a questioning look but she only smiled a little, giving him nothing. She wouldn’t even tell Sarah what was talked about in sessions. She had no information releases on file. You liked it that way. 

Bucky followed Lady and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one for you. He didn’t like it but, he knew you didn’t do it often. You took it and took a drag, exhaling slowly. “You okay, baby doll?” he asked softly. 

“No,” you say shaking your head. He takes the hand that doesn’t have a cigarette in it and squeezes gently. 

Temporarily at a loss for words. Usually, you’re fine. You’re okay. You could be bleeding out on the floor and still tell him you’re fine. This makes him want to take you home and give you tea and cookies until you’re warm and sleepy and happy again. When you finish your cigarette and dispose of the butt, he helps you to the car and opens the door. “Where to, sweetheart?” he asks smiling a little. “I just want to go home... But first, Jamie sent a new scrip up to the pharmacy, can we go get it please?” Bucky nods, “What all did they change?” he asked starting the car. 

“Not much,” you say shrugging, “New mood stabilizer. And upped my anti-depressant. That I’m not happy about. I can’t think right for a while when they up that. It feels like my brain is underwater.”  He stops at the light and makes a soft sympathetic sound. You spend a lot of time in your own head. Writing, inventing, creating. Not being able to do that properly bothers you. He takes your scrips and your bank card. He won’t use it. He never does, but he always takes it. He likes buying things for you, mostly because you never ask him to. He’s not sure if it’s pride or respect for him but you’ve never once asked him for anything. So he was constantly finding you little things. You liked plushies and nice ink pens. Books, ice cream... You were a simple creature. You had simple tastes. So when they had your favorite candy bar at the register, he picked one up for you too. 

You hadn’t eaten yet and you’d have to eat to take your medications anyway. 

He ignores the look that the pharmacist gave his arm and paid for your medications and the candy bar and headed back to the car. When he got there, you were gone. Lady was also gone which was a comfort but... “The fuck?” he said softly looking around. You weren’t wearing shoes and it had been maybe 10 minutes. You couldn’t have gone far.

You weren’t okay. You were in that odd place between manic and leveled out where you knew you were being crazy and it made you feel worse. Bucky got in the car and started driving, looking for you. Looking for Lady too in case something had happened and she was looking for help for you. He turned down a side street at random, trying to look for anything that might have attracted your attention. There was a park nearby he knew. You didn’t have to wear shoes at the park. 

When he got there, Lady was laying in the shade and you were sitting cross-legged on top of the monkey bars, staring at the sky. The bottoms of your feet were filthy and Bucky was willing to bet probably sore. The pavement was rough and getting hot. Even with the thick callous, you had built up from spending as much time sans shoes as possible, it was probably uncomfortable. 

He watched for a moment and sighed. You were safe, at least. He’d half expected you to be in a tree. You could climb awfully fucking quick for a 28-year-old woman when you had a mind to do it. Yesterday when your mom had shown up and ripped into you, you’d been on the roof trying to get it measured for solar paneling. Bucky was terrified you’d lose your footing and fall but like a mountain goat you made your way around, picking a path. After she left you’d hid in your office lost in organizing books and trying very hard not to think. 

That’s clearly where you are right now. He wanders over and sits with Lady. You’re in no danger so he’s in no hurry. In the grand scheme of things, letting you work some shit out and take a breather for a few minutes in a slightly odd place is the least of his concerns. You just needed some time. So he stroked Lady’s ears and got comfortable. If being a sniper taught him anything it was patience. 

[ygofanfics]

Gateway to the Past

A/N: I really like the thought of the priests in modern day, especially if they all had some/all of their memories. So have Mahad basically spoiling the rest of the plot to Yugi and Yami :p

Not proof read cause literally no time, but I wanted to put something up. 

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh

Yugi gave a sigh as he flipped through the cards in his deck, going over ever card for what felt like the hundredth time. He was supposed to meet with Joey so that they could get themselves prepared for Kaiba's new tournament, Battle City. It was the hottest news and everyone was excited, the entire town bustling for the first time in a while. But in typical Joey fashion, his friend was late, having called him earlier stating that he had overslept. That had been about ten minutes ago and while Yugi didn't have anything else to do, he didn't really have much else to occupy him other than his deck.

Rearranging himself, Yugi glanced down at his Millennium Puzzle for a moment, faint smile coming to his face. He kind of wished that Yami was there so that the two of them could talk. But the spirit of the puzzle seemed to like his time alone, so Yugi didn't want to disturb him. They were still trying to get used to one another, bond fairly stable but still a bit awkward from time to time. Although Yugi didn't mind that all too much. It was nice having someone around who seemed to be just as awkward as him.

Giving a faint chuckle, Yugi rested a hand on the puzzle while he glanced around at the people walking past. As his eyes flickered about, he noticed someone stopping a few feet away from where he was seated, causing him to look over.

The first thing that he noticed was that the man was tall. Very tall. He had long brown hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to be locked on him. More specifically, his Millennium Puzzle. The hand Yugi had on his Puzzle tightened a bit, a small wave of anxiety. After dealing with multiple people making grabs at his Millennium Puzzle in the past, someone that he didn't know even cutting a glance at it made him immediately cautious.

That anxious air didn't leave him as the man walked up to him, curious look on his face. “Hello, I couldn't help but notice your pendant. It looks quite...interesting,” the man stated.

“Umm, yeah. It's...interesting, I suppose. You don't really see pendants this large, huh?” Yugi responded awkwardly, not quite sure what to feel.

The man just hummed in respond, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit before his expression cleared. “I actually had a few questions, if you did not mind me asking.”

Still very much cautious, although not really have much of  a reason to turn down the man, Yugi slowly nodded his head. In the back of his mind, he could feel Yami's presence waking up, the spirit materializing next to him in an instant. As the strange man sat down, Yami occupied the only other empty seat, eyes trained on the man.

“I suppose I should get right to the point. You see, I am currently on a...journey, if you will. I am searching for seven items, all possibly related to your puzzle. Given that you are in possession of it, it would be safe to assume you are already aware of the power your puzzle holds, correct?” the man rattled off suddenly, leaning in and speaking in a low voice as to not draw attention to them.

Not quite sure what to say, Yugi just slowly nodded his head, resulting in the strange man giving him a smile. “I thought so. After extensive research, I've concluded that many of the items seemed to have been making their way to this small town. Although given the gravity of the situation at hand, it does not surprise me in the least.” The man cut himself off, glancing around quickly before scooting his chair closer.

“What I am about to tell you is very important. As crazed as my words may seem, I ask that you please heed them, lest the destruction of this world be all but guaranteed,” the man started off, quickly getting Yugi and Yami's attention. Both of their eyes widened in shock.

It seemed almost too good to be true. As such a short time between Yugi solving the puzzle, and the end of Duelist Kingdom where they both established the promise of helping Yami get back his memories, suddenly someone comes to them with information that could prove useful. Yugi immediately sensed the skeptical energy coming from his other self. Yami was always more cautious, more suspecting than him. It was honestly a trait that Yugi himself should probably acquire at some point or another, if only to keep them both out of harm's way.

And yet, what other choice did they have? Neither of them had any idea where to even start looking when it came to getting clues. Yugi's grandpa didn't know much else other than legends, and his colleague wasn't much more help. The internet, which very useful in basic knowledge about the time period, didn't exactly help when they had no idea which time period to even start looking through.

“What do you know?” Yugi asked softly.

Mouth pressed together tightly, the man started, “I am sure you are aware of the existence of the Millennium items, and how your Puzzle is one of the seven. These items were created in order to protect the country of Egypt. But the items had a dark past. In order for these items to be created, an entire village was sacrificed in order to give the items their power.” Mahad's hands tightened, but his face gave away no emotion.

A feeling of horror was on Yugi's face, and across their bond, he felt the same coming from Yami as well. He found it hard to believe that the same item that had brought him the spirit of the puzzle, as well as the friends that he has come to love, was the product of a sacrifice. And yet, it would explain the stranger aspects of the puzzle.

Not paying Yugi any attention, Mahad continued on with his story. “When a lone survivor made himself known, the start of a great, horrid battle begun. There were many casualties to the battle, including the pharaoh himself. The pharaoh sacrificed himself in order to protect his kingdom and his people, sealing both himself and Zorc away in his Millennium Puzzle.”

Everyone's eyes glanced at Yugi's Puzzle, which suddenly felt heavier hanging from Yugi's neck. Looking to his side, Yugi saw that Yami looked shocked, horrified, sad...There were several emotions flinting across the other male's (pharaoh's?) face. Noticing his line of sight, Mahad followed his gaze to the empty seat across from him. His eyes narrowed for a moment, before they widened the tiniest bit.

“You are able to see him, aren't you?” Mahad asked.

Yugi nodded, hands cradling the puzzle. “I've been able to see him for a while. He's...he's been beside me ever since I solved the puzzle,” Yugi answered, small smile coming to his face. But the smile quickly left as he looked up at Mahad. “Why are you telling us this anyway? I mean, not that I don't believe you, but...,” Yugi trailed off, not quite sure what to say at this point.

“I fear that the power of Zorc will be resurrected once again. Lately, I have felt a tense feeling that I have not felt in...quite sometime,” Mahad answered. “It is the pharaoh's destiny to defeat Zorc and to accept his true place in the afterlife.”

Face tensing, Yugi gave a slow nod. Afterlife...Funnily enough, it had never truly hit him that Yami was dead. He was a spirit stuck in an ancient Egyptian item, with no memories and no leads to figuring out what his purpose was. And now, this mysterious man, with seemingly all the answers that they have been searching for, has opened a can of worms that Yugi wasn't quite sure if he wanted open.

“How do we stop this Zorc guy from coming back?” Yugi asked.

Mahad sighed, a look of defeat coming to his face. “I am afraid that I don't have that answer for you. Zorc was sealed within the confines of the Millennium Puzzle and without the spell, no one can resurrect him. But things have changed now. I'm afraid you have only my word and my instincts to base your judgement on, but I do feel as though a dark force is at work to bring back Zorc once more.”

It didn't sound good. Honestly, if it was dealing with anything else, Yugi probably would have just brushed off the man's story and went about his business. But he has witnessed first hand the insane nature of the Millennium items. He's seen the items steal souls, destroy minds, enter other dimensions...and there was the spirit of an Ancient Egyptian pharaoh stuck inside his puzzle. At this point, everything that the man said was pretty normal.

But if they chose to believe the man and go with his word, that would mean eventually accepting the fact that he would have to see Yami off once and for all. And while he knew that would happen eventually, he had thought that there would be more time. He thought that the more the pushed that day behind in his mind, he wouldn't have to worry about it. But now, he'd have to accept that idea, and work to help Yami complete his destiny.

It was a hard pill to swallow, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to digest it.

A/N: Ahhhhhh cliff hanger. Idk what this story is, hence why is strangely cut off right there, whoops. :p Also I have like no time for a heavily detailed story, so if stuff doesn't add up/make sense, I'm sorry.

[operationrainfall]

Title Dicey Dungeons Developer Terry Cavanagh, Marlow Dobbe, chipzel Publisher Terry Cavanagh Release Date August 13th, 2019 Genre Strategy, Dungeon Crawler Platform PC Age Rating N/A Official Website

I decided to play Dicey Dungeons at E3 this year on a whim. At that time, I had no idea it was by the madman behind VVVVVV, Terry Cavanagh, or that it had music by chipzel or art by Marlow Dobbe. All I knew was I liked the rogue genre and it had giant dice fighting through dungeons. That was enough to pique my interest. But now that I’ve been playing the game pretty much non-stop since I got the review code, how do I actually feel about Dicey Dungeons? Let’s roll the dice and find out.

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The setting of the game is a sort of twisted, infernal game show. It’s run by none other than Lady Luck, and as gamblers worldwide can attest, she’s a real bitch. She transforms all the contestants into giant dice and then hurls them through several floors full of monsters and lackeys to win their heart’s desire. Even when they win, the odds are against them, at least until you are able to change the mind of her head minion, the Jester. Then things start to change, and you begin to see a way out. But it’s a long road to that point, and it’s full of delightful insanity.

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At the beginning, you can only select the Warrior. He’s the most basic and easy to understand character, but you’ll eventually unlock 5 others (well, technically 6). There’s also the Thief, Robot, Inventor, Witch and Jester. The 7th kinda sorta character is the Bear, but you can only play as him by stealing a magical potion as the Thief. While the Warrior is best for starting out, each other character gets progressively more complex than the one before it, and the difficulty of playing them is denoted with stars. The hardest to play is the Witch, and she’s no joke. This review would have been done sooner but I had this stupid itch to beat the game as her once, and several hours later, I still haven’t succeeded.

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Which brings us to the difficulty of Dicey Dungeons. This is not for the faint of heart. Not only are the odds stacked against you, they’re so stacked you can easily die in the first floor of a dungeon. Considering there’s only 6 floors total, that’s a challenge. But it’s not an unreasonable one, so long as you comprehend each character’s unique mechanics. Though they’re all very different, they share some similarities. Each one attacks by using dice to activate attacks and cast spells. Another commonality is the Limit Break. After taking enough damage, this meter will be charged, and you’re given the opportunity to use a powerful special ability. For the Warrior, you get to deal double damage with a Fury attack, whereas the Thief uses Unlucky Roll to create 4 extra dice with a value of one each. Each character also levels up as you defeat enemies, granting you more dice to use each turn of combat, as well as increasing your base health. Other than that though, things are gonna vary dramatically.

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Each character is essentially its own unique way to play Dicey Dungeons, and even has unique equipment they’re more likely to find in chests strewn throughout the labyrinth. Take the Thief for example. He lacks the impressive damage output of the Warrior, but trades it for reusable multi-attack skills such as the Dagger. He essentially needles opponents to death, whittling them down 1 HP at a time. He’s also very adept at using Poison skills. But where he gets really interesting is his ability to randomly steal an attack from enemies at the start of every turn. If you’re fighting a snowball hurling snowman, the Thief will get to toss snowballs back at him. Or take the Inventor instead, who deconstructs a piece of her equipment each turn to build a new free to use Gadget. Then there’s the Witch, who has a book of spells she can place and cast at will, so long as she rolls the proper dice corresponding to a specific spell value. It’s a very, very complex game, despite the basic loop being pretty simple. You grind through 6 floors, fight enemies, level up, choose new equipment and try and beat the boss at the very end. The foes and bosses you face are completely random too, and there’s something like 60 unique flavors. If nothing else, you won’t get bored playing Dicey Dungeons at all.

Roll On for Page 2 ->

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As you progress through each level of the dungeon, you’ll have a few things to make your life easier. One are the aforementioned chests that contain equipment to keep you breathing, such as curative scepters, powerful shields and sharp swords. There are also random apples you can gobble down as you wander, restoring a few health. But what really has the potential to help are the vendors you encounter. One is just a standard shopkeep, and you can spend coins you earn from defeating foes to buy new items. Another trades one of your items for one of theirs, for no price. The last, and my favorite, is the blacksmith. They will upgrade any piece of equipment for free, enhancing their effects and sometimes shrinking their size so you can fit more stuff in your backpack. To store it, you rearrange blocky representations of your equipment from the pause screen.

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If that wasn’t enough, there’s other aspects that spice the game up. One are Parallel Universe Episodes, which are unique challenges with special rules for each character. There’s an early one where the Warrior starts out with two massively powerful axes, but is also Cursed, meaning there’s a guarantee one attack will fail each turn. These Episodes really make things interesting, and are there for you when you feel you’ve gotten too good at the game. There’s also something called Bonus Round, which are the challenging final Episodes you’ll unlock for each character. And as you play, you’ll satisfy challenges, which can be redeemed for collectible trading cards for all the foes in the game. And if all that wasn’t enough, there’s always the final battle against Lady Luck herself.

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In case it wasn’t readily apparent, I’m badly addicted to Dicey Dungeons. A typical successful playthrough can take anywhere from 10 minutes to a half hour, but you’ll be dying a lot in between your rare successes. I loved playing as the distinct characters, and discovering techniques to defeat the varied bestiary in the game. You only need a mouse to play the game, and you drag and drop dice into slots to activate your attacks. Some attacks require odd rolls, others require even, some have a minimum or maximum value they will accept, and others eat a bunch of dice to unleash a powerful effect. My mind is boggled by the amount of elements in the game, though I do find I internalized a lot of it from just playing again and again. Though most enemies can be defeated relatively easily, the bosses are pretty challenging. One example is a goth knight who charges her powerful shield, deflecting attacks and then ramming you with it. Or take the diabolical girl scout Madison, who looks like a lightweight and can defeat you in a couple turns. A personal favorite is Buster, the dragon, who burns all your dice each turn, causing you harm whenever you use them. I keep finding new things to enjoy in Dicey Dungeons, which helps offset my frustration when I die again and again. And keep in mind I consider myself a veteran at the rogue genre, taking great joy in playing games like The Binding of Isaac repeatedly, and nearly 100%ing Guild of Dungeoneering. So be ready for a lot of pain.

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Aesthetically, Dicey Dungeons is a very pleasing game. Each and every character is colorful and cartoony, and bursting with personality, thanks to the art stylings of Marlowe Dobbe. There is a ton of creativity here, from buff snowmen to hungry vacuum cleaners to demonic marshmallows. The music is no slouch either, thanks to the tremendous skill of chipzel. It’s a lively mix of chiptunes with lots of different styles thrown in for good measure. Though I will say, I accidentally spent a few hours playing the beta of the game, and found I liked the music better in that version. Probably cause everything was more bombastic and loud. However, I in no way miss the cruel laughter of the audience whenever my life was nearly reduced to zero. There’s also plenty of great sound effects for the various foes you fight, and wonderfully strange gibberish that is captioned for Lady Luck. She sometimes sounds like she’s saying “stinkalee”, and that made me chuckle on more than one occasion.

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All in all, I can safely say I’m a fan of Dicey Dungeons. I respected Terry Cavanagh after playing VVVVVV, but this adventure is no slouch either. For only $14.99, there’s a ton to experience in the game, and it’s beyond easy to get fully immersed in the art and tunes as hours slip past. My only minor complaint is that this game is not for everyone, and if you’re not patient and ready for the difficulty, Dicey Dungeons can be pretty daunting. But for fans of the rogue genre, this is a must own. Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have tons of challenges and Episodes to beat, as well as all those shiny Steam achievements to collect!

[easyreview cat1title=”Overall” cat1detail=”” cat1rating=”4.5″]

Review Copy Provided by Publisher

REVIEW: Dicey Dungeons Title Dicey Dungeons

[onlinemarketingcourses]

9 Surefire Ways to Boost Social Media Following

In our noisy, fast-paced, digital world, social media is the megaphone that amplifies everything.

Good thing, too, because today, brands are struggling to gain followers who respond to their content and offers.

Social media is about human connection.

Think about it, hundreds of thousands of new business start up each month, and nearly all of them are trying to carve their own social presences. And even if only a few are in your specific market, you’ve still got A LOT to compete against.

But having a successful social media strategy can mean the difference between your business succeeding or not.

With a strong social media presence, you’ve got a warm audience that’s primed to click.

So it makes sense that one of the most important parts of your organic social media strategy is building and nurturing your social following (after all, if nobody knows who you are, then nobody will buy from you).

How do you do that? Here are 9 ways to boost your social media following fast—and grow your business while you’re at it.

1. Be Human

I’m not just talking about passing those “I am not a robot” tests.

Social media is about human connection.

It’s where people go when they’re lonely or bored—to find encouragement, inspiration, or a good laugh. Which is why you need a social strategy that’s more human than corporate.

And yes, that’s important even if you’re a B2B business. Businesses are run by people, after all.

Being human is about being real. It’s about being personal. It’s about engaging with your followers as people rather than targets for your next campaign.

Take Red Bull, for example. They don’t talk much about their energy drinks, but they don’t have to. By telling stories about their partner athletes, their message comes across loud and clear: Red Bull will help you do the incredible things other people only dream about.

Check out any of their content, and you’ll see real people having adventures, experiencing life, and overcoming the odds. Their energy drink is almost an after-thought. But dang… don’t you want one?

Red Bull’s YouTube channel motivates, inspires, and entertains by showing you what real people are doing.

TIP: Find creative ways to promote people on your social media accounts—both the people behind your brand and those who use your products.

2. Stop Being So Perfect

Ryan Deiss recently posted on LinkedIn, “Don’t deny your failures, don’t spin them; linger in them and learn from them.”

“Don’t deny your failures, don’t spin them; linger in them and learn from them.” –Ryan Deiss

Most people don’t care if you make a mistake. They do care about how you respond to those mistakes. Do you try to pretend they didn’t happen, or do you own them?

KFC decided to own their mistake. In early 2018, a new delivery provider didn’t do their job, leaving hundreds of UK locations short on their primary offer: chicken. There was nothing they could do to fix the situation and all of the restaurants were forced to shut down for a few days.

Pretty embarrassing, right?

Fans were livid. Competitors were laughing. And some jumped on the opportunity to win over unhappy KFC customers.

In response, KFC ran a full-page ad, apologizing for the mistake by rearranging the letters of their name—probably expressing everyone’s feelings to a tee.

KFC ran a full-page ad in The Sun and Metro acknowledging their mistake.

This is a great example of not being perfect… and running with it. KFC proved they have a sense of humor and a willingness to acknowledge everything they do, the good, bad, and the ugly.

TIP: You will mess up. Royally, at times. When it happens, you will help boost your social media following if you call it as it is: You screwed up. You failed. You’re sorry. Then wipe up the mess and move on—most likely with fans who admire your honesty.

3. Share Better Content

The winners in social media marketing aren’t just scheduling posts and curating information. They’re sharing professional-quality content developed specifically to boost social media.

“Better” content is designed for the channel where it’s posted.

This content is funny, fascinating, and emotionally charged. It leaves people wanting more, not scrolling faster to avoid “branded” content—because let’s be honest, it’s more interesting than the political posts their friends are sharing.

The key is understanding “better.”

“Better” content is designed for the channel where it’s posted. But regardless of the format—text, graphics, or videos—it aims for quality over quantity. It’s personal and unique. It’s social.

Take White House Black Market. Their Facebook page is as simple and stylish as the boutique.

Instead of one picture of this season’s dress, it gives you a montage of the dress, letting you see it in several settings.

And when appropriate, it mentions a current event. As it does here, paying tribute to a fashion icon.

The point is to be intentional—engaging with and entertaining your fans, so they eagerly come back for more.

TIP: To create better content, make sure it “looks” like your brand. Use the highest quality imagery and your best writing. Create campaigns where a series of posts all follow the same theme.

4. Use Live Videos

One of the best things about social media is its immediacy. If something’s on your mind, you can share it right here and now using live videos.

Done right, this can have a huge impact on your brand, attracting new fans and cementing your relationship with existing ones.

Chris Brogan is the perfect example of this. He’s a master of using media and community to attract customers.

Chris’s Facebook Lives range from 53 seconds to 8 minutes, but most are in the 2-minute range. Some are recorded on his phone as he takes out the trash. Others are done at his desk. All of them have profoundly helpful tips for his fans.

TIP: Think of your live videos as a channel within a channel. Create a show with a specific value offer—like 3-minute tips to solve your audience’s biggest problems. The key is to be in-the-moment and share something valuable.

(NOTE: Want to make sure your social media strategy is helping to grow your business? Download our FREE Social Media Scorecards and you can quickly find out what’s working and why, so you can do more of it! Learn more here!)

5. Do Something Worth Talking About

Going viral can be good or bad. United Airlines lost customers when the “United Breaks Guitars” video went live. But if you’re smart and creative, you can get people talking in a way that’s good for your public perception—and hopefully for sales too.

Dove’s Real Beauty campaign is an example of an emotionally charged social media campaign that got people talking about body shame and beauty.

You can also do something silly to get people talking. KFC created a Colonel Sanders cat climber and aired 4 hours of livestreamed cat action.

The key is to understand your audience. You can aim for tears or laughs or both—as long as you’re relevant.

TIP: To create a unique campaign for your brand, think of the #1 expectation people have of your brand. It might be entertainment, beauty, health, profits… or something else entirely. Once you’ve identified that quality, think of a message or event you could put together to get people’s attention. Make sure it’s shareworthy and gets people talking.

And remember, a viral campaign may repel as many people as it attracts. But that’s okay. Your biggest fans will find you. Think Nike’s “Believe in Something” campaign with Colin Kaepernick.

6. Do a Giveaway

Giveaways are an easy way to get people’s attention. You can give away:

Books

The key is to understand your audience.

Trips

Tickets to an event

Product bundles

Gift cards

Coupons

Or anything else you know your fans would love

You can ask for entries to sign up, have your followers share a hashtag, leave a comment on a blog post, or send you an email. Whatever helps you reach your goals and grow your social strategy.

And you don’t even have to have the details figured out before you run with it. This giveaway by Bert’s Barracuda Harley-Davidson is a great example of that:

The key is to design your campaign to achieve a specific business goal.

TIP: Identify your goal for the giveaway, then decide what you can give away. Consider using an app like KingSumo to run the campaign. Then reward entrants for sharing the giveaway so you get as much reach as possible.

7. Offer Free 1-on-1s

Free consultations could qualify as a giveaway, but they’re unique enough to warrant a separate discussion.

While giveaways work well as lead-generation campaigns by bringing new prospects into your funnels, free consultations help you move prospects further along their Customer Journey—often leading to conversions.

(RELATED: The Customer Value Journey Explained in 800 Words or Less)

Consider offering an audit or a chat about your follower’s #1 challenge. You can take unlimited responses (especially if you have a team to do the calls), or you could limit it to the first 20 responders.

Then ask people to do something to qualify—like sharing a post on their social media, promoting your brand with a unique hashtag, or answering a question.

People perceive an expert’s time and advice as more valuable than a high-ticket product. So simply offering your time can build a huge social following fast—especially if you build in a reward for sharing the offer like you would with a classic giveaway.

TIP: Be sure to ask winners to post a “thank you” in social media, telling their followers what they learned from you.

8. Do Q&As

If you’ve got a well-engaged community, consider doing regular Q&A sessions.

You can offer “office hours,” a specific time set aside each week for people to write in their questions. Or you can ask people to submit their questions when you announce an upcoming Q&A session.

Regardless of how you structure them, Q&As can build your community, boost engagement, and quickly establish you as a thought leader.

This live stream with Steady Horse’s Noah Tillman-Young is a good example.

TIP: In addition to asking your fans for their questions, brainstorm your own list. That way, if you don’t have a lot of participation, you can keep the Q&A going between live questions.

 9. Ask Their Opinion

You don’t always have to answer questions to build a strong community. You can ask questions instead.

No one does this better than copywriter Bob Bly. Every day, he shares something he’s seen, read, or thought. Sometimes he shares his own opinion, but he almost always asks for yours.

With this approach, Bob’s Facebook profile has essentially become a daily newsletter. It’s also grown his following faster than average—from zero to 5,000 in just a few short years.

Here’s a typical query:

He may also ask for input, as he does here:

TIP: As you read your emails and browse the web each day, look for interesting factoids that are worth sharing. Then follow up by asking your followers what they think, what their experience has been, or how they’d respond.

Being social isn’t an afterthought. It’s how you attract and engage with your best customers. So it pays to have a strategy for attracting new fans and building engagement.

(NOTE: Want to make sure your social media strategy is helping to grow your business? Download our FREE Social Media Scorecards and you can quickly find out what’s working and why, so you can do more of it! Learn more here!)

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