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hungermakesmonsters · 3 months ago

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(It Is) What It Is

Chapter Eight

Plot Summary : When Billy Russo realises that there is a certain class of wealthy clients who refuse to contract with Anvil because of his playboy reputation, he decides to alter their perception of him. You’re just a down on your luck PA, just trying to get by so when Billy offers to pay you to pretend to date him, you can’t refuse. But the last thing you expect is for Billy to pull you into his secret world of lust and debauchery.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Some frisky business. There will be smutty themes throughout the story. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.

Word Count : 6.1k

A/N : well, I definitely enjoyed writing this chapter, guess why. 😅 also sorry it got so long

Master List

Chapter Eight

Come Monday morning, it was as if nothing had happened.

You were already at your desk when Billy arrived, he hadn’t offered to pick you up because he’d had a meeting first thing on the other side of the city, so you’d been sitting working diligently for over an hour before the elevator dinged, signaling his arrival. Your cheeks instantly started to heat at the sight of him, his own cheeks pinkened by the cold, and his dark eyes burning with all of their usual intensity.

“Good morning,” he said, shrugging off his coat.

You waited with bated breath, expecting - what, you weren’t entirely sure. Something. Some acknowledgement of the way he’d kissed you, or maybe an explanation of why he’d left so abruptly. Instead, there was nothing.

“Did VDK email yet?” He asked.

All you could do was stare at him as a couple of seconds ticked by.

Had you imagined it? Were you misremembering it?

No. No. He’d never kissed you like that before, never pressed you against a wall as if he wanted to devour you whole.

(He didn’t want to acknowledge it. It had meant nothing to him.)

“Yes,” you finally found your voice. “They want to do it on Thursday, but I - I didn’t accept yet because I know you’re usually busy on Thursday evenings...”

Billy ran his teeth over his lower lip, giving it more consideration than you expected. You hadn’t thought to ask what it was he did on Thursday evenings but, now, you found yourself wondering. What could it possibly be that had him hesitating to agree to the very thing he’d been after for weeks?

“Tell them we’ll be there,” he eventually said.

At some point, he’d come to linger behind you, looking at the email you’d pulled up on your laptop, watching as you diligently started to type up a response.

“Do you have something to wear?” He asked as you hit send.

You glanced up, over your shoulder at him, discomfort clear on your face. You didn’t want him to rush off and buy you another obscenely expensive dress.

“I’ll find something, don’t worry,” you answered.

“If you need to, I can -”

“Billy, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” he relented, leaving it at that.

But, still, he lingered by your desk almost expectantly.

(Did he want you to bring up this kiss? Could you bring it up without dying of embarrassment? No. No, if Billy wanted to talk about it, then he had to be the one to bring it up.)

“Did you have breakfast?” Is what you decided to ask, blurring the line between the part of you that was still his PA and the part of you that now genuinely seemed to worry that he might not have eaten anything that morning.

“No, just piss-awful coffee at the meeting,” he shrugged.

You bit back the comment that you wanted to make, reminding yourself that he was a fully grown man who was more than capable of looking after himself.

“Okay, I’ll go get you a pastry and a coffee,” you told him.

Billy barely moved as you slid back your seat and stood, and you found yourself standing directly in front of him with little space between you. His jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on yours, but you refused to ask why, refused to ask what he expected from you.

If he wanted to talk about the kiss, he’d need to be the one to start. Simple as that.

When you said nothing, he stepped back and turned, not giving you another glance as he slipped into his office.

Okay, so that was how things were going to be. You shook your head and headed for the elevator, forgoing grabbing your coat and wasting time bundling up - you were only running across the street, how bad could it be?

Bad, as it turned out.

And it only got worse from there.

Carl gave you a look as you headed for the doors, but you didn’t realise what the look was for until you stepped out into the bitter cold wind. It was a bad idea, a stupid idea, but it would take far too long to go back upstairs to grab your coat.

Wrapping your arms across your chest, you hurried across the street to The Bean Grinder, your thin blouse and skirt doing little to ward off the cold.

You were shivering as you stood in line and, for one in your life, found yourself glad to be stuck behind so many undecided customers, basking in the warmth of the coffee shop for as long as possible.

The wind was biting on your face as you struggled to hurry back to the Anvil building, Billy’s coffee in one hand and a bag containing a bearclaw in the other. You tried your best to ignore it and pretend like the cold wasn’t causing your lungs to ache in your chest - it was only across the street, you’d be fine, you told yourself.

And you were.

You were fine, but your bad luck still wasn’t over.

“What’s going on?” You asked Carl when you noticed a few people standing around by the elevator.

“Elevator maintenance check,” he explained. “We did send out an email about it last week -”

“Shit, I completely forgot,” you said, letting out an awkward groan.

It wasn’t like you to forget - in fact, you were all but certain you’d even written it on your desk calendar so you wouldn’t forget. But you’d been so eager to get out of the office and away from - from whatever that had been with Billy, that you hadn’t even thought about it.

Carl gave you a sympathetic look. “It’s probably going to take at least another twenty minutes. I can call upstairs, let Mr Russo know that you’re -”

“No,” you interrupted. “It’s fine. I’ll take the stairs.”

“Are you sure?” He asked before hesitating. “You’re already looking a little out of breath.”

“I’m fine. Really. It’s just the cold,” you answered, shrugging it off and saying a hasty goodbye as you headed towards the stairwell, trying not to curse under your breath until you were up at least one floor.

It certainly helped you warm up, but climbing up to the seventh floor caused the ache in your lungs to intensify and, by the time you got back to the office, you were more than a little winded.

Billy’s eyes were fixed on his laptop as you entered his office and he didn’t look up as you approached his desk. It wasn’t until you placed his drink and the paper bag containing the bearclaw down that his eyes finally lifted and confusion filled his face.

You didn’t understand why he was staring until he spoke.

“Are you okay?”

You realised that you were wheezing and, in an act of utter stupidity, you tried to even out your breathing by forcing a deep breath, and that just made things worse. You pressed a hand to your mouth and tried to stifle a cough.

“I-I’m fine,” you managed, holding back a cough. “Just a-a little out of breath.”

He moved before you could even blink, standing and taking hold of your arms, guiding you into his chair. The leather was warm and soft, and you wanted nothing more than to sink back into it but you couldn’t, not when Billy crouched in front of you and took your face in his hands.

His eyes searched yours, though you had no idea what he was looking for.

Billy didn’t speak, nor did he ask you to try to. He just stayed with you, his thumb tenderly brushing your cheek as your breathing slowly levelled out.

He held your gaze and you found that, even though you wanted to, you couldn’t look away. You didn’t know what was going on behind those dark eyes, what thoughts were running through his head, but you felt seen, exposed.

Your hand somehow ended up on his, holding it against your cheek like some part of you was scared he’d pull away again, that he’d leave you reeling just like he had the night before.

It didn’t take long for your breathing to settle and your chest to stop aching.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

What’s wrong and not are you okay. It was the second time he’d seen you like this and Billy wasn’t an idiot, he’d obviously realised that there was some underlying cause you weren’t telling him about.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” you lied. “I forgot to put my coat on when I went across the street, and I had to use the stairs because they’re doing a maintenance check on the elevator -”

“You should have waited for them to finish. It only takes them like twenty minutes.”

There was a firmness in his voice that you didn’t expect, that you didn’t appreciate.

“Your coffee would’ve gotten cold,” you answered back, trying to contain your own annoyance.

“Jesus Christ,” Billy muttered, pulling away from you and standing. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away from you for a moment. “Do you think I care about hot coffee when you’re wheezing up a lung in my office?”

You didn’t have an answer for that. Honestly, you had no idea what Billy cared about.

“You skipped breakfast,” you said, not entirely sure why that was what bothered you.

His lips parted but, whatever he’d been wanting to say never came. He looked... confused, like he couldn’t understand why you even cared that he hadn’t eaten. But, he didn’t ask why, and you were glad because you didn’t have an answer.

“Go get your things,” he said after an uncomfortable pause.

“What? Why?” You asked.

“Because I’m taking you home.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” you protested, getting to your feet. “I don’t want any preferential treatment or -”

“I can’t work if I’m worrying about you,” Billy snapped.

And -

You were left so stunned that you didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t reconcile what he was saying and how he was acting with what you thought you knew about him, about your ‘relationship’. In no scenario could you imagine Billy actually worrying about you so, of course, you didn’t know what to say.

“I -” you tried.

“Please, just... don’t fight me on this?”

All you could do was stare, rendered speechless by the pleading look on his face. You didn’t want to leave work early and you certainly didn’t need to, but seeing Billy looking almost distressed by it all left you feeling like you couldn’t refuse.

You took a moment to consider him, to consider everything you knew about him, both as your boss and as a person. Only a few weeks ago, you’d have known exactly how to temper his mood and get the day back on track, but this was something new, something different. You didn’t understand this.

“The elevator’s still out of order,” was all you could think to say.

But, still, you moved, making your way out of his office to collect your things. You dropped your laptop into your bag, deciding that you’d carry on your work from home - with or without his permission. As you pulled on your coat, you heard him on the phone, calling down to the lobby to ask if the elevator was working again.

You perched on the edge of your desk as you waited, silently cursing yourself for letting all of this happen. You should’ve worn your coat, should’ve waited for the elevator - or at least remembered that it was being checked before offering to go for coffee.

Billy’s phone rang and, a few seconds later, he was striding out of his office, pulling on his coat.

He told you to follow and you did, letting him usher you into the now-running again elevator with a hand on your back. Neither of you spoke or even seemed to know what to say as the elevator descended.

All you could think about was whether he’d eaten his bearclaw.

As the doors opened, you just... followed. You moved on autopilot, not sure what else you were supposed to do. The car was already waiting and you were quickly bundled inside. And, still, you remained silent.

The quiet was enough to have your paranoia rearing its ugly head; he thought you couldn’t look after yourself, that you were burdensome.

Neither of you spoke until you were in your apartment, completely alone.

“You’re mad at me,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You watched him as he moved through your apartment like he owned it, heading into the kitchen and grabbing two mugs to make coffee.

“I’m not mad,” you answered, shrugging off your coat and following him into the kitchen. “I just don’t need you to look after me.”

It didn’t even occur to you that you were echoing something he’d said to you only a week before.

“When was the last time you let anyone look after you?”

It wasn’t a jab at you, he wasn’t accusing you of anything, but there was some hidden depth to the question. He was genuinely asking, though from the tone of his voice, he already seemed to know the answer. An answer that you refused to give him.

Never.

Never in your adult life had you allowed someone to look after you.

And you weren’t about to start now, especially not with your boss, the man who was paying you to fake being in a relationship with him.

You let out a sigh and turned away from him, heading towards the sofa. It wasn’t long before he joined you, sitting beside you, a hot mug of coffee in each hand. He handed you yours without a word and you didn’t even dare to think about how he’d not only come to learn exactly how you took your coffee, but where everything was in your kitchen so he could make it.

While you slowly sipped your drink, you both remained silent, neither sure what to say to the other.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Frank Castle’s secretary, and you let out a soft sigh.

“Mr Castle would like to see you before this afternoon’s meeting,” you said, not looking up from your phone.

Then it was Billy’s turn to sigh, and that sigh said more than words ever could. You knew he didn’t want you working, that he’d brought you home specifically to stop you, but you couldn’t because, without you, his day didn’t run smoothly.

He finished his coffee and got to his feet.

“Please at least try to get some rest,” he said, resigned to the fact that you were going to continue working regardless of what he said. “And if you’re not feeling well tomorrow -”

“I told you, I’m -”

“If you’re not feeling well tomorrow,” he repeated, “call in sick.”

“Fine.”

You both already knew that you wouldn’t but it wasn’t worth the argument.

He insisted that you stayed where you were as he let himself out and you were glad, not sure you could handle a repeat performance of last night's kiss by the door.

The next day you were back at your desk before Billy even got to the office, his coffee and pastry, a pain au chocolat today, waiting for him on his desk. He slowed as he walked past you to his office but he didn’t say anything other than a brusque good morning to you.

Fortunately, over the next few days he warmed to you again, seeming to want to pretend that it had never happened. And, while it wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with it, you were more than happy to just slip back into things, deciding to ignore everything from the kiss onwards.

You didn’t spend much time with each other out of work, though that was through no fault of Billy’s. It seemed like every day, something would come up that demanded his attention, keeping him at his desk late into the night and, when you offered to stay late to help him, he’d send you home in his car.

By the time Thursday evening rolled around, you weren’t sure if Billy would be in any fit state for the VDK dinner, but there he was, waiting next to his car by the curb as you stepped outside.

As he had the night of the gala, Billy asked that you pack a bag and spend the night at his apartment and, despite everything, you were more than happy to after waking up that morning to find that the heating in your apartment wasn’t working.

His eyes widened as you approached, taking in the sight of you and what you were wearing. The dress that he’d bought you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t speak at all until you were both in the car and the driver had started the engine.

“I thought you didn’t like that dress,” he said.

“I never said that. I said it was too expensive.”

He was silent for a few seconds before; “I’m glad you kept it, you look amazing.”

You smiled at him, finally taking a moment to appreciate how good he looked, his charcoal suit immaculately hugging his figure and not a dark hair out of place. It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about it, but you found yourself considering how handsome he was as he glanced out the window, but he was only beautiful when he looked at you and smiled in return.

Soon, and for the second time in less than a week, you found yourself outside the VDK Manhattan Hotel. Fortunately, this time there was no fanfare as you approached the doors, no red carpet or lines of photographers but, just like the night of the gala, you entered with Billy’s hand in yours.

You were met by a member of the hotel staff and taken in the elevator up to the penthouse.

Your hand gripped Billy’s as you stepped out into the most lavish looking hotel suite that you’d ever seen - which, admittedly, wasn't saying a lot as you couldn’t remember ever seeing the inside of a hotel suite before, let alone a penthouse suite. It even put Billy’s apartment to shame, but you weren’t given time to really appreciate it.

“There you are, just in time,” Catherine Van Der Koy, said as she approached you, “we were just about to have some drinks before dinner.”

You and Billy both greeted her before you found yourselves being separated.

“William, I believe you’re acquainted with my son-in-law and grandson?” She said, motioning to a group of men sitting on the sofa drinking what looked to be scotch. Billy nodded. “Good, go and have a drink while we catch up.”

He started to move but, for a moment, you were reluctant to let go of his hand. You didn’t want him to leave your side, and you felt his hand squeeze yours in silent apology just before his fingers slipped away.

“Don’t worry,” Catherine said as you watched him go, “they’ve all promised to be on their best behaviour tonight.”

That did nothing to settle your nerves, even though you knew that Billy was more than capable of handling himself. Knowing how some of these people saw him, you didn’t want to leave Billy to face them alone, but Catherine took your arm and led you into the suite’s large dining room where a group of mostly women sat drinking and chatting.

“Have you ever stayed in one of our hotels before?” Catherine asked.

“No,” you answered, feeling your cheeks start to warm, “they’re a little out of my price range.”

“Not any more, I’ll bet,” said an unfamiliar voice.

A young woman stepped in front of you. She had a smirk on her lips and you couldn’t decide if she was joking or if there was something more pointed to the comment.

“This is my granddaughter Leah,” Catherine said.

You introduced yourself but, clearly, it wasn’t necessary. Leah Van Der Koy knew all about you. She had an almost nasal way of speaking that made every comment sound like it was a thinly veiled barb, but you quickly realised that it was just the way she spoke.

Catherine remained silent as Leah brought up things she’d seen on the gossip blogs about you and Billy, pointing out how cute the pair of you had looked together leaving the movie festival you’d attended a couple of weeks ago.

“Leah is in charge of VDK’s social media,” Catherine explained. “She likes to keep her finger on the pulse.”

On the pulse of what exactly, you didn’t dare ask.

“You have no idea how many people are losing their minds over you right now,” Leah told you. “Do you have TikTok or Insta?”

You shook your head, not sure why she wanted to know or why anyone would be losing their minds over you.

“You should get on it,” Leah continued. “With all the attention you’re getting right now, you could make a killing as an influencer.”

It took every ounce of composure you had not to cringe at the thought. Just the idea made you feel ill - you didn’t like the attention and you certainly didn’t want to attract more of it.

“Give me your phone?” She asked and, for reasons you couldn’t even begin to understand, you did. She tapped the screen a few times before handing it back to you. “I put my number in there, let me know if you ever need any social media advice.”

“Leah dear, stop harassing your grandmother’s guest.”

Another woman appeared behind Leah and just one look at her told you that she was Leah’s mother, Catherine’s daughter. They all had the same high cheekbones and delicate noses.

“This is my daughter Faye,” Catherine offered.

Again, you introduced yourself.

“I love your dress,” Faye said. “It looks like a Sophie Harrington piece.”

“Oh, uh -” you stumbled over your words, looking down at yourself as you tried to remember the name of the boutique Billy’ had bought it from, “- I think that was where it came from?”

“Faye has always had an eye for fashion and design,” Catherine explained with a noticeable degree of pride in her voice. “She’s in charge of a lot of the interior design of our hotels.” She then paused and upon noticing your discomfort, waved away her daughter and granddaughter. “Let’s get a drink.”

You nodded as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

The dining room had its own bar and bartender - you didn’t dare ask if he came included in the nightly price of the room, as you already felt like you were embarrassing yourself enough.

“You look positively terrified.”

Her words pulled you back to the moment and the heat across your cheeks intensified.

“Sorry. I’m just -” again you awkwardly swallowed again, “- I’m not really used to... all this.”

“What part of it is bothering you?” She asked, curious and thankfully not offended.

“Big dinner parties with people I don’t know, people who already know me even though I’ve never met them, people knowing more about my dress than I do -”

“Take a breath,” she interrupted.

You realised belatedly that you’d probably sounded like you were panicking or freaking out, and forced yourself to take a slow breath.

“I shouldn’t have worn this dress,” you muttered a moment later.

“Why not?”

“Because Billy bought it for me.” There was no point in lying, everyone there probably knew that there was no way you could have afforded to buy it for yourself.

“What difference does that make?”

“It’s too expensive,” you answered. “Everyone will think I just want Billy’s money.”

Catherine studied you for a moment and then handed you a wine glass. You’d been so lost in your own awkwardness that you hadn’t even realised she’d asked the bartender for a drink for you.

“Does he buy you a lot of things?” She asked.

“No,” you quickly answered. “And I didn’t even want him to buy this. I told him to take it back, but he wouldn’t. I only wore it tonight because he’s had a rough week and I thought it might cheer him up.”

You hadn’t told Billy that was the reason you’d chosen to wear it. Hell, you’d barely even admitted it to yourself. But it had been a difficult week and you’d thought your discomfort would be worth it just to see him smile.

“Did it?” She asked before clarifying. “Cheer him up?”

“I - I hope so,” you said, finding your eyes drifting towards the door, wondering how Billy was getting on.

“It’s not easy - loving someone who gives so much of themselves to their work.”

Your gaze dropped and you bit your lip, a tidal wave of embarrassment washing over you. You were embarrassed by the lie, by how the dishonesty made you feel. That was all. That was what the feeling in your stomach was, and that was why your heart seemed to stutter. It wasn’t that you loved him or that you were in love with him.

No.

While there might have been some feelings of fondness, closeness even, what you felt wasn’t love. And whatever Billy felt for you...

“Oh dear,” Catherine said, pulling you back to the moment, “has he not said the words yet? You mustn’t let that discourage you, men like William speak with actions before words.”

Actions.

Actions like pressing you against a wall and kissing you like his life depended on it?

“Come and sit,” she instructed and, again, you followed her, joining the rest of the group sitting around the table.

You made small talk with the group but, mostly, you were happy to just fade into the background, mostly ignored. After about forty minutes, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom but, instead of returning to the dining room straight away, you found yourself exploring the suite and ending up on the balcony.

It looked out over Central Park - though the low light made it hard to anything beyond the lit paths that weaved through the park, you imagined that the view was stunning during the day.

You hadn’t meant to linger, but the cold night air was a relief and the city noises were calming after the constant chatter and laughter inside.

You didn’t hear someone else step out onto the balcony, you hadn’t even noticed that there was a door besides the one you’d used, but you recognised his voice immediately.

“Little dove,” he muttered softly, causing your heart to skip a beat.

Turning, you watched as Billy approached you.

“What are you doing out here alone?” He asked.

“I -” you started to answer but faltered when he placed a warm hand on your bare arm, “- I just needed to get some air.”

“You’re cold.” Statement, not question. And before you could answer, he’d taken off his jacket and placed it around your shoulders.

Part of you wanted to protest, wanted to worry about him getting cold, but his jacket was so soft, so warm, and it smelled like his cologne, and once it was draped around you, you didn’t want to give it back.

Despite his jacket, you shivered, and Billy stepped closer, heat radiating from his body.

“How’s it going?” He asked softly, leaning closer as if he was worried you’d be overheard, even though you were completely alone.

“Good, I think...” you answered just as softly, barely noticing that your eyes were fixed on his chest.

“What’s wrong?”

You wanted to hate how easily he could see through you, how he’d gotten better at understanding you in the weeks that you’d spent together, but you couldn’t. You’d wanted him to see you as a person and, now, he did.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I don’t feel like I belong in your world,” you confessed softly. “It’s exhausting.”

“I don’t feel like I belong either,” Billy offered.

Still, you couldn’t look him in the eye, knowing that you’d melt the moment that you did. You felt ridiculous for letting what Catherine had said get to you, but now you were overthinking every little thing he did, wondering if -

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

He didn’t love you. He wasn’t in love with you.

And you didn’t love him.

None of it was real - he’d told you himself, he found it easy to lie, and that was all it was. A lie. A fiction.

But, when you felt fingers beneath your chin, urging you to look up, you did. And when your eyes met his - yeah, as you’d feared, butterflies took flight in your stomach and your breath caught. The darkness of the night turned his eyes even darker but, still, they seemed to spark and burn when he looked at you.

“You belong here with me,” he said.

Before you could speak, the space between you disappeared. You weren’t sure which of you moved first, but his lips were soon on yours.

It was soft and slow, his tongue coaxing your lips apart so you could sink into a deeper kiss. You could taste the scotch he’d been drinking, and you were sure he could taste your wine. It was the excuse that you’d use for all of this - you’d both been drinking on empty stomachs.

And, besides, it was all for show. (Even though no one was watching, it was all for show.)

You pulled him closer, letting his body pin you against the balcony’s ledge. Even if it was just for show, there was nothing to say you couldn’t enjoy it, nothing to silence that voice in your head that demanded more, more, more.

It felt like a slow descent into madness, the kiss turning more heated the longer it continued, and you lost yourself to the fantasy, to the idea that you could belong with Billy.

You gripped him tight as you were lifted and placed on the ledge, the cold metal railing at your back as Billy stepped between your legs.

He’d never been so close before but, somehow, it wasn’t enough. You wanted to feel more of his body against your, you wanted to feel his skin beneath your hands, his -

A soft noise escaped you into the kiss as his hand started to blaze a trail up your thigh, slowing only a fraction before dipping beneath the hem of your dress. Your cheeks heated, and some small part of you knew that you should pull away, tell him to stop, but it was easily drowned out and overruled by the part of you that wanted.

His hand continued upwards and your heart raced faster. You knew what he’d find if his fingers reached your panties. The lace was already starting to soak with your arousal, and you should have been embarrassed at how wet you were just from one little kiss.

Billy nipped at your lip, drawing another noise from you, something a little louder and a lot more desperate, before plunging his tongue back into the warmth of your mouth.

Want me, every fibre of your being screamed against your better judgement, leaving you feeling so needy and desperate for something that wasn’t even real. You held him tighter, pulled him closer, your tongue greedy against his. You parted your legs a little wider, making room for his hand as his fingers finally reached the edge of your panties.

The first brush of his fingertips through the wet lace had your back aching, pushing yourself into his touch, his body, into everything that was Billy Russo.

Then came a sound, a voice, that had both Billy’s hand and lips pulling away from you.

Faye Van Der Koy telling you both that dinner was about to be served.

The weight of everything that had just happened hit you like a ton of bricks. You turned your head, looking away from Billy as shame filled your whole body. He tensed and pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said.

Sorry.

... what was he sorry for?

(For getting carried away, for doing exactly what you’d told him he couldn’t do, for treating you like an object for his pleasure. He was sorry because it wasn’t real and now you’d have to face the consequences.)

You held your breath when you felt his hands on your hips, lifting you down from the ledge, and when you looked at him again, you found that he looked almost as lost as you felt.

“I -” he started.

“We should go inside.”

Whatever he wanted to say, you were certain that you didn’t want to hear it.

Billy hesitated for a beat before nodding, clumsily taking your hand in his and leading you back inside.

Catherine Van Der Koy gave you a telling smirk as you and Billy took your seats at the table and, as the food was served, you felt like everyone at the table was staring at you. You didn’t realise your entire body was tensed until you felt Billy’s hand on your thigh beneath the table, offering a gentle but reassuring squeeze.

The conversation jumped around over dinner and you were happy to just silently observe it while you ate. They talked about business, politics, and the social scene. You paid attention, filing away everything that you thought might be important, and only speaking when a question was directly posed to you.

For someone who’d told you that he didn’t belong there, Billy had an infinitely easier time inserting himself into the conversation. Unlike you, he had limitless reserves of confidence.

Once dinner was over and fresh drinks were served, Billy’s arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

It was all for show, but you were so exhausted by everything that you were more than happy to rest your head against his shoulder, hoping that the night would soon be over.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Billy shifted to press a kiss to your forehead.

“You okay, little dove?” He asked.

The pet name had your heart skipping a beat and you sank closer.

“Fine, just tired,” you answered.

“Do you want to go soon?” His voice was soft and full of a sort of caring that always caught you off-guard.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t want to ruin the evening,” you said.

“Nonsense,” Catherine interjected. You hadn’t even realised she’d been listening. “I take it you’re both working in the morning.”

“We are,” Billy answered.

“But you’re the boss, why not just give yourself the day off?” Leah asked from the other side of the table.

“I would,” he said, implying that he wasn’t the one that had an issue with it.

“I’ve told you,” you said directly at Billy despite the fact that most of the table was listening, “I like to keep our professional and personal lives separate. Besides, Anvil would crumble if I took a day off.”

It was a gross overstatement and you found yourself grinning at Billy and - and then he let out one of those laughs and pressed his lips to your forehead again.

“She’s right,” he conceded, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”

There was truth in his words, but you didn’t want to think too much about why.

After a few more minutes, the two of you were on your feet, the Van Der Koy’s wishing you both goodnight with promises being thrown out about more dinners and social events in future. Catherine escorted you both to the lift, waiting with you, and putting the full weight of her scrutiny on Billy.

“William, when you propose to this girl, do make sure that it’s somewhere romantic. She deserves it,” Catherine said, smirking as Billy’s face paled at the suggestion.

But any shock he felt was short lived and he quickly rebounded with; “first I need to convince her to move in with me.”

Suddenly it was Catherine’s turn to look shocked, her attention quickly turning back to you as your cheeks heated.

Thankfully the elevator arrived before you had to try and think of a way to explain it to her. You were quickly ushered inside and Catherine promised to be in touch to see you both soon.

When the doors slid shut, you let out a sigh of relief.

“I think that went well,” Billy muttered, letting out an exhausted sigh of his own.

A/N : 😅 I think at this point I'm enjoying torturing these two far more than I should be. Next chapter might make some of you scream a little but please don't worry, it's all part of my master plan. Also those wondering about readers mysterious condition, that will all be addressed later on, don't worry. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Also sorry that I keep cock-blocking Billy in all of my fics)

As ever I adore you for your likes/comments/reblogs and I can't wait to hear your reactions to the balcony scene. Have a great weekend everyone!!

If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! Otherwise new chapters will be posted around 7:30pm GMT on Fridays.

Tag list :

@oliviaewl @lincerad @xxxsweetcarolinexxx @benbarnesprettygurl @dreadfulxives18

@danzer8705 @snowkestrel @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @intothesoul @uniquehijo

@anitaxl @solacedragonx @justiceforquentin @ladyblacky @marvelsunlight

@sweetserendipity65 @mrsalwayswrite @bunnygirlwriter876 @highwaytomichelle @bruxa0007

@jazzclubprincess @arwenscarlettalisonsloaneb @the-swift-escape @s0urw00lf

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #the punisher #billy russo fanfic #billy russo imagine #(ii)wii ff

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purple-alien-ufo · 5 months ago

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who am I? Ch.1

Pairing(s): existing Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal, future Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x reader.

Summary: your best friend is missing. Weird visions. Parents are lying to you. You have lost memories. What happens when two gorgeous witchy women come into your life and want to help you sort it out? Will you get the truth for once?

Warnings: grief!!, weed use, dark thoughts

Word count: 3.5k

A/n: first time posting on. I’m getting used to the formatting. So bear with me if it looks like shit 😂

Enjoy ☺️💜

The air is crispy and cold as it fills the room from your open window. The chilly air enters your lungs. It's almost nostalgic. You feel your limbs are heavy, and your head is pounding. The cold is nice and soothing. You look at your alarm clock and it reads 12:12 pm. You try to hide under the blanket. The October autumn air is thick, and you just want to lay in bed all day. Forget all your troubles. But you can't, you annoyingly need money in order to survive.

You sit up and groan loudly, stretching your limbs, absolutely dreading the day ahead. You have to leave for your dead-end job as a barback at a gay bar in town in about an hour.

You had to move back in with your parents after losing your best friend who randomly went missing only last month—absolutely no trail. Every theory you had went cold. Your tracking skills are not that great. You are not very tech-savvy. You and Darcy were loners together. It seemed that you were the only person looking for her. Even the police were no help. They told you maybe you misremembered what day she was supposed to be home. You got home from work the night she went missing, your shared apartment to see everything was normal just for the fact your best friend, Darcy, didn't come home that night. She was supposed to come back from visiting her parents. You didn't ask where they lived nor have you been able to get in touch with anyone who knows any valuable information. No one knows where her parents lived. You only knew they lived far-ish away. And they had a rocky relationship, they had a problem with her being gay and all. This was the first time she went back home

You get up out of your bed, dragging yourself to stand upright. The rage of thinking about the situation is surfacing. Your skin feels hot to the touch. The grogginess is taking over as you take careful steps towards your dresser you grab out your black jeans and a random band t-shirt. Seems like you are going with Stevie Nicks. You feel like shit and think maybe a shower will fix it. You stop to look at yourself in the mirror. The lack of life in your face is abundantly clear, and so is the lack of sleep hanging under your eyes. Your broad frame is smaller than usual from the lack of eating. You were always muscular even from little to no activity.

Life has been unfolding terribly. Lack of desire, lost with zero direction, no motivation to finish your degree in history minoring in witch folklore which you were supposed to have already graduated from last year. Everything feels either too much or entirely a waste of time. Nothing is a big enough distraction either. You don't feel the flames of passion anymore. Merely out of reach of fulfillment. You have always felt out of place, never felt like you belonged even with your family.

Your parents are being weird as shit. Even worse than normal. They pushed you to go to college right after graduation, then since everything, they have been acting as if they don't want you back. You asked them what was happening, they would lie through their teeth saying nothing was going on. Everything they say persuades you into believing they are hiding something. The hesitation in their voice, the scrambling for words.

Lately, they seem to be avoiding you, they used to go on vacations when you have off time from school. They went as far as lying about a business trip when they just went to a town over. You only found out when you found a credit card bill. You don't even have enough energy to care to be real. They seem as if they are anxiously awaiting for you to do something. Your mother doesn't even make direct eye contact and your father tries to never be alone with you.

You realize there are holes in your memory. You can't remember part of your childhood, nothing from 5th to 6th grade, nor the winter of junior year. They are blank with no context. You have a feeling of longing missing something other than your memories. You haven't asked your parents because they will just lie to you.

You know that right now is a tough time. But it's not like you are going to do anything fucked up. You are about to turn 24 in a month, and sure this is not how you pictured your life but you’re not dangerous, right?—Why does your whole life feel like you've been left out living it? Like a side character labeled as a starting character in a movie.

Sighing you rub your face trying to wake up staring at the shower. You gingerly step in, As soon as the water hits you, your eyes close causing flashes of purple and green to flicker behind your eyelids, and your breathing picks up pace. You start to feel the sounds of the shower become muffled and your surroundings feel distant. There's a low humming in your ears.

You try breathing slowly trying to calm yourself down as you feel a panic attack coming along... You see a woman about 10 years older than you but she looks a lot like you but with scarlet hair, yours is brown from dyeing it, you hated the platinum blonde you were born with. You see flashes of her crying from various moments of just screaming and crying. Almost like clips in a movie. You feel her grief, her sadness, and the despair she holds as if it was yours. You feel the need to take it away. Every inch of your body feels like it was just covered in years of suffering and misery.

The Flashes of purple and green come back you now can see clearly. You are looking at the ground at first, hands gripping the dirt, but they are not your hands. Once you look up but you don't recognize where you are, you look around and see some red robot-looking human. You realize you have no control over your limbs whatsoever. Which means this isn't your body. You are just a viewer. Meant to observe what is unfolding in front of you right now. There to see. There too feel what she felt.

You look before you to see the robot kneeling in front of you. She is crying. Trying with all of her might to even stand right now. Maintaining her emotions as best she can.

“It's time,” he says

“No,” she says, trembling, the floodgate threatening to burst.

“It isn't fair that it's you but it is. You have the power to destroy the stone,” he says like he is stating a simple fact.

“It's okay my love you could never hurt me,”

Your hands rise trembling in front of you. Your hands blast red from your fingertips. Blasting right into his head. She feels like she is going to fall to her knees. But she needs to stay strong and do this for the greater good.

You can feel her feelings and hear her thoughts as if they are your own.

“It's okay,” he whispers sympathetically as the stone is breaking. She looks back at the people surrounding you, seeing them one by one get flung. She raises a second hand, blasting the stone.

He keeps repeating “It's okay” reassuring and comforting her that everything is okay, even though he knows he's going to die. He's worried about whoever's body you are in. He doesn't seem to be in pain. You look back and see the purple alien heading for you. Your arm shoots to hit him, splitting your power between the two.

A dark murky purple smoke circling your wrist and legs until it covers your body completely. You give into it as it grips you up in a warm embrace holding you, then your vision goes black, and you come to, blinking your eyes into focus. You are lying in a fetal position at the bottom of your shower. The once warm water is now ice cold. You spring out of the shower landing awkwardly on your hip. You hit the cold tile crawling back towards the door, ignoring the physical pain in your hip. You were scared about what just happened. Your chest hurts from breathing so hard. Your whole body trembles against the ice-cold tile as you stare blankly into space. The millions of thoughts rushing through your head begin to feel overwhelming. You feel like you are about to cry when... You smell a strong aroma of rain with the undertones of freshly chopped wood. It feels like the purple smoke from earlier, relief. It's almost like you are next to the source itself. A magnetic force, all while being comforted as if you are being held. Your breathing slows and you relax a bit but you remain still in the corner knees up to your chest. Your thoughts slowly fade almost completely.

You try to get yourself right. But it's not working sitting naked on this damn floor. You decide to just say fuck the shower get dressed and go to work.

If you sit here any longer you'll just end up sitting here spiraling. Trying to answer all the questions you don't even have yet. You would rather get paid for thinking than do it for free. For one what the fuck was that. And who was the robot she cared so deeply for? There was a deep, deep sense of agony, fear, and just- pain.

The purple smoke felt like home. Like it was going to take away all of your suffering. You couldn’t help but give in to it. You wanted to feel it again. The peace it gave you, felt like what a mother's hug is supposed to feel like. One that brings you false comfort, the world is a good place. Or cream you put on a burn. Gentle and Soothing.

You spring up off the bathroom floor throwing your clothes on your partially wet body. You feel like running away. You shake the thoughts out of your head. You gather your stuff for work. Grabbing your joint container.

═══*.·:·.★ ✦ ★･:･:*═══

Since you left early you have time to relax before your shift. You grab your joint container and light up one of the 4 joints you had. You don't smoke a lot just a couple of times a month. Or when things get to be too much. You recline your seat and turn on your music trying to center yourself. The only exception - Paramore starts to play. You feel the tears brim, your breath caught in your throat. You quickly change it. It is? Was? Darcy’s Favorite Song. She dedicated it to you when she told you she didn't hate you like she did everyone else. You have a strong feeling she isn't dead. You know she is in trouble but she can't be dead. You have to have hope. You skip it so ‘Where is my mind- pixies’ Starts to play and you feel your whole body relax. You lean your seat back, looking at the top ceiling of your car. The “visions” I guess you could call them? They keep replaying them in your head. Questions and thoughts flooding in, like.

What could they mean? Was it real? What is with the purple smoke and woody smell I can't get out of my head? Why can't I get the scarlet hair out of my head? Why am I itching to go to work? I hate my job. Today feels different. It feels as if something awaits me. Like my life is changing and I don't know it

═══*.·:·.★ ✦ ★･:･:*═══

Your day is achingly slow. You have cleaned everything that needs to be cleaned. You sit there and wish it would get busy. At least 5 tables or so. You just give up and sit down at a table pulling out your phone. You sit and scroll for a minute and people start flooding in. A ton of people out of nowhere just start coming in and being sat. You spring into action getting ice and clearing off tables. A small smile spreads across your face. Something to do something to keep your mind off of things.

All the tables start to order drinks and food. Giving you something to do finally. You get the feeling you're being watched as you are clearing this table off. You try to look without being noticeable. You see people eating and talking. Some tables are on their phones.

But there is one table that catches your attention, there sits two women, one has their back turned to you. a beautiful older woman. Brown wavy hair, fair skin that compliments the color, and pricing blue eyes staring right back into yours. She is smirking at you. Your breath catches. You feel nervous but drawn to her. You don't realize you froze under her gaze until you start moving towards her. Now standing in front of their table.

“Hey there cute thing, we would like the have a chat with you,”

“I am on the clock,” you say nervously feeling like a dear caught in headlights.

“When does your shift end?” the other mysterious woman to your left said leaning in closer. She is equally beautiful. Her skin is tan and her eyes are a rich chocolate brown. Her hair is dark brown loose wavy curls mid-length. You can smell her perfume wafting from her. Earthy and rich almost like you're standing in the middle of the forest on a rainy evening. It gives you a familiar feeling.

“Uh 8,” you hesitate. Under their gaze, you feel extremely warm but nervous.

“Would you be interested in going out with us tonight?” the one on your left says. Smirking. your ears start to ring. You think you miss hearing them but once you see women too your right lean in to see what you'd say. You rethink that. You have only just met them. Why do I feel scared to disappoint them? You feel the need for their approval.

“A little too forward?” the one on your right says. Her voice is smooth. Comforting “Don't worry, if you say no, you won't be letting us down. Or if you'd like you to. You can pick whatever we do, we just really need to talk to you ” Agatha says scooting towards you. They are sitting down on a high-top table. While she is sitting down she is taller, it makes me wonder if she is taller than you while she is standing too. Your knees feel weak.

You look at the one to your left.

“So what do you say, our little dove?” she says smiling

“I'd usually say no to strangers but tonight why not? Could we just go somewhere quiet?” you mentioned sheepishly, awkwardly standing there shifting on your feet. “You said you needed to talk right? Well, can I ask what it is about?” you say staring Agatha right in the eye. She seems hesitant, she glances at Rio, only for a moment her flirtatious expression faded.

“Great, well we don’t wanna get you fired. We’ll see you after your shift, you will get all the answers to your questions then,” the woman to your right said, winking at you and biting her lip. You nod, She avoids your question altogether. But how could you when Her piercing blue eyes are consuming you whole as she gives you one last good look over?

“I’m Rio by the way and that's Agatha,” the woman you now know as Rio said. Agatha’s eyes are dark and glossed over as she leans back looking you up and down still, now licking her lips.

“What's your name hon?” Agatha teasingly asked. Her voice sounds like honey. You feel the heat in your stomach churn.

“I- uhm y/n, y/n, O’Connor,” you stuttered like you were unsure of your name. You threw the towel you were holding over your shoulder, folding your hands in front of you. Shifting unsure why you feel so miniature under their gaze. Like you don't need the tough exterior. They seem to like you being unsure and awkward. They find it amusing.

“Hmm, y/n, that sounds beautiful,” Agatha said, smiling wickedly with a low chuckle. Your breath hitches and your movement stops. You start to blush at her praise. You hated your name, it didn't feel right.

“Honey behave, you are gonna scare the poor thing,” Rio said, slapping Agatha’s hand that was resting on the table, only for her to grin mischievously “Well we will see you in about an hour and 57 minutes,” Rio says, as she checks her watch. You smile and nod.

“Okay see you then,” you say smiling at them both. Agatha winks. Her arms folded in front of her, her one hand holding her chin up with her index finger with her nail poking into the skin, grinning, as she just watches you. Rio leans back in her chair as waves seductively waves each individual finger as you walk off. Your body is buzzing and feels warm. You don't even like eye contact let alone people looking at you. Why do you feel warm under their gaze? It makes you act unsure of yourself. You lack your usual I don't care attitude. You could have stood there for hours though talking to them.

You haven't dated since high school. You broke it off with the girl you last dated because you felt unenthused. As it drained you to have to pretend some you were not. You were expected to be normal to blend in. You couldn’t do it. To have always been told you were too much, or you are abnormal and deviant. Like you either couldn't fill their boxes or you over filled them. But it was especially at home with your parents because they made you feel it.

The only person who accepted you was Darcy. But she's gone. Or is she? It’s all too confusing. You have a significantly hard time admitting she is gone. Because it doesn't feel like it. You can still feel her if that makes any sense.

You have always known you were gay. It was obvious. But that wasn't what people were talking about when they said they didn't expect you. It's like they know something you don't. A secret about yourself is written across your body like a scarlet letter. But only they could see it. You sure get the humiliation from it though. You just want to know what it is so you can fix it. This is the closest you have felt to getting the truth. The subtle promise in their voices. Like they carry the elixir to your uncertainty. They barely said anything but it was all what they were not saying that led you to believe they knew something.

This day can't get any more stressful.

The rest of the time starts to drag. You’re excited for your shift to be over. What are they going to take you to do? Where are they from? Who are they? So many questions, and too much time in between getting answers. You feel panicked. Like you did earlier. Your breathing picks up. Your heart is pounding in your ears.

You get flashes of red in your vision. All of a sudden when you walk through the swinging door into the back of the house. You are transported into what seems to be a subdivision. You look around for anything to give away where you might be. No remnants of the bar in sight. Surrounded by houses and clean-cut lawns. Houses that look like they are straight out of a home good magazine You only see a woman with scarlet red hair–. This time she is on her knees, hands resting in her lap. Her eyes gazed far into space. She looks lost and defeated. You walk up and kneel to her level. Looking at her in the eyes. She looks past you for a couple more minutes. You were not expecting her to be able to see you but. Just closely observing her. She feels familiar like you know her not just because you look alike. You feel like this should be a reunion. But who is she? It's on the tip of your tongue. She has the same facial features as you, but older and more tired.

Then she blinks looking straight into your eyes. She looks at you horrified. Her bottom lip trembles. Rage spreads across her face. You stumble back, losing your footing.

“Who are you?” she says in a broken voice.

“I uh-, you can see me?” you said. Your hands start to shake in your lap

“Yes, now tell me where you came from, you shouldn't be here,” Her tone shifts. Her posture straightens. Her hand raises next to her. Her hand raises with a red ball of power in it.

“I’m uh-, I-I don't know how I got here. I swear.” said as you put your hands up defensively. Your heart is pounding in your ears. She is looking right at you with this angry but hurt stare so strong you swear you can feel it. “I’m not here to hurt you. I promise” You say gently. Sitting flat on the ground with your legs crossed

Who does she think she is?… I want her to leave. I can't deal with this right now.

You hear a distant voice say that sounds like her.

Is this really happening?

Let me know what you think. reblogs, likes, and comments are more than welcome. I don't mind constructive criticism either 😎

-Grey🩶

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x rio #rio vidal #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda vision #eventual smut #grey🩶

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flonbowe · 7 months ago

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MAJOR BROTHERSHIP SPOILERS, ESPECIALLY RELATED TO ZOKKET!

You have been warned

So they’re like, a toxic relationship right?/hj

OK JOKING ASIDE These two are very interesting to me, and since we've known about Zokket longer, I'll be talking about him first in this thread of reblogs and posts

Zokket

So to get the elephant out of the room, I earnestly don’t believe he is just Cozette brainwashed

Like Aside from small details like the body shape being larger than she is, Zokket's voice sounding very much so different in not just the voice bleps, but in his actual grunts and noises (Especially so before his boss fight), there's things like Zokket's personality, behavior, hell he's even flat out referred to as a separate person a couple times.

Cozette after being freed only ever mentions being under Reclusa's control, and putting on a mask to become Zokket. A mask that breaks once Zokket is beaten.

The way Zokket is defeated, the way the Glohn energy flees off of Cozette's body, coupled with the fact it was specifically a mask Cozette said she donned to become Zokket, tells me outright that Zokket isn't exactly brainwashing, but instead a type of spirit or possession used to carry out Recluse's will. Now All this to say Zokket is his own person, and a very interesting person. Unlike most other Mario characters, he's a very flat character. Intentionally so don't get me wrong, that's the point. He's focused more on numbers than people. He doesn't "misremember" names, he actively doesn't care. His first proper scene is him misnaming the Extension Corps multiple times, with him getting more aggravated the more they try to correct him. He visits Shipshape a couple times through out the game, and most of those visits usually end with him mocking the idea of having connections and overall being very bitter. He's a cold cold man, and even during his boss fight he revels in making the bros hurt each other. There's also some interesting extra details via hidden logs from Cozette while being possessed, and Zokket writing his plans through her body. Quoting from those logs "The egg says its name is Reclusa. Yes, it told me its name, and that makes sense. The egg speaks directly to my brain. The egg has also shared this important truth. Loneliness is sublime . The egg only SEEMS not to move. But it definitely speaks in my brain. I now know my only calling: the resurrection of Reclusa. Loneliness is sublime . All connections will be severed. Reclusa will rule a new era of isolation. Once I have completed my task, I, too, will know the bliss of isolation. Loneliness is sublime . Approximately 284 hours, 56 minutes, and 29 seconds until the resurrection. "Beyond the Glohmatic Ray" "I have distilled the isolate energy from Spite Bulbs. That will be the source for Glohm. I can then focus and amplify it through the Great Lighthouses..." "The So-Called Extension Corps." " I met these buffoons on Slippenglide Island and employed them as generals over my army. They are intensely incompetent but loyal. Do they seek glory, or are simply afraid? They will be superfluous after the rebirth. I will need some means to dispose of them" "Building an Army" "My soldiers, my hands in the wide world, are simply junk repurposed and rebuilt. I gave them language so they might cooperate., but it is absurd to see these junk piles speak. I cannot imagine a place for them in the new world after he is reborn. They will suffer. They may rebel and become ungovernable. No matter--they are ephemeral things." after Recluse was revived, Zokket intended to torture the Zok Troops, his minions, of which HE created. Zokket doesn't just hate bonds, but seems to actively wants to break them. He strayed from his goal of reviving Reclusa by using some of the Glohm to make handheld rays to make people miserable and hate each other, instead of just using the Lighthouses for Reclusa. He threatens the Corps when the revival is almost complete, which would have come to fruition anyway had they succeeded. Zokket seems to fully understand bonds, and despises them. He's not apathetic, he's actively resentful... Except For Reclusa Excluding voice clips, the only time he laughs, is here.

His only use of positive language, and its when he's dying, where he should be at his lowest. Instead, he gets excited, happy, happy to see his Great Inspiration finally return to this world. For a man who hates bonds, he seems to have a great deal of care for his master. A master he was willing to die for, who he was destroyed for. Not even Connie, who he can't forget because of Cozette's lingering consciousness, all Zokket can muster for her is remembering her name, unlike Reclusa. So Who is Zokket? Zokket is a very cruel, bitter person. He's distant and calculating, planning and very exact, very precise ways to revive his master. But he's also sadistic, planning misery for anyone and everyone involved in his plans, for the goal of isolating the world for his master, Reclusa. a master, who he has a deep level of fondness for, the only person he actively shows happiness towards, a person who he spends his alone time with, his purpose, his great inspiration. That's Zokket (At least, my thoughts as to who Zokket is)

#mario and luigi #m&l brothership #mario & luigi: brothership #mario and luigi brothership #brothership spoilers #zokket #reclusa

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snzcaretaker · 5 months ago

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𝕰𝖉𝖜𝖎𝖓'𝖘 𝕵𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖑

(Please excuse the random bit of blanket over his butt - covering that up for Tumblr's sake.)

Previous Fic | Below are Edwin’s journal entries between his encounter with Ambrose, and receiving his letter. He got sicker :( I also left some blanks instead of inventing names for minor characters and places - just seemed more convenient for now. CW: contagion

January 3rd - The New Year’s Ball was a disaster. If not for Ambrose, I hardly know what I would have done. He found me in a back room, already delirious and - But I can’t speak of it, even here…partly because of its disgusting nature, and partly because of the affection it brought out in me. Which is more mortifying? All I can say is how grateful I am to Ambrose. Things could have been much worse.

At any rate, I must be stronger. Will return to work tomorrow. I am wanted in L____, where there is a land sale to be arranged. I am quite well enough to go. Healthy exertion will put all these thoughts out of my mind.

January 4th - Trip to L_____ brought nothing but misfortune. All the household there was sick with congestion, and Mr. ______, in addition to driving a terribly hard bargain, coughed every other word. But the real troubles began on the return journey. The left front wheel of the carriage sank into a concealed hollow under the snow. The sky was very bleak, and bitter cold seeped into the carriage interior until my nose ran in complaint. We were stuck in the snow for hours and did not reach home until after sundown. I’m afraid I cursed at everyone, and kicked the side of the carriage like a child in tantrum. My driver is a good man, but he will like me even less now than he already did. The devil take my temper…

But how could I help it, in the midst of panic and frustration? I was so close to being well again. Feel unusually tired now, but hopefully that will be mended by morning. I cannot afford to be ill again so soon.

January 5th - Awoke late, with a sore throat and a feeling of great dread. I did my best to overcome any weakness by persistent activity. I went for a short ride, and chopped wood until I came over faint. Nonetheless, I only found that the cold moved from my throat to my head and nose. Servants finally persuaded me to take supper lying down. They will talk. I refuse to call for Dr. _____, though. That will only confirm the gossip, and further damage my reputation. Half of E_____ County already thinks of me as fragile.

January 6th - Attempted to work from bed. At least correspondence can be attended to. However, I blotted the ink so many times due to ill-timed sneezes that I soon gave up the effort. Am now lying in bed alone. Everything is dull and I feel unconscionably sorry for myself. Fever has set in - I know myself well enough to say I will likely only worsen from here. Will sleep again. [Page has clearly been sneezed on.]

January 7th - Felt utterly pathetic and miserable all day. All I can think about are Ambrose’s arms around me. I physically ache with longing to be held. How can I return to my lonely existence after being shown such kindness? Such a happy memory…it torments me because it can never be repeated. He was a saint, but no one is saint enough to want to know me after I’ve spent a whole night sneezing myself silly into their hand, an absolute mess. And I said such needy, adoring things…I hope I am misremembering…what an embarrassment.

Must stop writing or I will go to pieces again.

January 8th - Oh Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose. There is light in the world after all! How do these gifts fall into my lap? He feels as I do. That he could forgive me, even want me, after seeing me this way…I am overcome.

I wrote a few short lines to answer his request in the affirmative - everything else must be said in person. I’ll busy myself with making a guest room ready for him, and doing what I can about my appearance. Patient as he is, the last thing I want is to greet him with total dishevelment and a sneeze in the face. Though I might not have a choice. I feel so very weak even sitting up at my mirror, and my hair is not obeying me. Maybe I’ll just rest a little while longer…

#First POV from Edwin - I hope he sounds distinct enough from Ambrose!#snz art #snz ocs #snzfucker #snzario #snz fic #ocs edwin and ambrose

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trialbywombaat · 9 months ago

Note

🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺🇦🇺

Okay so I might not be able to commit to 171 sentences 😂 But I will for sure give you a good chunk 💖💖💖

He hesitates, trying to figure out how much Howie knows. He never technically came out to Howie, or anyone else at the 118. He'd relied on the LA first responder grapevine, the same one that had let him know that Bobby and Athena had gotten hitched; that Chim was engaged and had a kid. He settles on a vague-ish response and presses send. Not exactly what I was asking... He waits, and wonders if it takes longer for text messages to travel overseas. He doesn't know much about the science behind it, and he's never had much reason to look into it before, but maybe Evan would know. It seems like something he'd be interested in. If it doesn't take longer for text messages to travel overseas, though, Howie is being frustratingly slow. Probably for a good reason, but it's annoying nonetheless. He swipes out of his messages app and opens Instagram. He barely uses it, and only even has an account because an ex had convinced him to download it, but now he finds himself typing 'Evan Buckley' into the search bar and tapping on Evan's profile. It's only been a few hours, but already he'd started to wonder if he was exaggerating Evan's attractiveness in his mind. But looking at Evan's profile, at the endless supply of thirst traps and selfies he's posted, it's quickly apparent that Tommy hasn't misremembered a damn thing. Evan is exactly his type. His finger hovers over the 'follow' button. It wouldn't be weird to follow Evan, would it? They've already exchanged numbers, after all. Before he can tap the button, though, his phone buzzes again. A response from Howie. Not a particularly helpful response, though. It just says, ohhhh. He watches the three little dots appear and bounce around while Howie is apparently typing more, and he tries not to think about how much he cares about the answer. Finally, another message appears. Sorry man, but he is famously into women. Okay. That's okay. He won't deny the disappointment he feels settling deep in his stomach. He really had thought Evan was flirting with him. And usually his gaydar is pretty accurate. But he's not infallible. Part of him wants to argue that Evan could be into women and men. Maybe Chim just doesn't know about it. But the word 'famously' gives him pause. There's more to the story that Tommy doesn't know, so if Howie thinks Evan is straight, who is Tommy to disagree. He allows himself to feel the disappointment for a moment, to ride it out. But he isn't going to dwell on it. It's not the first time Tommy's been attracted to a straight guy, and it probably won't be the last. He knows how this goes by now. Maybe they'll drum up a decent friendship, and Tommy will have someone to watch Fight Club with when they're back in LA. Or maybe they'll drift apart, and five years from now they won't even remember each other's names. And even if it seems to hurt a little more this time, if he can't seem to get Evan's face out of his mind, it's probably just because they've spent so long together already. Because he'd sat there for five hours refusing to move for fear of waking Evan, of losing the warm pressure of his head against Tommy's shoulder, and he'd imagined what it might be like to wake up like that every morning. So it might take him a little longer to move on than usual. But he'll figure it out. He allows himself one last look at Evan's instagram before he tries to get some sleep. A goodbye of sorts. At the top of Evan's profile he sees a notification that's just popped up. Buckaroo_Buckley_ wants to follow you. He has no choice but to follow back.

#911 abc #bucktommy #evan buckley #tevan #tommy kinard #firepilot #my fic #make me write

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greetingfromthedead · 10 months ago

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2. Stubborn Wills

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 3.1k

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A few days go by. You barely sleep, constantly checking on the man on your table, wondering if he will wake up. His skin turned pale, the fever got worse at first, and you struggled to keep him hydrated. You wet his lips with a damp cloth and dripped broth into his mouth carefully. You wiped the sweat from his body and kept the wounds clean as the days passed, hoping for signs of improvement. By the second evening, you rolled him onto the gurney that's usually meant for patients, claiming back your dinner table. Every time you changed the dressings on his wounds, they seemed to be getting better. The change appeared too rapid, and you started to question your own sanity. Are you imagining the changes? Perhaps you misremember the starting point, or maybe you've slept so little that the passing of time has become distorted. You think back to when Vash was under your care and realize he too healed quickly, much more so than most other people. You're reminded of the wings again. Are they humans in the first place? If what you saw was true, then definitely not. Something more must be at play.

You wake up with your cheek on skin. You feel groggy, and lick your mouth to collect the drool that has escaped from the corner of your lips. It takes you a moment longer to realize you're sitting, and then the memory returns. You were checking your patient's pulse, but evidently dozed off while doing so. You lift your head and realize you are still holding on to the wrist of the dark haired man; your forehead was resting on his hand. You rub your face and try to shake off the tiredness before looking for the clock. It's noon, and you guess you were asleep for a couple hours. That's too much, and you start to panic. You get up to immediately get back to taking care of your patient when your gaze goes to his face and you see his open eyes. The light blue irises are turned towards the ceiling, and he slowly blinks.

"Hey! Are you awake?!" You blurt out in amazement and lean closer. One hand supports you on the cot as you tower over him; the other goes to his uninjured cheek to slightly turn his face towards you. His eyes stay on the ceiling, but you're unsure if they are avoiding you or simply focused on something up there. You are too surprised to check. "Hey! Can you hear me?"

Knives doesn't react; he still looks pale and sickly; he doesn't appear like he is aware of his surroundings; his expression is empty and distant. You start examining him further in a hurry, checking his responses, and while he doesn't follow any commands, for a moment you could have sworn his icy eyes turned to you with a deep distaste. From what you gather, he is awake, just very weak and lethargic. You accept it as a small win that he is at least conscious. You take a deep breath, relieved that things are moving in a good direction, and with new vigor, you go to make some broth for him, hoping it will help him regain his strength.

"I'm so happy you're awake!" You cheer from the next room as you stir the pot on the stove. "And Vash will be overjoyed! You had us very worried!"

You ladle some of the liquid into the bowl and make your way back, leaving it to cool off for a little. You give him a thorough checkup again, removing the dirty bandages and wiping him with a damp cloth to cool him off and remove the sweat.

"You still have a fever, but I am giving you meds to deal with that, and your wounds don't look infected. They will heal with some nasty scars, I'm afraid. I'm sorry about that. I did my best, but you were ruffed up bad." You talk to him with a soothing tone, and for the most part, he seems almost asleep, his eyes half closed, not focused on anything. It feels like he tried to pull his arm from your grasp as you re-bandaged it, but his muscles hold no strength, and he barely moves. You ignore his attempt and just continue to carefully wrap the cloth around his biceps.

You take a break from tending to his wounds, deeming that the broth has cooled off just enough. You leave the bowl on your little rolling table by the bedside and lift his head up with one hand, the other brings a spoonful of liquid to his lips. But his mouth remains closed tightly, as if he has lost the will to eat. You gently coax him to take a sip, hoping he will find comfort in the warm broth, but feel his head shift instead, trying to turn away.

"Oh, don't be like that!" you sigh. "You have to eat! You need to get your strength back to heal."

You try again, but have no success. His eyes close softly, but his jaw remains locked.

"Guess you are just as stubborn as your brother. He at least made my life easier." You put the spoon back into the bowl. "But if you think I'll give up just like that, then you are wrong. I am stubborn too!"

You leave the liquid be and return to changing the dressings on the wounds covering most of his body and cleaning the sweat from the pale skin. He feels tenser than before but lacks the means to protest further. You smear every cut and bruise with ointment and pull out a syringe for the medication.

"Your choice. You can either cooperate and I'll give you your painkillers and fever suppressors orally with some liquid you need, or I will do it all with this thing and I have run out of friendly needles." You shake a sterile packet with a large needle towards him, but he doesn't react in any way. If you didn't know better, you would think he had fallen asleep. "Last chance."

You leave your tools next to the bowl as you pick up the spoon and bring it to his lips. Nothing. His mouth remains closed. His breathing is calm and steady, his eyes still closed, and there is a hint of a frown on his brow line.

"Fine, I did warn you. A hunger strike will not sway me, and I caution you to reconsider quick before I come up with some elaborate plan to force feed you." The spoon returns to the bowl once more as you place his head on the pillow. "I can be quite creative, and while you may be a hunk of muscle, for now you are at my mercy, and that means I will take care of you whether you want it or not."

He is incapable of putting up a fight as you administer medicine and, afterwards, some saline too. It's not ideal; you would really prefer him to eat as your supplies are dwindling, but for now you leave him be. You're just happy he is somewhat conscious, at least.

A knock on the door draws your attention, and you go to open it, sure that Vash has returned just as he promised, but instead you find a familiar crier, certainly here to deliver some news. He removes his hat as a greeting before entering the house at your signal.

"Good morning, Doc! I am here to bring excellent news!" He says it with a beaming smile. "The battle is over! Earth's Forces came and put an end to the fight! They have stayed to help us rebuild! I have very little information, sadly, but I did get some leaflets to be distributed."

The crier pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his large bag and hands it to you. As you open up the makeshift newspaper, you see it filled with text with no pictures or good formatting—clearly a rushed job. Your eyes skim the article, and at the very bottom of the page, you see, "Suspects Vash the Stampede and Millions Knives have disappeared and are wanted to stand trial in front of the Earth Forces. Both are wanted alive, and the bounty on their heads is $$60.000.000.000 each. They are considered to be armed and extremely dangerous.". You unfold the other papers that were between the news article and see two wanted posters. One is the already familiar image of Vash, but the other is slightly different; the face is mostly the same, but the expression is more stern, and the hair is shorter and slicked back. Both are depicted as blondes, and you have the good sense not to immediately turn towards the man laying in the cot on the other side of the room.

"Ah, I see you have a stay in patient again. A victim of the battle?" The crier speaks casually and takes a step closer to the bed on the other side of the room.

"Oh, eh, I am not sure. He is in bad shape; I found him in the desert." You lie, and the man doesn't seem to pay any attention to the slight hesitation in your voice.

"Is that so? Perhaps he's from a nearby village. Maybe I know him; I've been around these parts for a while." He speaks calmly; no ill intent is apparent in the way he acts.

"I wouldn't get too close. I'm not entirely certain that he isn't contagious." You finally lift your gaze from the wanted poster to the crier.

"Is that why his face is swollen and purple?" He asks as he immediately takes a step back.

"Yes, it could be. It swells up your airways and eyes. It's not pretty and could end badly unless you get help." You run with the lie and feel grateful to get away with it so easily.

"Ah, yeah, poor guy looks rough." He nods. "Well, I wish you good luck, and hopefully he will get better soon! Make sure to share the good news with him!"

"I will," you assure with a smile as the crier heads back out the door. "Do you need some water or food? You have a long journey ahead."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine. You need it more than I do!" He smiles again, and you see him get on his tomas before waving and heading away. You close the door and look at the wanted posters in your hand. You know better than to believe everything you're told, especially since Vash is involved. The man on your spare bed is Millions Knives, a wanted person with a very high bounty on his head and one of the two main suspects involved with the whole battle and the killing of so many people. You look at the image again, but the battered and bruised man in your care doesn't have the stern look of the person in the image. You push down the suspicious feelings and focus on treating him. That's the best you can do; you're no moral authority, just someone trying to fulfill the request of a friend.

You leave the folded up papers on a small side table and put a heavy vase on top to keep them from flying away with the draft. You don't even go back to read the article. It matters little right now, and the truth is always hidden in details that this piece of paper won't hold. You get back to work, washing and boiling the bandages, occasionally going back to the man to check that he still breathes and feel for his pulse and temperature to make sure he is stable. You offer him water, but he refuses that too, so you leave a wet rag on his mouth as you continue to monitor his condition.

Every half hour, you hover around him, checking for any signs of improvement or deterioration in his health. He doesn't respond to your questions, so you're left guessing when it comes to his pain and when you need to give him more medicine. You peek at the more serious wounds and wipe his face and neck with a damp towel. Sometimes he seems more awake than other times. The difference is hard to spot, but you go by the furrow of his brow. The more dislike he displays with his eyes, the more awake you guess him to be.

"You know… I wouldn't be annoying you so much all the time if you had your strength back." You talk to him after the third day of him being awake while lathering his large wounds with salve. "Believe me, I am exhausted and would love to sleep for more than an hour at a time, but you look like shit and I know you need me or you would wither away. So why don't you do us both a favor and eat or at least drink some water? We could both get a good night's sleep."

He remains resolute, not taking any of the water you offer him, and you let out a deep sigh of frustration. He hasn't gotten any better lately; the wounds look the same, and his body is too weak to put up a fight. He has at least remained stable because you keep administering him fluids and medicines, but it is taking a toll on both you and your supplies. Vash hasn't returned either, and you feel yourself nearing a bind.

That day, you go on an extensive search through all your materials. You work through every bag and box of tools, old vials, used and unused machinery, packets, and containers until there is no stone left unturned. And you finally find something that sparks an idea in your head.

You return to the man laying on the cot and grab his foot through the blanket to give it a little shake as you stand at the end of his bed. Knives opens his eyes; his face is now slightly less swollen and bruised, but his expression is still grumpy.

"Don't scowl at me like that. You know it doesn't work." You scold him before remembering why you came. "I'm here to make you a deal. You are running out of real estate where I can poke you with a needle, and it's not the best way to give you nutrients and water. Also, my supplies are running low, and there is a very easy alternative—that's to eat and drink. So here is where I offer you a choice. You can either stop with this stubbornness and accept food like a good boy, or I will insert this tube through your nose into your stomach and force it into your system."

You show him a long tube and wiggle it menacingly. You see his eyes move onto your face and stay there for longer than just a second, for the first time since arriving in your care. Then they move onto the tube in your hand. You aren't entirely sure how well he hears and understands you, as he has yet to follow any of your commands, but you feel hopeful.

"It's not pleasant; I can promise you that, but continuing as we have is not really an option either. I will probably sedate you just in case, but I doubt you would like any of it. How about it?" You look at him, searching for even a minuscule change in his appearance, but his expression remains stoic. "Don't be so difficult."

You put down the tubing on your rolling table and pick up a cup with a shaped rim like a pitcher. You lift his head and bring the cup to his lips, tilting it slightly to bring the water to him. Knives's mouth remains locked, and you're about to give in when he finally takes a sip. Relief floods through you, and you wait patiently while he takes a few more labored gulps. He struggles a bit; his constitution is still weak, and his throat is surely parched. Once you are sure he won't drink any more, you put away the cup and place his head back.

"Good job!" you cheer, your fingers stroking over his head. "I'll get you some broth too for nutrients. Swallowing will get easier, too, once you recover a bit. I'm glad you came around, but I will keep the tube on hand just in case!"

In just a few more days, he is strong enough that you can sit him up. You still have to feed him, bringing the mashed vegetables to his mouth with a spoon, and support his arm as he takes a drink. You no longer fear for his condition; the stitches are holding, the wounds are healing, and a hint of pink is returning to his complexion. His hands shake with the weight of the cup, and you have to pull and push a lot to adjust his position, but he is getting there. You let him sleep, no longer checking on him as often as you used to, and that means you can finally catch up on some sleep too. The reflection in the mirror had been quite horrendous at one point, and you're happy to have the dark circles under your eyes fade.

Knives has yet to say anything. You talk to him a lot, telling him about his condition and what you're doing, just filling the quiet house with your voice, hoping that one day he will respond. He rarely looks at you, and then too, you can feel the dipleasure in his gaze. You can only guess that it hurts his pride to have you taking care of him like this. He is quite a large and burly man; it can't be easy to lose his independence. You feed him, clean him, and care for his wounds, all while trying to maintain his dignity and sense of self-worth, but it's not easy with his condition still being weak.

You wish Vash was here; he would surely be happy to see his brother's condition improving. You know he would have a lot to say; it would be easy for him to have a conversation with his brother, and perhaps even get him to speak too. You don't know the man under your care; your monologue is superficial and nearly meaningless. You wish you could offer more to lift some of the dark mood from the house. Knives pouts a lot and purposefully averts his eyes when you enter the room. It feels like he endures your presence and help through gritted teeth, but you don't let it get you down. You keep up as you have, as that has gotten you this far in the first place.

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You can check out the Apple Blossoms Masterlist for more info.

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#trigun #fanfic #fanfiction #millions knives #plant boi #x reader #writing #knives x reader

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horrorfilmlesbian · 19 days ago

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For Fic Writer Asks:

1, 17, 27, (and 29 if you feel like it! I hate that part!)

ty ty <3

1 - the last sentence you wrote

“And you said nothing of it?” Bashir said, and sat down beside Garak.

[from my current wip "a difference in perspective", the garashir amnesia fic I keep posting about]

technically there was something else but that's waaaay too smutty to just fling out at the top of an answer

17 - talk about your writing and editing process

Writing-wise, I am a bit chaotic. Usually, I try and start with the first scene, but sometimes it doesn't shake that way so I'll just pick the moment that has my brain buzzing the hardest and go with that first.

I am very much a write what I feel type person, so I tend to just whack in a "[More]" to the end of scenes I'm not quite done with as a note to come back later when I feel more inspired.

Usually by this point I've got a rough outline and I'll dive in further into themes and ideas I want to explore in the fic, trying to find scenes which touch on stuff I want to communicate. Other times it's like, well, how can I add more Yearning/Fluff/etc to that and just go nuts.

Since most of what I've written recently is star trek/ds9 stuff, at this point I'll also spend about a hundred hours on memory alpha and memory beta going through various pages just to make sure I'm not misremembering some minor detail, or to find random names or places I can add in for ~flavour. Sometimes it'll mean digging through scripts as well, or even totally random unrelated topics I wanna make sure I don't get wrong. It can get pretty involved but I am dedicated to making sure if there is something useful in canon, I pinch it.

Then, I move on to fleshing out background stuff if I haven't already. This is all the ancillary stuff that might not make it explicitly into exposition. I am a world building nerd so I really like to have stuff down pat before I get too deep into writing a fic bc otherwise I wing it and will contradict myself.

Lately, it's been Cardassian courtship rituals/culture and so things like this end up getting added in the form of handwritten notes (using my e-ink tablet bc otherwise I would waste so much paper) because when I'm coming up with that stuff I much prefer writing it physically. It looks like this (don't mind my weird scribbly writing, but it's just an example of how things look):

Editing-wise, previously it was just skimming the document about a hundred times to try and catch strays, but lately I've got some lovely beta readers helping me with a fic and I always love working with someone who will go through things w/ a fine tooth comb and point out not only my overuse of "quite" and "seemed" but also give me GREAT pointers on ways in which I can push scenes further.

if it's something quick, then I just go over it myself, turning the page black, text white and switching up the font. Genius tip I got from someone recently and it's been such a game changer.

27 - your favorite part of the writing process

Research, honestly. As you can tell per above, I really love doing a bunch of background research for things I want to include and then get strong ideas for how I want certain scenes to play out. I love picking through the details and as much beef as I have with beta canon trek stuff sometimes, I do really love finding some random detail that makes my brain go a little crazy and then spurs on about a hundred other ideas.

29 - how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

Sometimes I have the damn title before I even write a single sentence, other times the fic is entirely complete but it takes me extra time to just settle on something.

Like, Paris, Cardassia I had that title in like two seconds flat and kept turning it over in my head while I wrote. Meanwhile Statistical Significance took me like two weeks to settle on bc as cool as "p hacking" is as a stats concept and was kind of thematically appropriate, that is NOT a sexy fic title. I needed something snappy for that.

send me fic writer asks!

#asks #fiannaai #sorry could yap on about SO much of this stuff forever #ty for sending this!

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sabianandocs · 5 days ago

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Do you have any theory or speculation why sans take over Grillby's in delta

Hmm I honestly feel like it's just a visual gag for Undertale fans to recognize to be honest! The place isn't even a bar in Deltarune, and doesn't even look like it ever was, on the interior, so I don't know if he really 'took it over' if it never 'was' to begin with. Since DR is a parallel universe to UT, and not a direct sequel, there's no saying for sure that Sans and Grillby ever even interacted. ( :( ) Then again, I'm not really the best at theorizing... Most of my Undertale headcanons and stuff are based on existing lore that we're given & extrapolations from common headcanons, meshed together with real life science stuff.

Now, if I had to speculate... The connection I'm initially drawn to make is to the newsletter information that says that Sans helps Grillby out around the bar a lot in Undertale. He's not just a patron, he also helps run things when Grillby needs it. So maybe in Deltarune he's inherited the place from Grillby? But I'm not super confident in that conclusion, given that he says he's new in town and doesn't really know anyone. If we were to assume Grillby was his connection to the town & the reason he moved there... Well, I hate to say it, but it almost seems like maybe Grillbz is dead if we were to go with that theory? Because it's implied that Sans doesn't really know anyone in town too well yet, and he never mentions Grillby. So I'd much rather choose to believe that it's something else.

The most likely conclusion in my eyes is just that Grillby's in Deltarune (either as a grocery store or a bar or something else) was a small business that failed for whatever reason & when Sans moved into town & needed a job he figured he'd just turn it into a grocery store/refurbish it. I suppose it's also possible that Grillby still owns and operates it from afar & Sans is just joking about being the only employee, but I doubt the vandalization of the sign would be tolerated in that case. We don't really have a lot of information to work with and I really doubt it's supposed to be anything deeper than Toby making his life easier by reusing an asset and turning it into a silly joke at the same time.

Take this all with a grain of salt! I'm not super studied up on my Deltarune lore and I haven't played it in months (this will soon change with the update coming out in. Less than 6 hours as of me writing this) so I might be misremembering details.

#Answering asks #answered ask #undertale #deltarune

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thinking-emoji · 3 months ago

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ngl they were pretty famous in 2017, not like household names level famous, but definitely more famous than they are right now. i feel like even if u were just a casual youtube watcher and social media user, u at least heard of their names, and the phandom at the time was also huge (in part because, like dnp mentioned in their mukbang video, a lot of ppl who were generally into british youtube also watched them, whereas now, it’s mostly us really dedicated phannies who have stuck through the hiatus). also, although they had left the bbc by then, they ofc still had that cred attached to them for having been bbc presenters and brits hosts (granted, £250,000 is still Wilddddd, but yeah i’d say they were pretty famous then, even if a good portion of that was like Residual fame from the insanity of 2014-2016)

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I'M SO SORRY

I GOT THESE AND STARTED RAMBLING AND THEN WANTED TO LOOK SOMETHING UP AND REORGANISE THE POST AND THEN I SAVED THIS AS A DRAFT AND THEN. FORGOT. FOR A WEEK please forgive me 😭😭😭

Um. Do you still want the unstructured rant from a week ago. I'm not even gonna reread it, I'll just post it as it is including last week's tags 😭😭😭

Ok this sent me down a rabbit hole into the most subscribed to youtube channels of 2017, the post-brexit economy of the UK, tinder's revenue history, tinder's marketing budget history, youtube's revenue history (google "2017 youtube advertiser boycott" for a blast from the past), and way too little phandom and Fandom history so I still feel like I'm missing pieces lmao

The thing is... I distinctly *remember* seeing comments that dnp were past their zenith during ii? Granted I wasn't on phannie tumblr at the time so this must've been on twitter or idb, where people have always been more pessimistic I guess. But it's not like this was a lifetime ago, I know where I was and what I did in 2017 (secretly watch dnpg during a uni field trip while everyone else was getting drunk and hooking up with the professors) (until they realised i had mobile data even though we were abroad, which was when they started asking me if we could all watch skam on my phone) (bc apparently that was what the 20 year olds were into lmao) (which is also how i know nobody used tumblr anymore bc i found the pirated skam uploads through a doc linked on tumblr, while everyone else was trying to catch the youtube uploads before they got taken down after 2 hours), so I feel like I can't be misremembering it that much? Like, I remember everyone (irl and on twitter) talking about conventional "youtubers" (as in, person who talks into a camera without a large production company behind them) in these mind-bogglingly reductionistic terms after pewdiepie came out as a racist and then again after logan paul filmed that dead body (tbf that was in december 2017, so definitely after the tinder spon), and I specifically found it so strange that it seemed like none of these commentators knew any other professional youtubers. Like the whole business model seemed so strangely more niche than it had a few years earlier? Like, in 2012 all my friends were watching Tyler Oakley or Jenna Marbles, and then by 2016 they had moved on to watch... Seth Meyers clips? On Youtube? Or, you know, Skam reuploads. Which is not what the platform was for at all, but there was this strange shift in content that wasn't *made* for youtube.

All this to say.... I guess the ad *could* have been that expensive, especially bc immediately after brexit inflation went up in the uk, so that probably also affected the numbers, depending on whether they got the deal with tinder uk or tinder us? I still feel like 2017ish wasn't a high point for youtubers specifically. Apparently influencer marketing only really took off in the mid-2010s though, so I guess it was also this liminal space of already-ftc-mandated-testimonial-declarations-hashtag-ad but not-yet-moved-all-the-budget-to-instagram? Idk it was a weird time. I wonder how it'll go in the next 10 years

#idk I'm not convinced the average youtuber has ever really been famous at all tbh #but imagine how many influencers a company tends to strike deals with #not that you need to be famous to be a successful testimonial #actually let's do the maths #i mean. match spent 340 million on advertising. let's say 250 million of that was for tinder #then let's say half of it was traditional advertising and the other half influencer spons #so you got 125 million for all the influencers. divided by 250k - ok tbf that's 500 people who on average get paid what dnp allegedly did #yeah. maybe you're right maybe it was that sum #dan and phil #phan #ask

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player1064 · 1 year ago

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Loved your Jamie Carragher character thesis statement post! It actually made me think of a prompt or short story if you are still doing them. A 5+1 story of Gary making Jamie contradict how he acts/personality. Maybe from the viewpoints of others and the +1 can be Gary defending Jamie personality/character. Again love your drabbles and stories!

im ngl i DID set out to do this as a 5+1 but I. ran out of steam a bit (bitches when their meds are out of stock etc). so instead have a 4+0 😅

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Philip.

Phil has abandoned the boardroom and is wandering around Hotel Football in search of snacks when he comes upon a small kitchenette where Jamie is busy swearing at a kettle.

He hadn't realised Jamie was here too, he and the other lads have been stuck in a meeting with Gary for hours now and there'd been no mention of it, but it's not that surprising when he thinks about it.

"Alright, Carra?" he greets, and Jamie turns to him with a muttered fuck.

"Hi, Phil," he says with an exasperated sigh. "Your twat of a brother asked me to fetch him some tea, and –”

He gestures hopelessly at the counter behind him, which is in such a state it looks as though a small bomb has gone off.

"Oh," says Phil. "Tea is really difficult, to be fair. Can't you find one of the staff members to help you?"

"No, I –” Jamie runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "He asked me."

Redders.

Jamie sees it moments before it happens, in excruciating slow motion – like when a gun goes off in films. Gary’s hovering around Carra, trying unsuccessfully to get his attention, and when he gives up and reaches to jostle Carra’s shoulder Jamie waits for the inevitable snap.

Except, Carra doesn’t snap. He doesn’t jerk away, he looks at Gary and he beams. If it was any other person Jamie could’ve sworn he was leaning in to the touch, because Gary’s hand stays in place even while they talk.

When they’re setting up to film, Gary shifts his chair closer to Carra’s so that their knees are touching, and Carra doesn’t roll his eyes or move away. When Carra tells a joke that’s got Gary doubled over with laughter, Gary spreads a hand between Carra’s shoulder blades and nothing happens.

The whole day is full of things like that, tiny casual touches which should be normal, which are normal for anyone other than Carra. Jamie, worried that he’s gone mad and misremembered a fundamental fact about Carra, even tries an experiment once or twice: he claps a hand on Carra’s back, or he throws an arm around his shoulders in a friendly side hug. Carra twitches at the contact every single time, a miniscule reaction honed out of years of needing to be polite, and he carefully shifts away from Jamie’s touch with a suspicious side-eye.

When they’re leaving the studio that evening to go to the pub, Gary slaps Carra’s bum as he walks through the doorway and all Carra does is grin.

Stevie.

“Who the fuck are you texting?”

“Huh?” Jamie blinks, looks up at Stevie over his glasses like he’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, just Gary.”

“Didn’t yous see ‘im earlier today?”

“Yeah, why?”

Stevie is lucky if he gets one text a month from Jamie, even luckier if he sees him in person more than twice a year. It’s never bothered him much, he knows what Jamie’s like, knows that anyone not sat directly in front of him is prone to being dismissed as a distraction. There aren’t really friends in Jamie’s world, just allies and enemies.

So he’s not really sure what to do with this version of Jamie, the one who leaves Gary Neville’s company (and Gary Neville, really?) only to immediately open his phone and start texting Gary Neville.

Every time his phone pings he opens it up and does a stupid little snicker at whatever Gary’s sent him, never mind that he’s meant to be mid-conversation with Stevie. Every bloody anecdote seems to start with ‘so me and Gary were –’, or ‘Gary was saying –’. Even the stories that aren’t about work – as far as Stevie can figure out, there’s rarely a moment that Jamie’s not with Gary, or talking to Gary, or thinking about Gary.

It's weird. It’s almost like how he used to be about football.

Micah.

Micah can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s time for Sky’s yearly ‘film Neville and Carragher making fools of themselves racing each other in a thinly-veiled attempt to rack up more views’, and Jamie is losing.

Jamie’s a runner, he runs. Gary does fuck all cardio beyond the occasional group fitness class, he should not be a full pace ahead of Jamie at the halfway point, and yet. Gary can’t seem to believe it either, because when he glances back at Jamie he grins and picks up his pace with a gleeful little laugh.

Jamie rolls his eyes for the sake of the cameras, but there’s a moment where Micah could’ve sworn he saw him skip, like he was deliberately trying to slow himself down. Which is impossible, because Jamie would happily out-sprint a child if someone told him it was a competition.

And yet.

When Gary wins he grabs onto Jamie’s arm to support himself while his whole body shakes with laughter, squawking out insults every time he’s able to catch his breath. Jamie laughs along, makes up some poor excuse about his hamstring going, but when he catches Micah’s eye he winks as if they’re both in on the same joke.

#i was gonna do a michael owen section where he says something stupid and jamie destroys him over it #and then gary says the same thing and jamie's like. that's so real you're so special and funny #but again. ran out of steam #thanks for the prompts guys i LOVE reminding everyone how insane jamie actually is #carraville #drabbles

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mako-designated-driver · 6 months ago

Text

Wait there's one thing that's puzzling me

If you save Treviso, the Viper gets blighted, right? If Rook is a warden someone (I think it's Tarquin? It's been a while, I might be misremembering) suggests they can help, and Rook can answer that Antoine and Evka will figure out something. The Viper insists Minrathous needs him and that he is not leaving, fair enough.

But then you get to Lavendel, and you meet Flynn. As you know, he was dying of blight, and Evka and Antoine gave him the joining without the usual catch of having to become a grey warden. That also makes sense.

Then, near Antoine and Evka, there's letters to Tarquin answering his questions about the blight, how it progresses and if there's a point when the joining won't help. They even finish by saying that they won't conscript the Viper, but they will be there "if he wishes". Apparentely, this is one of multiple letters.

Lastly, throughout the game you can see the factions using the crossroads to move supplies from one point to another.

So, dumb question: Why can't we just use the eluvians to take the Viper to Lavendel, have him take the joining (no strings attached) and have him back in Minrathous in a few hours? It doesn't seem like the wardens would be against it.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #the viper

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batsplat · 1 year ago

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thoughts on challengers ? 👀

haha okay sure. I was overthinking this when I first saw this ask but since then I've sent half an hour worth of voice notes to my number one person I send half hour's worth of voice notes to (listen she keeps encouraging me to) and I've ironed some of my thoughts out. also I should probably watch it again. some of this might be me misremembering shit. also it's not that serious. quick warning, this ended up being just. too long. it's basically just a long rant. under the cut it goes

so first of all, I really enjoyed watching this film. I liked the central premise a lot, I liked the chemistry between the characters, tashi was very hot, the score was fantastic, the cinematography was at least interesting, and a lot of the non-tennis bits are interesting

having gotten that out of the way. there's an interview where guadagnino says he doesn't watch tennis matches because he finds them boring, which to be clear is completely fair enough - but I do think it does slightly come across in how the tennis is filmed. there's definitely fun, neat stuff in there: the shot where it follows around the ball, the shot from underneath the court, all of that stuff. and I think there's obviously a lot of challenges with filming tennis when you have to make sure you can't, like, see the actors actually play tennis, and I don't know anything about film-making so I don't want to judge it too harshly. but there are a few established angles from which tennis looks good, and this film doesn't really use them all that much. it was interesting to what extent they went for side shots (basically from the tashi pov in the final match) rather than... well, picking a side, and at different points of that match actually giving the viewer a clearer sense of the visceral nature of what they're doing here. like, if you're going court level from behind the player, that's how you capture the weight of the shot on screen. which felt was a little bit... missing

okay... ffs this next section ended up kind of being tennis tactics 101, and then the other bit ended up being about how matches work. my basic point here is that I think this film did some interesting stuff with the tennis but, and this is part of my more longstanding frustrations about the untapped narrative potential of sports, I think you could've done a lot more and communicated a lot more through the actual tennis. not just for annoying people who want to go 'oh look that's an extreme western grip and explains why her forehand has so much spin but can also be fragile when absorbing pressure!!' but for the general viewing audience. I want to be very clear here: I do not really care about realism except when I'm being annoying in voice notes, I care about storytelling. if you understandably do not give a shit about all this tactics and match construction stuff, skip to the bit marked 3 for more of my thoughts related to the actual film

now you might go 'okay but this film isn't about capturing tennis and doing it justice - it's not even about tennis'. yeah, but tennis is the central metaphor! tennis is a relationship, right, but it's also a conversation. it's a way of communicating something to the audience, yes, in a way non-tennis fans can also pick up on. and a lot of the tennis looked pretty same-y. the points were very similar - the intensity was ramped up mainly by the characters just... whacking the ball harder, running side by side, and then sometimes they both move forwards. this isn't a realism issue, it's a storytelling issue. you can tell a story with a tennis point, you can construct these points in different ways to tell you different things

just to give you an example (I promise this is relevant): okay, the most common rally pattern in tennis is hitting cross court. so either you hit on the deuce court (from your pov, this is from the right side of your court to the left side of the other player's court, aka the forehand side for right handed players) or the ad court (the opposite, and thus the backhand side for right handed players). this is for a bunch of tactical reasons. the net is at its lowest in the middle so, y'know, you're less likely to hit it. perhaps most importantly, it's a question of angles and... okay look I don't want to bore the two people reading this with the details but just to very quickly explain, here:

say player a is hitting the ball along the red line to player b, the orange zone depicts the theoretical area in which the ball trajectory of player b's answering shot can go. like, if you want to get the other player to move 'out of the court', you can only do so by going back cross court... which is obviously where, in a cross court exchange, the other player is already standing. this is why a lot of the times, players don't 'recover' after their shots to the exact centre of the court, but instead make a judgement of where the centre is of the theoretical zone the opponent can hit. to put it in plain english: I hit a forehand cross, I don't move back to the exact middle of the court because I know where you can hit the ball back and I need to be in the middle of that - which skews to the right of centre. also, I just know it's more likely you're going to go cross again, because that's just how this works

you want to move the other player around, right, first of all to get the ball past them - but also to make it harder for them to attack you. you're trying to construct a point so that eventually they are the one who can't reach the ball/makes an error, not you. a lot of the times, continuing to go cross court is the smart option. it's less risky than going down the line, and also if your down the line shot isn't perfect, where it isn't a winner or at least a shot they'll struggle to attack, then you're setting up a situation where they have all the angle in the world to work with, where the centre of their theoretical hitting zone is nowhere near where you're actually standing and they can easily whack the ball past you

now, why the fuck does this matter when we're talking about the tennis threesome film? obviously, I don't expect the director to interrupt the film to explain angles to the audience. in tennis terms, 'go cross court' is tactics for babies, but it's still not something most viewers will be instinctively familiar with. but think about what it actually does if players keep exchanging shots cross court because they can't risk going down the line: they're engaging in a direct contest! they are measuring one shot against the other, my forehand against your forehand, my backhand against your backhand, and they are trying to assert dominance. sometimes, you have no choice to escape that exchange even when it's risky because their raw cross court shot is better than yours. sometimes, you're trapped in that exchange. how you can extract metaphors from that should be fairly obvious, and I don't think this should be visually too tough to get across - it's a power struggle between two people contained within a simple shot pattern. it adds variation to what the viewer is being shown (and, yes, it does make the points feel more realistic), but it's also a way of gradually ramping up intensity. my shot against your shot - who wins? who is willing to risk deviating from the norm? who sets themselves up for a trap - does patrick sucker art into attacking him down the line? can he then manage to counterpunch (to use attack as defence) by making it to art's shot in time and placing his response into the open court? who blinks first etc etc

look, this is only one way you can visually use tennis to add to the story. another common tactic is (if you're a right handed player) hitting forehands from the ad court, to 'run around the backhand'. that's an expression of dominance, it's a power play - you're trying to bully your opponent with your most powerful shot (which is the forehand for 99% of players, some might have better backhands but they won't have stronger ones), and you're deliberately recovering less to the centre. you're camping out on the ad side, and going 'yeah I don't actually think your down the line shot is good enough to hurt me, I actually feel very comfortable standing right here so I can more easily move far enough to the left to continue hitting forehands'. it's a tactic that is implicitly passing judgement on the opponent, and again, I refuse to believe you can't show this in a way that the audience understands roughly what's going on. have patrick bully art with his forehand into the weaker backhand or vice versa - they can use their faces to show how comfortable they are with their respective positions. y'know, make the actors act. have one of them find the backhand down the line, fire it into the bit of the court the opponent has completely left open. your characters are using tennis to assert dominance over each other, to manipulate, to deceive each other - you can do that with the actual tennis they're playing

you can also express character through tennis. I'm not saying different play styles function as a personality quiz, but inherently the way you play is going to reflect what you feel comfortable with doing on the tennis court. is your preferred point three shots long or twenty shots long? are you looking to dominate your opponent with your big weapons, or are you looking to trick them with your variety of shots and smarts in using them? or are you looking to just grind them into submission with sheer relentless consistency?

take the drop shot: a shot that 'drops' right after it clears the net as a result of how the player has put a different kind of spin onto it. ideally, it's so close to the net the opponent can't sprint forward quickly enough to reach the ball. how effective your drop shot is depends on several things. obviously, it's how good the shot and the placement and the spin you've put on it is. it also depends on where you're standing and where your opponent is standing, which means that particularly effective dropshots usually come after big, heavy attacking shots that have forced the opponent to move back and have allowed you to move into the court. and it also depends how good your disguise is: for as long as possible, it should look like the shot you're playing is going to be a bog standard forehand or backhand - until you readjust your grip at the last moment and slash the racquet downwards (vs the upwards motion you'd make with the bog standard forehand or backhand). this is a shot that depends on the element of surprise. it's about trying to fuck with your opponent, it's about choosing your moment. it's about playing with them! and you can get pretty memorable reactions from your opponent. if you wrong foot them well enough, they'll literally stumble when they realise what's happening and never even start running. maybe they'll comically flail their arms

I feel like when the men's world number seven throws his arms up in shock every time somebody hits a short ball, you can probably convey this kind of dynamic in a film

and think about what it says if somebody's using a shot like that. again, you're trying to fuck with the other player, and you are relying on your knowledge of the opponent to figure out when they might be susceptible to it. now, obviously, this is tough to do when you're playing someone for the first time and (unlike top level professional players) don't have a vast amount of data to work with and how often xyz shot works against them in xyz situation. this is generally why early in a match, it's a good idea to just like, test some stuff out to give yourself a sense of how they'd react, if it's a good idea to use it in a pressure situation (you also do a version of this in the warm up if you're smart, just check how they react to that high ball to the backhand! all about being curious y'know). but if you know someone, if this is an established rivalry, if this is someone you've played with since you're kids... well. then it's a different ball game entirely

patrick has the psychological edge in that match-up, right, and the whole point of that final match is that it shouldn't be that close but it's that close due to the mental dynamics between the pair of them. patrick constantly wrong-footing art and frustrating him is the easiest way in the world to visually demonstrate that dynamic. you're constantly trying to guess what your opponent is going to do, you're constantly trying to anticipate, yeah? you know what I said above about how you're 'recovering' to the centre of the theoretical zone and all that? well, sometimes you don't do that - you guess where the opponent is going to go. most often, you've got to do that when you know the opponent has a relatively easy shot and they can hurt you with it, so you have to play the probabilities and hope you get it right... it's basically like a penalty kick in football. it's a quick judgement you're making on the basis of past data, of what you think your opponent is thinking, of how big a risk you want to make - of when to time it, because if you move too early they can still change the trajectory of their shot and go the other way. maybe you even feint one way before darting the other. and your opponent might shoot one way or the other... but, sometimes they'll drop shot you while you're moving in one direction as you frantically try to change course. or, which is even more humiliating, they'll go straight down the middle - since you're no longer standing there

in narrative terms, what does it tell you if a character guesses rightly or wrongly? what would it say if art or patrick had that kind of intimate knowledge of each other - I know you usually do this, but I know you know that so I'm going to go the other way - round and round in circles, a mental contest between people who are so familiar with each other that it can become actively confusing to try and preempt their moves. tennis is a relationship and it's a conversation and the way we construct a point tells us a story about the history between you and me. it tells us a story if art, the six time slam winner and more accomplished player by far, is being read so perfectly by patrick that he's tripping over himself and getting in his own way and flailing. one of the most common commentating cliches is about the ball, or indeed the player, being attached to the end of a string. the extension of that metaphor is that one player is the puppet master and the other player is a puppet. easy visual metaphor bingo

you can literally express how the characters feel about each other by... where they're standing. if you're scared of your opponent's shot, then you're going to try and give yourself more time to react. if you are on the attack, then you need to move in, to take the ball earlier, to take time away from the opponent. to me, if you're showing fictional tennis, you really should be playing with time and how you can use cinematic techniques to play with that sense of time. now, you can do this on the broader level of the match, because your subjective sense of time is dependent on how well you're doing in a match. time never moves faster than when you're losing a six love set. but it's also obviously integral to actual points, because you are usually trying to maximise your own time and minimise your opponent's, trying to make sure you will always have enough time to get to the ball and making sure they won't (obviously often u kinda have to pick one of those because of how time works)

where you stand on the court is an integral part of that, for obvious reasons related to 'basic physics'. and, again, it's also psychological. take the return position, right, aka where you're standing when the opponent is serving. most people have a built-in preference for both the first and second serve, and a kind of basic 'return strategy' of what kind of shot they'd like to use and where to move. generally, you'll stand further back for the first serve because it's more powerful... but hey, maybe you have a slightly unorthodox return strategy where you're just trying to 'block' the first serve and use the weight of the opponent's shot against them, and then you step back for the second serve and have a massive whack at them. just as an example

and, again, this is another way in which you try to fuck with your opponent. there is nothing more annoying than seeing the twat on the other side of the net move in to the court by an insulting amount because they don't respect your shitty second serve and think they can take a swing at it from in front of the baseline. some players just do this in general - prime offenders on the women's side are garcia and ostapenko (and with all love to them, they do this more than is perhaps tactically prudent)

(for the other end of the spectrum, see another place from which you can theoretically return a serve from if you're out of your fucking mind) (this particular player's return strategy has been like a top five discourse point over the last few years but we do not have time to get into all that)

but you can also vary it up in a match, and you probably should if you're being smart. so for instance (and there's a specific match in 2022 I'm thinking of here), if you know your opponent has an awful second serve and a lovely little habit of double faulting when under pressure, maybe as the returner you just... well, look, the ball from the first serve has rolled right to your feet, so obviously you need to politely pass it to the ballperson, and maybe it just takes a little bit longer so that you know the server is looking right at you when you meander in front of the baseline to wait for their second serve. and then they double fault and that's the break of serve right there. you're not always standing that close to return second serves, but you're standing there when you know it'll make them most nervous. again, I am not saying the tennis threesome film needs to explain the difference between jelena ostapenko's and daniil medvedev's return strategies, but these ARE the kinds of things you CAN organically integrate, and give you very blunt and easy to understand messages about the characters and their dynamic

and like... different people have different play styles, yeah? let them express a little character! tashi is relentless, maybe she's constantly attempting to take everything with her forehand to attack and attack, or maybe she trusts herself to attack from any place with any shot. maybe she's so lively and confident and uncompromising that she uses down the line shots more than anyone else, or maybe there's surprising subtlety there in how the intensity and rage fades away for a moment as she flutters a slice across the net. what is it about her game that so captivates the two boys, its aggression or its complexity? is her game already more complete and well-defined and self-aware than it has any right to be from a high school student? or is it raw and untamed and a little wild and so full of potential?

art has a one-handed backhand and uniqlo gear in a very obvious federer allusion, but does he share any more with federer than that? is he particularly prone to rushing the net, especially after the serve? does he want to end points quickly? does he have good hands, is he trying to wrong-foot his opponent - or is he the one constantly getting wrong-footed as the others dance around him? is he constantly trying to assert his dominance, to end points quickly, and initially you think it's a sign of his power and confidence... but then you realise that it's insecurity - he's worried what will happen if they go on too long, if he gives too many chances to other players to outsmart him, if he's uncomfortable playing defence because it makes him feel reactive and weak. maybe in the second set he has to knuckle down and accept the rallies will be long and gruelling - which is a central aspect of tennis, it's about patience and managing risk. maybe he's so tense and nervous that he's just an error machine in the first set, but then he decides to just slow the pace and live with patrick in those forehand to forehand exchanges, let his natural weight of shot do the talking for him and force patrick to change things up

and patrick, with the unorthodox technique and the sleeveless shirts and the money and how he never really grew up - what does that tell us about his tennis? is it rough and energetic, big swings at the ball, layering on more and more spin to propel it high over the net? does he throw a massive forehand at art's backhand, making him hit it at a high point that is naturally uncomfortable for the one handed backhand? wouldn't it be interesting if you had patrick have a strong point to his game that naturally matches up to art's weak point, the chink in the six time grand slam champion's armour? what about the physicality, does he lunge further and harder and throw himself into balls just that little bit more? is he stronger than art, or is he faster, or is he neither? is he driven by instinct and gets in his own way less than art does, or is he tactically more astute and gets the better of art that way?

obviously you can't do all of those things in a film and you shouldn't because it's distracting. but what I'm trying to demonstrate here is that there is a whole range of potential storytelling you can tap into here. now, nobody's actually doing this, and my thing with challengers is that in many ways it came closer to the kind of narratives I would like to see. but then it still falls short just a touch, which is where the frustration comes in

a rivalry has got a history that is woken up again every time you step on court to face your old foe - you remember how they play, you already know what you want to do to beat them this time. you are trying to unsettle them. you know how they want to play and you want to deny them that opportunity. inevitably, any defined play style tells us something about the player and their personality and their approach to the game. the film is quite scarce on details about its lead characters and using the tennis more deftly would've been a great way to give us a stronger sense of who they are in a very economical, concise way. what does it mean for tashi's game that she can no longer run? yes, obviously it means she can't compete any longer, but the injury does different things symbolically depending on how big a part movement was of her game. often, tennis injuries directly affect your strengths. take a player who puts a lot of heavy spin on the ball by snapping their wrist - they are putting more strain on said wrist and may end up injuring it (a particularly terrible part of the body to injure for a tennis player). there's something extra cruel about that because it also affects how they'll recover, if they'll ever be able to trust that body part again. these are career-threatening injuries not just for physical but for psychological reasons. same thing if you're a great server with a shoulder injury... or if you're a great mover with a leg injury

also, and okay this probably did come across as nitpicking and it's not really an issue if it worked for people who aren't familiar with tennis... but omg the last point was so confusing. did check and this wasn't just a me problem, though I'd be curious if it worked for people less familiar with the game. when they came closer and closer to the net and hit back and forth, I thought what was happening was that they'd like, given up competing and were just hitting back and forth as a symbol of defiance or something. that they'd basically decided to stop playing the match and just play with each other. because like, you just can't do that in a match, the point would immediately be over especially if they're just standing there - they're too close! you'd immediately get the ball past! so I only realised when the film was over that it was supposed to be a really intense point... but I think that's the kind of thing where most people watching will probably be fine with it, so again. y'know. whatever. I do think you could have staged that point a little more cleverly to get to the same conclusion in a more natural way, but also. whatever. it's fine

(obviously there are also some other broader suspension of disbelief issues that I'm far less bothered about. the technique was like, not great, but also probably about as good as you'll get from actors, though again I would've liked a little more thought put into what they're doing beyond 'art's got a one handed backhand and patrick's got a quirky serve!' I thought the patrick serve thing was really neat and fun and theoretically you could hit a serve like that, though quite frankly in the men's game you'd probably be fucked because you need more racquet acceleration than that - but that does fit in with his character and the stubbornness and all that so it's fine. the art serve quirk... well, most players deliberately construct serving rituals like bouncing the ball several times or ball placement or whatever because it's the one shot in tennis that's completely 'on your own racquet' but is also really tough, so you're trying to trick your brain into always doing the same thing. I find it a little tough to believe art wouldn't have been aware of what he was doing, but again, not a massive issue. beyond my concerns about the lack of variation in the points they were showing, it did also trip me up whenever they were obviously stranded in no-man's land - you need to be either on/behind the baseline or right at the net and there's certain areas of the court where if you spend too long in them you are very much fucked. the whole concept of 'recovering' after a shot is like, as important part of tennis movement as getting there in the first place, and there's whole footwork patterns you use while you're hitting the shot and immediately afterwards to get yourself in position again. at times they'd just be standing in place in the fuck end of where on earth are you standing until the next shot comes and. listen. it really Does Not Matter beyond how it's fun to be annoying about this stuff but it did make me a bit twitchy)

so. match constructions and narrative arcs. I think if a literal match of tennis is the framing device of your film, you should think about the natural narrative tension that exists within a literal match of tennis. again, a match is a conversation, it has its ebbs and flows and peaks and troughs and all that other stuff. you are more tense at *4-5 30:30 than you are at 1-1* 15:0. you are feeling better about your life choices at 6-4 *5-3 than you are at 7-6(8) 0-6 *1-3. you change over the course of a match, as you test yourself physically and mentally and acquire a situationally specific data bank about yourself and the other player, as you notice and learn certain things about what's going on in your own game and your opponent's game. maybe you have a moment where you go 'yup the backhand's a catastrophe today, time to slice everything and hope for the best' or you go 'lol that's the third consecutive djokosmash they've hit, maybe I'll throw the ball high up again next time they get to the net'

also obviously all these things vary over the course of a match - and they do so more than they have any right to! there's no logical reason why 6-1 1-6 6-1 scorelines should happen, but they do! because game breaks and changeovers and set breaks and all of it can represent massive shifts in momentum. you play a *5-0 game differently than a *0-1 game, and suddenly those beautiful forehands you were ripping for half an hour are all flying out of the stadium and, shit, time to change tactics to defend more except now you're really screwed because you're playing your opponent's game. the most important thing to remember about tennis is that it fucking sucks. matches are psychological torture. I want to feel that part when watching the tennis threesome film

the basic mechanism of narrative tension in a match is the serve vs return dynamic. if you serve, you need to protect your serve, because those are the games you are supposed to be winning. if you return, you need to attack the opponent's serve, because those games represent opportunity. you want your service games to be short and fast and you want your return games to be long and tough and miserable for your opponent. and after every game, it ticks back again - you are literally passing the ball to the other side of the court. your turn, have fun!

there are a million different ways you can construct tension on a micro level within a match. you have breakpoints/matchpoints, obviously, which to some extent the film did feature. you have games that just get stuck on deuce, with neither player able to win the requisite two points in a row to release them, so it's like... basically groundhog day in sports as you keep trotting from one side of the court to the other, both players frustrated, one unable to escape the danger and the other unable to seize the opportunity. battle of the wills. games can completely realistically last more than twenty points. obviously you've got tiebreaks, which again the film did feature (though icl I had no clue what the score was supposed to be, again it doesn't matter but). you have the old cliche of 'it's not a break of serve unless you've backed it up' (aka by holding your own serve) and how common it is to be broken straight back for various nasty psychological reasons

I wish they'd played with this a little more, just showed a little more of why the players were reacting emotionally in the way that they were at certain stages of the match - rather than just basically reacting to the flashback we've just seen. like, there's plenty of reasons why a player might get particularly angry at a certain point of a match in a way that just feels a bit more organic. if tennis is the medium through which to explore this three-way relationship, then showcase that push and pull factor, those changes in momentum. the film suggests patrick has always had the upper hand - I'd make more clear this is the classic 'pigeon' dynamic where basically the head to head between two players is more skewed than it has any right to be given how 'good' those two respective players actually are. usually that means there's something funky going on with the play styles or it's something mental or it's an interaction between the two. patrick really cares about art, right, and then he's always able to beat him because he gets him and knows how to mess with him. art has the more raw ability(?) but it takes a bit longer for him to actually realise how good he is, in part because he always lost to patrick

the way they should've done this imo have a place where art does actually choke a sizeable lead, a kind of unexpected switch of momentum. like have this be the first set where art comes in hot and is y'know the obviously better player and all that, but then patrick just increasingly manages to unsettle him. make it a proper bad one, say *5-2 to 5-7. throw in a long deuce game. and then art is confronted with all his old demons again, his inadequacy, all that stuff. and then you've got the momentum switch after the set break when art manages to pull himself together. the thing is, they do actually show a fair bit of the match, but it's not always that interesting because it lacks a little bit of specificity, a little bit of detail... just make a few adjustments that accentuate the central dynamic. you don't have to go with this exactly but go with SOMETHING, 6-2 2-6 is such a nothingburger score lol like what does that tell us... 7-5 1-6 is what it's all about

(dumb nitpick corner: unlikely a time violation would get called between first and second serves, and if you do so then you'd better hand out a time violation if the receiver starts faffing about between points right after, rather than quietly talking to them off-mic. but hey, the establishment is corrupt, they obviously wanted art to win. also, there's a mistake on the scoreboard at the *5-6 game where they accidentally make it look like art is serving for the match at that stage, which would completely change the dynamic of that game and the previous game and the implications if art had let it go to a tiebreak - aka he would have choked. just slightly confused me when the umpire called out 'thirty love' after patrick won the point lol)

so maybe this all does come across like I hate the film, which I really did not. I enjoyed it a lot, and honestly it's not like there's much to choose from in terms of 'sports media that seriously engages with the narrative potential of the actual sport'. there were plenty of storytelling details I really vibed with, especially the dynamic between the central three characters and the push and pull between them and how they work as a trio. all three sides of the triangle were good fun. the way the two blokes were so in sync at times, that kind of easy intimacy and familiarity - again, I think you could have expressed that more through actual tennis but that did absolutely work for me

the actual 'playing a challenger before uso' thing was also fun, though I was wondering what his ranking was like because it must have still been kinda in the pits. like, you can't show up to a challenger as a top ten player. not that it actually matters matters but just. whatever. I do think the premise is neat

(though, that challenger audience was not keyed in enough! like omg if you're showing up to some random challenger to watch a top player on the injury comeback try to rack up some wins and the final is against the guy he played doubles with to win a junior slam, everyone watching would be SO aware of it. those spectators aren't just randomly being drawn into the drama, they know what's up!! you just know the challengers tv stream is racking up crazy figures. idk this is obviously more of a subtle thing, but I feel like it was supposed to give off the vibe of the non-tashi viewers being surprised by why they were being such weirdos all of a sudden but nah they would be ON IT with their patrick zweig backstory. including the fact he used to date tashi lol, like yeah they'd Get It)

I loved a lot of tashi's characterisation, how fucking obsessed she was with tennis and how everything was About Tennis for her... like yeah very real!! of course it eats her up!! I had a bit of a debate about this but I personally really liked the college tennis thing because it felt like a complete curve ball given her characterisation. it's good though, this idea that she wants to fool herself into believing she's more than hitting a ball but she's actually not... because of course she isn't.... none of these people are.... I like that element of self-delusion, even though it still... hm, I'm not entirely sure the film COMPLETELY sold me on that level of self-delusion because it was so obvious she didn't care about anything except for tennis... like it never quite felt entirely clear what she thought she was getting from that experience. but yeah, the central premise of it all... like the fact she just can't say goodbye to that world, that she can't really escape it, that she has to pursue something related to it to feel alive, even by proxy, the suspicion that all she needs art for is to have that kind of second hand thrill... really good!!

I was talking about this with the unfortunate recipient of my voice notes, and she's more familiar than I am with american college tennis than I am for the fairly obvious reason that only one of us has attended an american college. she said she'd discussed this with some of her friends and that that kind of injury did feel a touch unrealistic in the context of college tennis, partly because you're less likely to be playing with the kind of schedule that professional tennis requires of you. now, this doesn't really bother me, but I almost wish they'd leaned into the tragedy of it more - that it was unlikely and she didn't even get it while playing professional tennis! she was engaging in this grand act of self-delusion that there was more to her than tennis, which, let's face it, just really isn't a thing when you're a very good junior player, and she got injured before she ever even got close to 'making it'. it's tragic because it should never have happened. whatever injury art picked up (can't remember if they mentioned) would be statistically more likely to actually fuck you over, given their respective ages and time on tour and all that. you don't typically randomly get career ending injuries when you're running for a ball, not if you've trained properly - both in the sense that you're moving 'correctly' on the court and you've developed the muscles to protect yourself (which admittedly she was looking a touch light on). perfectly fine as a narrative choice, lean into it more

the churro college conversation between patrick and art was good, but that's another thing I would've integrated more into the tennis. like, the thing about him actually going for what he wanted and all that? you can do that through tennis! I also kinda wanted more of a sense of what tashi brought to the coaching dynamic, just something very simple and straightforward even the non-tennis viewing audience can understand. again, you've got this fairly obvious federer expy set up going on with art, and the glimpses we got of his game ... I mean mainly the one handed backhand, it does lean towards him being a player that's naturally oriented towards aggression. I would've maybe gone for the whole.... y'know. him not really being able to embrace that, him always holding himself back a little bit, not willing to fully give himself over and throw himself into the game. that tashi kinda has to get him to go for it, to go after the ball, to step into the court and use that technically excellent flat forehand stroke and trust himself to find those angles and rush the net and play the game, rather than letting the game play him. linking that into his loss of motivation post injury, where he feels like he's achieved what he wants to, where maybe he kinda retreats into himself. which is partly a motivation issue but also about trusting yourself post injury... not really being able to go after it in the same way any more, struggling to commit to that kind of aggressive mindset when your heart just isn't it any more. or something! just a thought!!

that's the thing right - sure, tennis might be a relationship, but the tennis will always be a character in its own right in whatever twisted threesome thing they've got going on. at the end of the day, the real toxic relationship is with the tennis! it's sad tashi can't leave it behind, it's tragic she's organising her whole life around something that'll always be lost to her. but it won't ever let her go, even though it hurt her, even though it caused her physical pain as well as emotional. it's the truest love in the whole film, tashi and the game itself, and all other love is subservient to that. it's also the most interesting relationship that needed to be... well, a little more foregrounded. she's always chasing that high, that moment of perfect communication and understanding and all that - and it's an entire lifetime of work, chasing the briefest of moments and now even that is gone. something she won't ever be able to recapture. she can't live her dream and she can't move on, so she is forever trapped, in stasis, frustrated and tormented by desires she can't act upon, the worst kind of repression imaginable. and it's not just about playing tennis in general - it's about playing matches. the height of competition, the moment in the point and in the match in which losing or winning feels like an equal possibility, where anything could happen but only one player will eventually emerge victorious... she's chasing the high of uncertainty, of suspense - the equivalent to showing up to the bedroom of two blokes and knowing anything could happen, not knowing yet what choice she will make, who will win, who will lose. if you really want to get abstract about this, she's essentially functioning as, y'know, the tennis gods with these two boys, where she is the one to make the choice of who wins and who loses. she is the one creating the uncertainty, the suspense. and she's doing it all for the love of the game, because that's all she ever truly loved

or that's what I think they should've gone for idk. I also have a few kinda dumb thoughts like 'ugh I needed more of a sense of what patrick's career looked like, are we talking never made it to the main draw of a 250 or slam quarterfinalist because both are plausible'. but anyway I think narratives in sports are neat and I wish more people did stuff like challengers did, even if I think I was just looking for something a little different from what that film was doing. you do kinda need somebody who's really into sports to do some of this stuff I feel, but. well. sports rivalries really is a bit of a tragically under-explored storytelling set up. they're good narratives. somebody write them

#basically i really enjoyed the film and i also would've really enjoyed editing it #sometimes you just dream of being the dick in the room going. okay does anyone know how good his fh dropper is #reminds me that one of my favourite games I sometimes play with voice note girl is transposing different athletes to different sports #like what their styles would be like if they did a different sport #because it kinda makes u think about what certain aspects of someone's approach says about them and what the equivalent is #anyway. I don't think you should be so beholden to reality that fact checking gets in the way of the narrative you're creating #BUT at times I feel like the actual 'reality' and the intricacies and the fine details can strengthen the narrative. like here!#//#also btw if anyone DOES read this and anything is unclear please do feel free to ask (obviously this goes for anything I post lol)#batsplat responds

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