#so whatever emotions the writer wanted to evoke were just. absent

[thisbrilliantsky]

u ever read a book that has cool ideas and compelling characters and the writing itself is decent but. there is just a total lack of actual storytelling skill. and it's 1000+ pages.

[gurguliare]

DVD: that one scene from your fic about Dirhaval, with the elf lady and the two of them being really intent with each other over the fire. "Do you love me" et cetera. I hope that makes sense I'm on mobile.

omg IT DOES although since that fic barely has scene divisions I’m going to take this excuse to do… a lot of it.

“I have remembered something,” she added, inconsequentially. “My aunt’s husband was Guilin’s steward. Everyone in my family hated him because he always making up to us with stories about the great princes. He said that Gwindor and Finduilas fought much over the Adanedhel’s love for her.”

I… I love this OC. She’s not even a box of rocks, she’s like, a box with one rock in it. Selectively dense; elsewhere, airheaded.

Dírhaval considered the fish with great interest. He had been told triumph lent him a fierce expression. He had no wish to scare his friend off now.

I can’t remember if @crocordile​ and I had a conversation before or after I wrote this about Dirhavel being like, not necessarily a big but an energetic guy who’s frequently seen around the camps doing SUPER WEIRD athletic shit to see if some of the feats he attributes to Turin were physically possible—anyway, whatever the timing, that concept was what I was psychically tuned into when I wrote this description. He has a beard and it bristles despite his best efforts to keep it trimmed.

“Raised voices—he overheard—Gwindor said, ‘Why does he seek you out, and sit long with you, and come ever more glad away?’ And that was true, I remember; they sat together in all kinds of places, on the terraces, in the treasury, and even by the earthworks for the bridge. No doubt he told her much you would be glad to know. But as for me, I think Gwindor a fool; few men would have loved her for listening. It reminds them what they hold dear in themselves.”

It was really hard for me to strike what seemed like a reasonable balance between hearsay and direct observation, but I leaned on the idea that Nargothrond, though huge, was not like, “modern city space” huge, more “sprawling overdeveloped apartment complex and you need a permit to go above ground”—so in five years and with perfect memory, everyone has a decent chance of stumbling on everyone else’s attempts at fresh air.

“That’s true,” he said. The first time he had interviewed her, she had spoken for an hour about the cavern of assembly, like an egg on its side—but so vast!—and with stalactites Finrod himself had sung down into pillars, or was it that he had worn holes in the walls parting small caves, she couldn’t decide; and the window on the river, whence a grey light came, like a shadow thrown on the gliding light of a thousand lamps and torches.

I think this description of the great hall is kind of cute but I have to acknowledge it was influenced, consciously or subconsciously, by the great hall in the Rats of Nimh.

And now when she spoke it was matter-of-fact and with hardly a jibe at her uncle. She was Túrin to him in that moment with her straight-sloping neck, the flushed skin of her neck and jaw with her face as fair as fair could stay at sunset, the cupful of shadow under her chin. He had burned the roof of his mouth. The fish was tender, almost flavorless, flaking between his teeth like a cake of river-flesh; a little muddy, even, as all water here was. He ate the crisped-black skin for a whiff of charcoal, which coated his mouth. “Don’t you love me, your loyal hearer?”

She gave him a startled wink; and smiled, and smiled.

Okay, so yes. I do love this moment, I hope it does a lot of things at once; basically I want 1) Dirhavel to be ironic in a nice way about his elf friend attempting to invent the term “emotional labor,” which reflects both a male impatience with this attempt to generalize everything to men talking women’s ears off, but also some vague species-based edginess about him trying to construct this human story out of testimony from elves, and like, navigating elves’ possessiveness of Turin but also the way they patronize him in the same breath, Adanedhel. And at the same time having to confront the fact that people are people and the elf-human boundary has gotten increasingly blurry with the end times, however much he might want to retain a sense of lofty apartness, whether as a human among elves, a writer among subjects, a man among women, whatever—that tension between observer distance and involuntary empathy is another big theme of this fic. And 2) I want the cook to catch it but not quite get it—like, she knows he’s making fun of her but she doesn’t necessarily interpret it in the same way he does, what she gets is that he’s talking about the limits of different kinds of love, that you can love someone and it can still go just so far: that’s why it triggers her next thought about Finduilas –> Turin.

“I do not think Finduilas loved the Mormegil either. Or, that is, I believe they loved one another as sister and brother.”

I said this in my commentary on an otherwise VERY different LOGH fic but I love when characters are wrong. Every time. Also, I love childish oversimplifications that have good reason for existing—that is, I like when you can really see why a character would with all their heart want to believe x, because the alternative is both messy and depressing.

Trying to lick his fingers clean just spread around the soot. Among the things she had told Dírhaval was that she was an only child. But he was inclined to believe her, almost. To Finduilas Túrin should have been a child. She must have wanted to love him like a brother—it would have been best, by far clearer and finer, to love him as a brother, even when her death walked near. The death he handed her down to; but if they were kin, it would have been her right to love him, blaming him.

“Do you not agree?”

Dirhavel takes this basically as like, confirmation for his thesis that all real love is irrational and unconditional (see also Gwindor wanting Finduilas and Túrin to be happy at his own expense, a few lines down) but only familial love has the “excuse” to be so. So the distinction is not, “would I love him whatever he did to me,” but rather, “do I feel fucked up and guilty about that fact or not.” In a vague way, this is supposed to set up the extremely bleak lines he gives Nienor after she gets her memory back: twice beloved.

“I can’t say.” Up again to pace. She followed him, basket on her arm, and settled onto her haunches when she saw he had no journey in mind. He stood when he performed, which was not hard, but it made him more restless when alone.

See above remarks about Dirhavel’s acrobatics, and also maaybe his ADHD

“I think—by the time—no, Túrin did not love her, and as for Finduilas, well, surely she cared for Gwindor? If they argued. Let’s see. And Túrin pursued her at last and fell in a swoon on her grave, we know that. And he loved Gwindor; how not, when Gwindor was with him at Ivrin? But Gwindor—I suppose—Gwindor must have hated him. No. He must have hoped Túrin loved Finduilas, and that was why he couldn’t be persuaded of the truth. For he would have wanted her to be happy, in the end.”

“Oh, no!”

His mood tipped down at once. “Oh no,” he agreed, and took his sandals off and stepped into the stream.

Again, I just think this interaction is fun. I mean I like the placement of his realization about Gwindor, but I LOVE the cook being like “oh no!! that’s so sad!” I hope other people enjoy “stories about the process of idiotic sadstuck brainstorming” as much as I do.

His mother had said once that both he and his father were happier than other men, but that they had no ballast, to keep steady the craft. If he took on an ounce of grief he’d sink, and yet he felt the flood almost as freedom. It made him more the master than had his dry, feckless race, his high-riding. As long as he struggled he had yet to succumb; that was the rule for a wasted night. He ought to go beg a bowl of sour milk from Linnor, or go and sing a service for the king. He could see as far as a night of stars.

I wanted to communicate a particular kind of mood downturn here where you can still clearly remember being happy, and the rising tide of discontent isn’t overwhelming on its own, it’s just depressing because you know where it leads—but for the same reason it’s also a relief, in that you know where it leads. Whereas joy is weird and easy to get lost in and you never know when the plug will be pulled. But I’m not sure the boat metaphor really works.

But it was day, it was red evening. It was his companion’s grief, filling his mind from above. She crouched and watched the far bank huge-eyed, not a tear in evidence, eyes opened but sealed, as it seemed, against sadness that strove for entry, not escape; she sat with wide mouth cracked, nostrils flared, sucking in great absent sniffs of sea-wind. She was besieged as an afterthought, safe and calm except besieged.

I also wanted to include some telepathy! As always! Dirhaval I imagine to be something of a natural, who probably has had some experience with elf mind-speech at this point—enough to recognize it but not really to manage it. I like this description of the cook in pain, I think it works well with her established personality and also evokes Nargothrond itself, which is of course the thing she’s actually grieving for. I mean, and she identifies it with Gwindor, reasonably enough, and takes unhappy pride in him as a lord of Nargothrond, and in this moment is kind of shot through herself not just with the fact of his defeat but the like, honorable necessity of his defeat, knowing that on some level he accepted it.   

(Gwindor surely wished Finduilas joy. Finduilas, dying, remembered Túrin, and told him where his quest should end. The feathered tops of the reeds glowed on dark stems, like a fire in a field of reeds—there before nightfall he planted for ever the standards of the Noldor and their unsheathed swords, kindling in the dawn.)

I’m so proud of this stupid line lol, it’s just the reverse of Tolkien’s—“The light of the drawing of the swords of the Noldor was like a fire in a field of reeds”—but I LOVE THAT LINE, it’s so perfect for Dirhaval as an author and Sirion as a place of memory/last battlefront/first battlefront for this long war. And its conclusion, still to come.

He washed his hands and greasy beard in the river. “Your fish will be cold,” he advised. He had abandoned hope of dinner until she brought it, but that was no reason to encourage bad habits in her.

Dumb friends. Dumb friends are great because they are attuned to the hazards of stupidity, and can help each other.

Then he had to pick some scales out of his teeth, and couldn’t elaborate, but he heard her uncover the basket, anyway.

He had met her before with a handful of salt, pressing a few grains to her mouth to check their purity. “Dírhaval,” she said wisely, mouth full. “Dírhaval, I have forgotten how to cook.” Meaning she had no spices, witched ovens, and trained assistants—maybe, with her, it really was as though she had forgotten; at least it was something else she had lost.

Yeah… the focus on memory in this is another unexpected link to the LOGH fic uh, an inevitable byproduct of writing about a historian, and it’s also supposed to reflect that loss of separation between elves and men, since so much of what distinguishes elves is… their wealth of resources, psychological and material. And the material resources are essential to and interwoven with the psychological resilience, as noted here, so I really wanted to capture that sense that *not having* all the wonderful things she used to have baffles her as much as a hole in her memory. Because the default is that you keep everything forever, right? Another feeling which is not unique to elves. God I love………………………… “people.”  

[strangerstuffandthingsimagines]

They’ve Got Nothing On You (Billy Hargrove x Reader)

Request: I would love a Billy Hargrove imagine! My idea is that he used to know the reader in Cali. Max calls to tell her how bad things are and the reader decides to come out to Indiana. They were dating but had to break up when he moved. She surprises billy by showing up at school but he feels guilty about the girls he’s been with since she’s been gone. And then you can take it from there! You’re an amazing writer btw!! - @montanagirlatheart

Warnings: Slight swearing, implications of Billy’s abuse, and blood (not in a violent sense)

A/N: I hope this is okay! Not sure if this is what you had in mind or not, let me know if you liked it :)

  You slowed down as you arrived to the large “Welcome to Hawkins Indiana” sign. It was too late for second thoughts now. Your parents weren’t pleased with the idea of driving alone for roughly 32 hours, from California to Indiana. In your heart you knew you needed to go, Billy needed you now more than ever, and you would travel across the world for him.

  It started with a frantic call from Max pleading for your help, for both her and Billy’s sake . You had become very close with over the years. You and Billy started dating in freshman year, the sudden departure on his half at the beginning of your senior year was devastating for both of you.

  You let out a shaky breath before putting your car back into drive and continued toward your destination. You ran your tongue over your bottom lip, a nervous habit you had developed, and tasted blood.

“Shit.” you mumbled looking in the rearview mirror. You had been biting your lip without realizing. You reached into the glove compartment, straining to lean over the gear stick. Quickly, you grabbed the napkin that you had shoved in the compartment and pressed it to your lip.

“I better take another look at those directions again.” you mumbled to yourself, now fumbling around trying to remember where you had put them. Glancing up by chance at the mirror, you noticed your napkin was turning a hue of blue.

“Oh no, no no no.” You said, pulling the napkin off of your lip. You forgot you had written the directions down on a napkin in a frenzy when Max called you in a panic.

You frantically tried to smooth the napkin out, the ink now runny and illegible, just your luck.

“Looks like we’re winging it” You grumbled to yourself, throwing the napkin out the window and watched the wind carry it away. How hard could it be to find a high school?

  Turns out, small towns were very confusing to navigate, it was around 3 pm when you finally found the high school.

You pulled into the shabby parking lot, scanning for a spot when a familiar sight caught your eye.

Billy’s Camaro.

  You quickly parked and turned off your engine. You were far too nervous to get out and wait by his car so you watched from the rear view mirror, you seemed to become well acquainted with that damn mirror.

The bell rang indicating the school day had come to an end, you anxiously watched the students walk by chatting and laughing about things that had happened during the day.

Then he walked by, it took you a minute to register that it was him. He grew his hair out at the back, to be honest you couldn’t tell which emotion it evoked within you (how is one suppose to feel about a mullet?).

A horde of girls followed closely behind, giggling and whispering to each other. Billy said something back to them along the lines of there being enough of him to go around which prompted an eye roll from you.

You took a deep breathe, gave yourself a nod in the mirror and exited the car. The slam of the door grabbed Billy’s attention. Still smirking from his previous comment, he glanced over in your direction then back to his keys, then back at you.

Time slowed down, you nervously clutched your fingers with your opposite hand before giving a small wave.

He narrowed his eyes, looking you up and down, not believing it was really you. His jaw tightened into a line, you watched him intensely, starting to wonder if this was a worse idea then you had originally thought.

You licked your lips, the taste of dried blood filled your mouth as you waited for Billy to do something.

“Get the fuck out of here.” he growled to the group of girls that had collected around him. They looked at Billy in shock, the sudden aggression throwing them left field.

Raising an eyebrow, Billy repeated “I said fuck off!”

A girl with red hair nudged the brunette and pointed over at you. The two gave a scoff and glare before storming off, the others following suit.

Shoving your hands in your denim jacket pockets, you hesitantly walked toward Billy who had not moved a muscle.

“Hey.” You breathed, looking up and into his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a low, husky voice. His jaw forming a hard line as he clenched down.

Looking down, you kicked a rock at your feet and swayed uncomfortably, not expecting this to be so confrontational.

“Your not happy to see me?” You said, almost in a whisper as you looked back up at him from your feet.

His stare went right though you, it was cold and absent. This wasn’t the Billy from California that you remembered, the one you loved. He still hadn’t said anything, his presence making you feel small.

  Billy collided his lips with yours, pulling you into him. His kisses were hungry, his hands gripping onto you as if you’d disappear if he didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, trying to become as close as possible, you had craved his touch for far too long.

“I love you.” He said against your lips between kisses. His hands held the back of your neck as he feverishly kissed you, his thumbs touching just beneath your jaw.

In that moment it felt as if no time had passed, as if Billy never left. You separated for a moment to breathe, looking at each other, just soaking up each others presence. He placed his hand on the small of your back leading you to his car.

“Lets get out of here.” He mumbled in your ear, his breath hot on your neck. “We’ll come back for your car later.”

  You sat parked on he side of the road, the “Welcome” sign just a few feet away.  Billy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Picking one out he placed it between his lips, you reached into his other pocket and grabbed his lighter. You had always done that for him, it was a little ritual between the two of you.  He leaned into your hands, one covering the wind from the flame, the other holding the lighter.

“So did that prick Mark ask you out when I left?” Billy asked after taking a drag from his cigarette.

The smoke billowed in front of Billy, slowly fading into the breeze. You raised the Coke bottle in your hand to your lips and took a sip, trying not to smile.

“He did.” You admitted with a coy smile, taking another swig of your drink. “But I turned him down.”

You could see the uneasy look on Billy’s face, so with your free hand you grabbed him by the chin and pulled him into a kiss. The taste of cigarettes on his breathe reminded you of home.

“I missed this.” You admitted, leaning your forehead against his.

He murmured something into another kiss, but you could sense something was wrong.

“What is it?” You whispered, trying to make him meet your gaze.

“Nothing…it’s nothing.” He said shaking his head, not wanting to look at you.

“Billy, I can tell when your lying to me.” You said, gently wiping your thumb against his cheek bone.

He placed his hand on top of yours, holding it in place. His thumb rubbing small circles on the top of your hand.

“It’s just…” he let out a breath, turning away to take another drag. “It’s just been so fucking hard.”

You nodded acknowledging his words, eagerly wanting him to continue.

“My Dad he just…every little thing I do is wrong. He fucking hates me, he was always mean but now it’s just…” he paused, his eyes clouding over.

Your heart ached for him, it was hard enough in California but here he was all alone.

“We broke up and I-“ He stopped, almost embarrassed or ashamed by what he was trying to say. “I’ve hooked up with girls here, but all I could think of was how badly I wanted your lips on mine or how I wanted you in my arms. They were just distractions and-”

“Billy, stop.” You cut him off before he could finish. “Stop, okay? I get it.”

His chest tightened as you said this, knowing he had completely ruined whatever could have been rekindled.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay?” You said in a softer tone, he looked at you with a sad, confused look on his face.

“What?” he asked, flicking his cigarette down onto the road.

“The shit you go through… look you don’t have anything to be guilty about okay?” you said reaching for his hands. “We were broken up and as jealous as I am internally, I understand why you searched for attention elsewhere.”

Billy scoffed, “You some kind of therapist now?”.

“No Billy, I’m someone who loves you and unlike anybody in this shit hole town, I know what you go home to every day.” You snapped back.

He raised his hand up in surrender whilst letting out a laugh, out of all the things you had said today for some reason that made him genuinely smile.

“They’ve got nothing on you.” He said, wrapping his arms around you. “Your the best kisser I know.”

You folded your arms across your chest, pouting slightly. “Yeah, I better be Hargrove.”

“This kisser traveled over 30 hours just to see your dumb ass.” You added jokingly.

He placed a kiss against your forehead, letting out a happy sigh. You stayed like that for an hour, just enjoying each others company. Not even worrying about what would happen tomorrow, because right now you had today.