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deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 2 months ago

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Reflection

Just a random short story of the Hunter and Bucky's first encounter with each other. Also I just finished reading Winter Soldier Cold Front, loved the book.

Summary: You meet the Winter Soldier for the first time and find something unexpected

"Welcome, general." The scientist before you bows. "Right this way."

You follow him through the corridor, nose twitching at the strong sterile scent of the chemicals in the air. The laboratory smell reminds you too much of the place where you had spent most of your childhood, and you would rather bury those memories. Still, you pretend like it doesn't affect you and continue walking, taking note of your surroundings and committing them to memory.

A door with a large yellow sign is pushed open and you take a moment to read what it says.

Authorized access only. Trespassers will be shot on sight.

Your gaze flicks upwards at where a security camera is hidden, then to the right where a false wall is. There's a small hole in it, easily missed but you've been trained to spot these details, aided by your enhanced eyesight. A sniper probably lies in wait there, maybe it's Rostova, the woman's sniping skills are legendary and she has yet to truly miss a target.

The scientists stops in his tracks, realising you're not following him and turns around. "General? Is —"

"Apologies. Was lost in thought." You brush past him, stepping into the room where a sudden chill descends upon you. Tubes fill the area, connecting by wires upon wires, machines hum from every corner and your breath catches in your chest. You remember emerging from a tube just like the one in front of you, skin crawling as masked men help you to your feet, keeping you steady. You remember the world spinning, your head a throbbing mess and everything felt too sharp. The lights were too bright, the sterile scent burning your nose, the machines screaming in your ears. Even the softest of whispers came across as a shout and you broke the nose of the closest person.

"Please step back, general. This is a delicate procedure." The scientist's voice cuts through the haze of memories and you blink.

"Right." You do as he says, exhaling deeply. That was the past, you're the heir of Hydra now, far stronger than who you were before. You won't be bogged down by painful memories of the past, you'll keep moving forward and lead Hydra into a glorious future.

The tube opens with a hiss and a figure slumps forward. You automatically lunge to catch them before they hit the floor, and feel something icy press against your bare fingers. Metal, you realise. Light glints off the silver surface, reflecting the harsh little orb into your eyes. You squeeze your eyes shut, growling in annoyance and instinctively push the metal away.

The figure groggily grunts, then it hits you. The metal is a part of the figure in your arms. When the mist clears, you see that the metal is in the shape of an arm. A bionic arm.

The Winter Soldier.

You stare at the piercing blue gaze that lifts to meet your eyes and take in Hydra's greatest Asset. He studies you back with confusion in his eyes that disappear into emptiness the moment the scientist starts speaking.

"My apologies, general. I —"

You glare at the scientist who promptly shuts up and turn back to the man in your arms.

"Karpov did say he wanted to introduce his greatest work to me one day."

"Indeed, I did, but not like this. My most sincere apologies, Hunter." Karpov enters the room. "Stand upright, soldat."

The Winter Soldier complies, gaze flicking over all three of you before returning to the floor, awaiting his next order.

"Soldat, this is the Hunter. They will be your new Handler." Karpov strides forward, clipboard in hand. You leave him and the scientist to their checkups, observing from afar. The Soldier only moves when directed but his movements are precise and calculated, albeit a little sluggish. It's probably because of whatever he just came out of, you faintly remember Karpov calling it cryostasis.

"Hunter, the Asset needs time to get used to you. I suggest you spend time with it before bringing it out to the field." Karpov inclines his head in your direction.

"And how exactly should I spend time with the Asset?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Train with it, sleep with it if you're comfortable enough." Karpov scribbles something on his clipboard. "In fact, I suggest you train with it now. The Asset needs time to warm up."

"Has he been fully cleared for active duty?" You walk towards your new partner who stiffens when your fingers brush against his arm.

"Almost. All that's left is —"

The stink of bile hits your nose as the Winter Soldier doubles over, vomiting onto the floor.

"— that." You swear Karpov smiled slightly at the sight of vomit on your clothes, his warning purposefully given too late.

There's a flash of fear in the Winter Soldier's eyes when you lock gazes with him but all you can really do is sigh. Karpov and the scientist excuse themselves from the room, giving you space to quietly swear at them. Then you move onto cleaning the mess up.

The Winter Soldier quietly follows your instructions, flinching whenever you go anywhere near him until you demand to know why he keeps doing that.

"Punishment," he whispers, voice cracking.

"I'm not going to punish you over something you can't control. Besides, Karpov didn't warn me about it, if anyone should be punished it should be him." You wipe the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. "Let me know if you still need to throw up. Round two should be coming up soon, I know."

He blinks, surprised before gesturing at the sink on the other side of the room. You nod, following him there and hold back his hair as round two comes up. A hand automatically begins to rub his back, coaxing out everything that needs to come up and the Winter Soldier is left panting over the sink, throat raw.

"I'll get you some water then we can go to the training room to warm up. I want to see what you can do for myself." You pat him on the shoulder, checking him over to make sure he really will be alright if you leave before exiting the room.

"Don't go blowing him up like you did me." Rostova stands in the hallway, leaning against a wall.

"Don't recall blowing you up." You snort.

"That's because you barely got me out of the building you rigged to blow up before it blew up. Also I distinctly recall you not telling me about the fact that you were going to blow the building up." Rostova pokes you in the chest.

"Did I now?" You smirk, gently pushing her hand away. "I've got to get water, want some?"

"Ew, so boring. Get vodka or something." She makes a face, causing you to laugh.

"Vodka doesn't mix well with cryostasis." You flick her in the forehead. "He's awake and waiting for me, if you want a quick visit."

"How kind of you." She rolls her eyes but heads towards the room you came from. You shake your head and make your way to the cafeteria to get water, giving them as much alone time as you can. Rostova has been his handler for quite a while now, she would make the transition easier.

You still can't shake the image of fear in the Soldier's eyes, the flinching when your fingers brushed against his skin and your chest tightens whenever you think about it. You clench your fist, struggling to get rid of the foreign emotion. You've killed your pet dog with your own hands, you've killed women and children alike, old and young, you've committed countless of what the rest of the world calls atrocities. Yet, you've never felt like this before.

Maybe it's because you see yourself in him. You remember what it's like to stumble out of cryostasis, struggling to make sense of your surroundings, bile demanding to be let out via the mouth. Sure, it's been quite a while since you've been in cryostasis but the experience can never be forgotten. You swallow hard, shaking your head to get rid of the terrible memories and begin to make your way back to the room where the Winter Soldier waits for his glass of water.

You remember the way your throat clogs once the chill fades, thick with chemicals and the one time you decided drinking alcohol was the way to solve it, you'd thrown up like never before. The alcohol had burned through your veins, muddying your vision, causing the world to spin, but Rostova might want some vodka so you pick up a bottle along the way.

Upon returning, you hand the bottle to a delighted Rostova who promptly leaves the room. You pass the glass of water to the Winter Soldier, warning him to drink slowly lest he choke and drink your own glass of water. You watch the way he flexes his arms, rotates his shoulders to stretch the muscles before looking at you.

"Ready to comply," he says, emotionless.

Yes, father. The words echo in your head. You remember the child who did everything they were told, hoping to please their father. You remember the feeling of the pistol in the child's hand as they pressed its muzzle against the chest of their mother. You remember the feeling of the trigger being pulled and the blood that bloomed afterwards, followed by apathy from the father who had ordered them to pull the trigger.

You look into ice blue eyes and see something of a reflection, just for a fleeting moment before Karpov's words remind you of your new duty.

"Let's go." You lead the way to the training room. Hopefully getting a workout will rid you of these unnecessary thoughts. You can't afford to be compromised on missions, you can't afford to fail and distractions will cause you to fail.

But every time you look into those ice blue eyes, all you can see is the scared little child who shot their mother and pet dog because they were told to.

#marvel #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader #mcu bucky #marvel bucky #bucky barnes #bucky #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier cold front

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checkthescript · 21 days ago

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All of this noise wakes 🛠️. They grumbled and sat up, glancing around. Upon seeing that Tenna wasn't there, they assumed he had gotten up already and decided that they oughta find him to see if they messed anything up.

They stood up and stretched briefly before exitting the Maintennance room, now searching for Tenna.

-🛠️

[* Without any sort of warning, the Engineer is G R A B B E D and yoinked straight into the spotlight on the stage!]

Starting with THIS VERY SPECIAL GUEST!!!

[* Tenna's voice rings out like a glorious bell across the studio speakers. Dozens of Pippinses, shadowguys, and other members of the staff are pouring in from all directions, standing in awe off the sides of the stage room and in the crowd below. There he was! Their boss, on the verge of death just yesterday, now back to normal—and perhaps even better than before!]

[* Ramb is standing in the very back of the audience commons, watching with a big grin on his face. Seems he's feeling better too!!]

[* Tenna shrinks down to just above the Engineer's height, throwing his arm around their shoulders to squeeze them tight against his form as they face the cameras dangling from the ceiling.]

Folks, let's hear a round of applause for one of the BRAVEST, most DEDICATED heroes of the day!

[* The crowd erupts in cheers! Flowers are thrown with vigorous enthusiasm at Tenna and the Engineer.]

For the brilliant engineer that worked tirelessly day and night to SAVE the very LIFE of your favourite TV Host, yours truly... BRING OUT THE MEDALS!!

[* A Pippins runs out from backstage holding a purple satin pillow above its head. On the pillow, there was a big gold medal in the shape of Tenna's face, polished to a twinkling shine. The fabric of the necklace part had three stripes of red and yellow to match his suit.]

[* Tenna puts the microphone on its stand in front of the two of you.]

My dear friend!! It is both my pleasure and privilege to award you with this PRICELESS medallion in honour of your acts of COURAGE, VALOR, and SELFLESS BRAVERY!!! TV World commends your heroic actions. We'll be inducting you into our

AS SOON as it's built sometime soon in the next century!!!

[* With a flourish, Tenna lifts the medallion from the pillow, delicately placing the loop around the Engineer's head and sliding it over. Upon further inspection, the medal is definitely not real gold.]

[* The audience ERUPTS into a standing ovation. The Engineer is showered with more flowers. What appears to be an engagement ring goes flying by as well. Someone is crying out that they're the Engineer's biggest fan. Stage glitter and confetti rain down from the ceiling and celebratory non-copyrighted music blares from the surrounding speakers.]

[* As soon as the crowd settles down enough, Tenna snatches up the microphone and holds it out to the Engineer.]

Now, our dear honoured guest, would you like to say a few words? Let's start with your name!

#deltarune roleplay #feature presentation #tenna #ask tenna #mr tenna #tenna deltarune #deltarune #mister ant tenna #deltarune chapter 3 #ant tenna #engineer tag

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merinathropp · 7 months ago

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okay here's my massive and hugely late Wicked movie review in case anyone is still interested alksdjalskdjaldk bless you all for your patience

Glinda - 11/10 no notes I am besotted. I was so wrong about Ariana Grande, she was pitch perfect and melted into the character. She played Glinda with all the nuance she desperately deserves, she was SO MUCH MORE than just a mean blonde girl, she had a sort of 'spoiled rich girl innocence' and genuine sweetness in everything she did. And the RANGE!!!! Her expressions during No One Mourns get the award for First Thing To Make Me Weep, there was SUCH pain and bitter resolve underneath her composure. Ariana the woman that you are.

Fiyero - I feel like Fiyero is a character who only works if you make him a bit camp and silly and absolutely commit to The Flynn Rider-ness of it all, and Jonathan ABSOLUTELY DID. He was outrageously charming. Love that he flirted with girls and boys and even members of staff, really drove home the whole 'scandalous reputation' thing. Equal opportunity Fiyero Flirting. What a time to be alive.

Elphaba - Okay this is where things get complicated. I really struggled with Cynthia's Elphaba. I totally respect that she wanted to take the character in a different direction, making her more vulnerable and soft-spoken and sad.

It just didn't work for me, because it stripped Elphaba of all the things I love about her in the show: her fierceness, her rage, her explosive nature, her terrible temper. I just adore how messy she is. And I missed that in the movie.

I've seen people talk a lot about how Cynthia's Elphaba is 'internal' - she doesn't let her emotions show, she keeps it all on the inside. Again, this was a choice that really bugged me. So many classic Elphaba Reaction Moments were reduced to Cynthia just...looking?? It drove me mad.

Her vocals were out of this world. She looked absolutely stunning. But I just can't connect with this new version of Elphaba as much as her stage counterpart.

Sets, Props & Costumes - GORGEOUS. A literal feast for the eyes, this is a sumptuous movie and I kept wanting to pause the frame just to take in all the little details. Everything felt so distinctly Ozian, all the bizarre textures and fabric choices and steampunk Victorian vibe...ughhhh obsessed.

Screenplay - I think my overall take for this section is: The additions they made were fun, but if I'd been in charge, I would have prioritised completely different things lol.

With the 3 hour runtime, I guess I just assumed they would put all that glorious extra time towards Gelphie and Fiyeraba? Especially because there are SO many juicy cut scenes from older versions of Wicked (e.g. workshops, San Francisco tryouts), and this was an amazing opportunity to bring some of that stuff back.

But instead, we got like...A Sentimental Man dance break, more dialogue with the Wizard, a big action sequence with Elphaba and Glinda escaping the guards, a new song about the ancient sorcerers of Oz, loads of Pfannee and Shenshen dialogue etc.

Again, I don't think any of this stuff was bad! But I wish the extra time had gone towards expanding the character relationships rather than like...The Wizard Will Dance For You Now lol.

(Not to mention they cut some of Fiyeraba's dialogue - a BIZARRE choice, I scream into the void etc, these two have such limited time together already, Why Would You Cut More Of It)

Misc Things I Loved - Galinda and Elphaba's new little 'signature wave' for each other, based on their Ozdust dance. Destroyed me emotionally every time they used it.

- Popular was a MASTERCLASS in adapting a musical theatre number to screen, I was so worried it would be Too Much but they pitched it just right. It was hysterically funny but still sincere, Galinda was very much 'kid who's had too much sugar at 3am' and she was so DRAMATIC and silly and sweet, I'm besotted fjhakjsdhaksjda.

- ALL THE CHOREOGRAPHY. Bursting with energy, highly musical. I found myself wishing the camera would slow down / zoom out a bit, so we could enjoy it more fully.

- Doctor Dillamond actually saying to Elphaba that she has a friend in him, and gently offering her one of his hooves to so they could 'shake hands'. My friend and I were both like 'we did not expect to get emotional about the goat professor, yet here we are'.

- Fiyero 'yeah I ate grass as a child' Tigelaar. he absolutely did. not a single doubt in my mind.

- The Wizard, trying to convince Elphaba to join him: uhhhh you can even bring your...friend...with you! (I was literally like HAHAHA HE GETS IT oh no. he gets it. oh no. I just loved that he seizes immediately on the one thing that might sweeten the deal for Elphaba, which is having Glinda with her.)

#wicked #wicked movie #wicked musical #elphaba thropp #glinda upland #fiyero tigelaar #merina rambles

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ganondoodle · 1 year ago

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Will Zelda abolish the monarchy in your TotK rewrite?

she will not turn to the camera and say "i am abolishing monarchy" (since that needs to be said these days ..) but in a way its kinda meant to be like .. the opposite of the canon totk messaging?

like, fictional monarchy in itself isnt like the root of all evil, its the ideology that goes with it? i like fictional monarchy stuff and other races got them too so i wouldnt say its a clear -this is bad- thing

i do want to turn the whole idea of "hyrules royalty and its ruling is always good and just and anyone against it is automatically labeled as evil" upside down .. or more like, let it go further, rauru in the rewrite is .. similar to the canon one, thats kinda the point, hes the good and just king that wants to unite all nations in peace and wants to get rid of any "evil" be it monsters or someone threatening his 'peace'

but then you think about it, his idea of 'peace' is very specific, not everyone might want to be under his control, not everyone might have joined willingly and just bc theres someone opposing him does not have to mean they are some evil demon, all this talk might have been deliberate manipulation of history, he says hes invited a nation to join under his rule? he makes it sound like it was a nice offering like bringing a piece of cake to a neighbour, but it could be anything, he has those magical nuclear power pebbles, multiple, even just having them has an effect on others, he can say he would only use them for good, but that can be a lie, and more importantly, you dont know what his idea of 'good' is he can say he would never use it to hurt people, but what if he declares others to not BE people in his eyes he wants to bring about a world of light with no shadow to be found, rebuild a glorious kingdom of the past, there will be no shadow to hide in, there will be no place he is not, as he is the light, the king of light, and he knows whats best for all in his eternal, holy kingdom of light

.. most of this isnt even non-canon, it just gets presented as he says it, a one note fact, and you are supposed to agree- so really im just rewriting that part to be more overtly how it felt like to ME, and turnign the second half into opposing that bc hey, this might not be cool actually

im really jsut cranking raurus actions and ideals up just a tiny bit, and show more directly that its the behavoir of an imperialist king of all

so really its more like .. teaching her the lesson of how easy it is to fall into that line of thinking, how you need to consider .. maybe blindly following old traditions isnt always good, consider other perspectives, be careful bc she could have gone into that direction too (like she literally does in the canon totk end ..) and in a way she already has, but afterwards (in the rewrite) she can work against that, she could be rauru and has to decide and work against it

i know that isnt a clear answer, this whole idea is a little hmm to me bc TO ME canon totk already reads like that, and i want to work against it, bc in canon it goes unchallenged, and alot of people ... alot of people..., just go along with it seemingly not even beign able to see how its all suspicious-

in the end, i want it to be a careful but hopeful vibe of, zelda as a scientist, a historian, interested in alot of fields, being able to change something, a shift in perspective, like lady eboshi in princess monokoe saying at the end that they will start anew, now building good town- its not garanteed, zelda is still in a position of power, but she doesnt have to rebuild it like it was, people might still refer to her as princess and have high respect for her, but after being so deceived by rauru, being on the opposing side to almost the exact idea they once had, it has humbled them and can pave the way for a better future

ganondorfs spirit at the end moving on after finally being able to take out rauru, even if it meant to help out those hed see as being in the prime spot to become jsut like rauru, over the course of the second half all of them learning of each other, now more confident these younglings of a world thats long changed and not his anymore being able to build something better, and years after the ordeal theres news of a male gerudo having been born

(i know that idea goes agaisnt what made up his character for alot of the other games (though rewrite totk gan is still a different one from the old games), like his eternal problem of not being able to move on and refusing to die, and im sure theres lots of not the bestest thigns in my writing of it all too, but so far, its what i have been imagining, and unfortnately i am a sucker for those types of cliché endings-

it doesnt have to mean the next games would be going up against the gods or soemthing, though i do like that, but i felt like its a nice end for botws world, and much less uncomfortable than the canon totk end, theres no refounding of the kingdom, no swears of fealty, just young people working to rebuild the world into something better after it was almost wiped out, the kingdom already fell in botw, and the world kept on turning, i see no reason why it shouldnt be able to keep doing it)

#ganondoodles answers #zelda #ganondoodles rewrites totk #i am so good at giving clear answers to simple questions you guys

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woneuntonzz · 1 year ago

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๋࣭ ⭑⚝ 𝐓𝐞𝐤 𝐈𝐭

band leader!wonbin x song writer!reader

warning/s: cussing

genre: songfic

word count: 6.7k words!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ you just can't call a spade a spade. ⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖ —the debt unpaid; inspired by Cafuné's Tek It. ✩🎧ᝰ.ᐟ

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The bundles of pillows of gas, outlined with the color of the sky, had been your favorite subject in photography. It fascinated you how everything else seemed to remain in their respective placements —the sun, the stars, and the moon— everything, but the clouds.

Though you could never say that you favored it more than the moon.

It somehow made you feel puerile, how something so trivial as moon photographs saturating your gallery made you feel sick to the stomach. You swore that you felt icky having mostly those photographs filling your precious display.

But why then? —why are your eyes so drawn to its shine?

Maybe it is for the sole reason of the void that it fills, even more so when there are none of its little friends —the stars— to accompany it. You hated that, though you admit that the moon is humbler than the spiteful sun. At least the moon allows for you to admire it from afar and closer whilst the sun denies you from it as if it's too glorious for the eyes of man.

You didn't love the moon, but you were true to its beauty and it's granted privilege for it. People loved the moon and you just questioned it. Overlooking its scientific significance, you just thought it put the clouds to shame. A moment would come where the clouds would conceal the moon, but despite its efforts, the moon will always outshine them, even more so with its light outlining the clouds and not the color of the sky that surrounds it. The moon is selfishly beautiful —well to be fair, if you hadn't grown, you would've never realized that the clouds were never meant to be focal.

The art of photo journaling has been your passion for as long as you can remember. From a very young memory, you were a self-proclaimed photographer who held back a sour face whenever you were asked to snap pictures for your aunts who needed a picture next to every foreign sight and object they saw.

You wished you could just take the photos with your own eyes for even with the newest DSLR —at that time— you would never be able to capture the feeling of which the true vision draws from.

Even then you were satisfied with your work, having experienced competing in national journalism competitions from middle school till your senior year in highschool, performing exceptionally well in some seasons and satisfactory in some, overall you were content with what you have and have not achieved.

You never aimed for your name to be displayed all over your school's walls or for it to be countlessly mentioned by any of your teacher's before actually doing their job. You just wanted to bring your visions to life.

These visions would soon take a full swing to a different direction at the very last day of vacation before starting college.

The sky had just turned pink. You felt so lucky, so intrigued with the seamless transition that had just occurred, seamless but conspicuous.

With your camera in hand, you captured the pink clouds and the birds that flew along with them, the scenery of the park was just pure pleasure for your eyes.

You shifted from place to place to take picture after picture of all you found worth your camera's SD card.

You were taking a picture of the clouds that formed a subtle shape of two hearts. It wasn't your first encounter with such enigmatic forms, but this one would stick out like a sore thumb in your gallery.

Because right below it was an unsuspecting boy —well, he appeared unsuspecting at the very least. You took a picture where he looked up at the heart-shaped clouds, only the back of his head would be visible. The next picture was of him looking right into the lenses.

Startled, you'd move the camera away from your face and avert your attention from the boy.

The once muted ambience of your surroundings would suddenly make sounds that seemed louder than they're supposed to be.

You wanted to look back, to look at him again.

His smile, his eyes, it all aligned with the hue of the sky and the sweet, sweet pattern in the clouds. This was the sublime portraiture that led you to where you are now.

You weren't a stranger to Wonbin's appeal. He had quite a line of girls and boys who were smitten over him —and for that, you didn't even think of staring at him for too long, fearing that you might find yourself daydreaming, hoping. You thought you had zero chances with him, because it's him.

He's undeniably handsome, unreal even. He got decent marks and left a good impression on his teachers when it came to oral performance. He was in a school band that mostly performed worship songs during their youth, but would eventually resort to the more popular chart songs, censoring any words when necessary.

Many were fond of him and just as much were jealous.

“Good-looking, talented, and smart? there must be a jerk in him.” —you've heard from one of the many low-lives in your class that sat at the back.

Maybe it was true. It was quite an impossibility for him to just be that good.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“What do you think of me?”

“Perfect.” you spoke, nearly spewing it as a question.

“I'm not.” you laughed at him for wearing such a bashful smile as he replied. “I really am not.”

After that day at the park where you had accidentally snapped a picture of him in the most beautiful scene you have ever captured, you were captured by his allure.

The way his hair danced with the wind and the leaves of the maple trees, the sight was all too heavenly. You were overwhelmed with the feelings that rushed through your veins, you felt like you needed to let it all out, one way or another.

When you got home, you sat on your bed with your laptop sitting on top of your thighs. You stared at the loading status of your exporting photos that you captured earlier that day and a few days prior.

Seeing his photo was all it took for you to start jotting down words, expressing how spellbound you are towards his presence.

You hummed the melody you heard earlier at the park as he looked at you. It was like the breeze was singing for the two of you, and the sounds of the leaves that fell together in a beat that followed your heart's.

You were certain it was only you who's melting over such a small matter.

Regardless, you wrote something, a poem. But you like to refer to it as your first song, and it follows the tune of the air that whispered to you.

“I like you, Wonbin.”

It was scary. To remain standing there for what felt like a day, you thought you'd go home with red eyes and bottled tears.

His hand slowly reaching up to hold yours gave you the thrills.

“I like you too, Y/n.”

It was unbelievable, even for your friends. It's Park Wonbin, the Park Wonbin that could never spare people a minute of his time for insignificant matters, being too absorbed with music and the idea of creating a masterpiece of his own. He liked you?

“You… like me?” you pointed your shaky finger on yourself.

He gently rubbed at the skin on your hands. “No doubts, beautiful.”

You would subconsciously scoff at people who called you pretty because people would often use it to ask for favors. You wondered, was this him asking for a favor? a favor to use you? to only want you when he needed you?

You wrote about these thoughts later that night, and that would be your second song you called 'Blissful but Bittersweet'.

These feelings would be subsided on your very first date. He took you to the studio where he and his band practiced and recorded studio versions of their covers that they'd upload anywhere they could.

You two were the only ones in the studio at that time.

For a while, you were both hesitating on looking into each other's eyes, or starting a conversation. When his eyes caught the lights of the studio and glimmered like fairy light, you couldn't look away. You had the tendency to stare and hold at the things that seemed too good to be true.

Just being there with him was all too good to be true.

He stared back at you, his eyes explored your features, breaking you out of your trance. And there he asked you what you thought of him.

The way he responded to your answer made you think that he knew, he knew the effect he had on everyone else. But you hoped that he saw you differently, different from everyone else that blushed and gushed over him.

“I think your photographs are as beautiful as you.” he spoke as he set up the amplifier for his guitar. “It's your trademark I think.”

You were flushed, but even more confused. “What do you mean?”

“I would know when a photo was taken by you.” His voice was like a bass line to a soul song.

It was true. He'd been noticing you for a while. He was amazed with how great your works in photojournalism were, he admired your passion for photography, turning even the most tragic elements into such beautiful imagery.

Those things however, weren't the only basis for his fascination.

He saw how diligent you were, how you seemed so happy and content with your school life. If it seemed as if he paid no care for the people who whispered for days and days with no end because his eyes would be darted towards god-knows-what, his ears were open for them.

The things he's heard being said about you were endless and repetitive praise, and some backhanded 'worries' they had for you.

“I don't think Y/n actually has a life outside of the competitions”

“I know right, it's kind of sad. Must be boring, and her friends are no different. Might as well just be government officials.”

“She should let loose a little, maybe then someone would show interest in her.” — and quiet laughter.

He couldn't suppress a scoff, and later a rumor would spark that Park Wonbin had a crush on campus journalist Y/n.

You never knew about it since you were out of the country for nationals, and when he told you, you had raised eyebrows.

It was only now that he could admire the elegance of your features. Your eyes and their unique shape, the soft curve of your cheeks and its tint, and your velvet lips.

He had never seen you under a different light before, what he was seeing now went beyond what he could imagine.

You would write again after that date, and this time you had an actual melody to follow, it was of his guitar's. He played a 'scrap piece' —as he would call it— and asked you if it sounded alright.

He felt all warm and fuzzy inside when you enthusiastically answered. “I loved it!”

Your full voice made his heart bounce in and out of his chest. He thought, if only, if only he could incorporate your sugared voice into his music.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Are these yours?” you rushed over to Wonbin to recover your personal journal.

When you'd get it from him, it was turned to a page where you had written about your shared first kiss.

“Uh, yeah.” you gulped when you heard his chuckle.

“You're a wonderful writer too?” you looked up, expecting to see him standing and towering over your very existence.

But he was just as flushed as you were. “They're songs.”

The luminosity of his eyes lit up the room.

“Can you sing them for me?”

He listened to the melodies you have grasped out of pure memory, memories you've had with him.

It wouldn't take a while for him to figure out the meaning of the songs, and somehow, he was surprised to hear,

“They're all about you.”

The feelings that Wonbin had put you through —without his perception— were feelings you have never felt before in your life. Having control over these foreign feelings, somehow, meant taking on new mediums of expression for you.

You would continue to write songs about your moments with him, all the little and more.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were both in your sophomore year in the same music and arts university. Your courses had apparent distinctions, but you two would share the same few classes together.

“I feel like I should be taking Composition instead of Media Arts.” you mumbled at the top of his head.

The lecture hall was empty, you two took your time before leaving like everybody else.

He had himself in between your arms and wrapped yours around him, like how dubiety wrapped around your brain and made it ache for that cause.

“If you feel like it's the right thing, you definitely should, right? if Composition would help you to a point in your life where you're sound and happy, go for it.” he says, looking up at you with glistening eyes.

Wonbin was always the one to be in your arms and would often bury his face in the crook of your neck, taking in the whole of your warmth. You felt like his sanctuary, and likewise, he was yours.

Taking you to the studio became a routine for him, as a means of spending time with you. He would practice while you watched as his fingers moved rhythmically in a pace faster than your heartbeat.

And it was with you that he'd first share his own solos and ask for your honest opinions. You were in awe every time. You had nothing but compliments to throw at him whenever he asked,

“Was it good?”

“It's incredible, Bin.”

While he practiced, you wrote.

It was a whole other experience to have him play for you as you observed and take in all of him, taking note of his delicate handling of his guitar, the sweat that would gradually build up and stick to his hair, and how he'd close his eyes, fully immersed in the music.

Music resonates well with the two of you, it's like your own language, the one you shared and cherished by heart, the foundation of your relationship.

“Let me see.” he'd say as he rests his chin atop of your head from behind you.

You'd raise your journal to his sight, and you could feel his smile as he wrapped his arms around you.

“You make me feel so loved.” he whispers as he places a soft kiss on your jaw before once again burying his face in your neck.

You'd always run your fingers through his hair, telling him that he makes you feel the same way, always.

You loved Wonbin for everything he was —a musician, your best friend, your boyfriend.

And for a long time, he'd been the Park Wonbin who owned a band, and owned your heart.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Going forward, you would change courses from Media Arts to Composition. You were back to square one.

This is where your heart had led you to, where he had given you his full support and encouragement.

Your schedules would crash because of the drastic shift, but still, you found ways to meet as much as you could. There were times where seeing each other wouldn't be possible, so you'd resort to calls instead. You two would talk to each other until you could hear his soft snores.

And when he'd wake up in the morning, he would apologize to you for falling asleep on you and you would always make sure to tell him that it's okay.

He would later take you to the studio again, but this time, there were others; his bandmates.

It was your first time hanging around them, but you thought they were nice. The teasing was something you were never going to get used to, but Wonbin was relieved to have you by his side.

He kept you close to him as he practiced, he took more breaks than retakes. He kept making mistakes at different points of their practice and would call for a break everytime —and each time, he went and sat next to you, laying his head on your shoulder as you delved your fingers in his hair.

“Hey, Bin, you should really focus on your practice. This is for the finals —and I know you're tired, but your bandmates are tired too.” you whispered ever so softly into his ear.

It soothed him, and so he took a deep breath. “I will, starting this very minute.” He sits up and looks at you. He cups your face with his hands and leaves a kiss on your lips and on your forehead. “I just missed you so, so much.”

He goes back to practice, and he listens to you. He fixed himself up and focused. By the end of it they were able to finish practicing three songs.

He took you home to your dorm room, and asked if he could stay. Of course you could not reject him. You two would be all up on each other, all night.

Unfortunately for him, the next day won't be as pleasant as expected.

“Our bassist left.” He got up from your bed and stood near the edge, looking and scrolling on his phone. “That motherfucker.”

Your eyes widened. It wasn't that you've never heard him curse, it's his tone. It was frightening. You knew it wasn't for you —and hoped it would never be— but it made you think of the worse, what could be, and what would be.

“Where are we gonna find a fucking bassist? the competition is in three days.” he threw his head back as he ran his hand through his hair, clasping onto its ends out of disappointment and frustration. “That fucking asshole.” he muttured under his breath.

He turned to look at you, and he wished he shouldn't have.

You had the face of an angel, and that angel, now, appears to be bewildered, petrified even.

He sighed, bringing his eyes to the side. He stood there for a couple more seconds before he got his stuff, getting ready to leave.

“I'll go. I'm sorry Y/n, but I won't be around until I find a bassist that's competent.” he bluntly says before leaving, not shutting the door behind him —for he was afraid that if he did, he'd do it too hard and make you feel bad for it.

You would go on for days without contact. You tried messaging him, but he left you on read. He would reply 16 hours later with: sorry y/n, we're really struggling here.

You stared at his message for hours. You didn't want to respond, so as to not further disturb him. After a few more hours, you'd receive a call from him.

“Bin?” you softly called for him as soon as you picked up.

“We found a bassist. We're practicing real hard since we really need to get it together. We're finished now, but we'll be back in the studio in a few hours. The bassist —she's great.” you nodded to yourself as you listened to him.

You didn't want to be that type of girlfriend, but you badly wanted to ask who this 'she' is. “Oh, who is she?”

“A freshman —so, how have you been?” Wonbin seemed to be speaking a little faster than normal.

You started to wonder whether he even truly wanted to talk to you in the first place. It took you a while to reply to him, you were once again stuck with such overwhelming feelings, having the need to jot them all down.

“Y/n?”

“Bin—”

“You must be tired. Let's talk tomorrow, yeah? I'll call you when I wake up. Rest, beautiful.”

Your eyes paced around everywhere. “I'm sorry Bin.”

“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, it's me who should be sorry.” he remained quiet for a while and you could slightly hear his breathing.

“Goodnight Bin. Please sleep well.” the hand that held his phone trembled slightly at the dim symphony of your voice.

“Goodnight Y/n.” he weakly replied before letting you go and ending the call.

On your bed, you lie on your back, eyes wandering the ceiling as if there were more to the tiny cracks and the dormant light bulb. Unable to bring yourself to a slumber, you got up and went to your desk.

You laid out your journal, opening to a fresh page. You let the tip of your pen hover over it for a few minutes, before you let it all go.

We started off in such a nice place,

We were talking the same language.

A teardrop would make its way onto the paper, causing the ink of your pen to smudge.

You weren't meant to finish this song just yet.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was finally the day of the competition you've long awaited. You hurried to the front seats, excited to see him perform, to hear his fervent voice, excited to just be able to see him again.

When there were others performing onstage, you tried peeping at the back, or somewhere behind the stage where you'd spot him. You were never able to, not until they were up next.

He saw you and waved. You waved back, hesitant as their new bassist appeared beside him.

They looked… perfect.

You zoned out. Your head would start blocking off the music, and all you could hear was your weak heart. You felt conflicted, the first time it palpated like this, it was for good reason, but now, it seems to be the opposite.

When it was their turn to perform, you watched as they exchanged looks. Their charisma shook your core, and suddenly, you hated yourself for not knowing how to play bass.

You watched, and Wonbin would lay his eyes on you as he sang —but it within a span of a few seconds he fixed his gaze on the bassist, as they once again gave each other looks that made you sink into your seat.

After their performance, you would find yourself clapping, standing up like everyone else, the only difference being that you were crying. Wonbin saw, but he couldn't tell if they were tears of joy or something else.

They would be announced champions by the end of the day, and you couldn't be more proud. Wonbin would find you in the crowd, smiling as he slightly waved the trophy in his hand. You smiled back, just happy with what he's achieved. But you couldn't help but notice that something in the air was changing.

Later that night, Wonbin took you with him to their celebratory dinner. He held your hand tight, caressing your skin with his thumb as you both entered the restaurant.

His bandmates were already seated nicely and the only seats left were ones next to their drummer, and the other, next to the bassist. When they saw you, their bassist would move next to the drummer, and Wonbin would sit across from her, with you next to him.

You were happy that they were all happy, and while eating, you would get over your thoughts from earlier.

Your smile would slowly dissipate into the unmindful air feeling Wonbin's grasp becoming looser and looser as time flew by.

You looked over to him, and you saw the sweetest and most seraphic smile you've ever seen him wear. It was just a shame that it was not because of you.

You grew insecure in your seat, the space you occupied shrinked by the second as you watched how differently their eyes reacted to one another —how different it was compared to how he looked at you.

“Bin, I need to go home.” you touched his shoulder to get his attention.

He quickly turned his head to look at you. “Oh, I'll take you home—”

“No.” You spoke a little louder than intended. “Sorry, no need. I'll get going now, I have things to finish.”

You stood up, expecting him to grab your hand to stop you as you walked away towards the exit. But he didn't.

Were you asking for too much now? or are you just not enough anymore?

You took slow and miniscule steps, waiting for a taxi to pass by. Once it did, you got in, feeling so dejected that your voice cracked when you gave the taxi driver the address to your dorms.

Maybe you were overthinking things. Maybe you're just not used to him being as smiley and as lively as he was around other girls that weren't you. It had been like that since the beginning of your relationship, and yet you felt as if you had no right to doubt him.

By the end of the day, you'd be back at your desk, tear-filled, feebly writing down,

You can't stand the thought,

Of a real beating heart you'd be holding...

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Y/n! we got a record deal!”

The thrill, the excitement, it all rushed through Wonbin, in his blood. He had called you early in the morning after receiving a call from a recording label.

“That's great, Bin.” Wonbin's smile would die out with the tone of your voice.

“Hey, are you okay?” he suddenly thought about the previous night with you, two nights ago.

“Yeah. I've just been really busy. Congrats Bin!” he bit his bottom lip, staring into nothing feeling your frailty.

“I'm coming to visit you.” he says nonchalantly.

“You don't have to Bin, I'm really b—”

“I can help—”

“Wonbin.” —silence.

You never called him 'Wonbin' throughout the entirety of your relationship, even when the two of you would argue. It left a stinging pain in his heart. “Y/n.”

“I'm sorry Bin. I know you have your own stuff going on so would you please jus—”

“Was this about the other night?” despite your efforts to respond, not a single word came out of you. “Look, I don't even know why you left, why don't you communicate things with me anymore?”

Fear. You feared this tone of his that you never thought he'd take out on you. You feared the eyes you could not see, glaring at your phantom in his studio. You feared his heart, his heart that would no longer yearn for you even if you called for him. You feared losing him.

“Y/n, speak to me. Please.” urgency was apparent in his voice, but you could also hear his disappointment.

“How? Tell me how, Wonbin.” you would break as his name fell off your lips, your tears falling down to your blanket that reeks of his scent. “I don't fucking know how, okay?”

From this moment on, you were able to see just how flawed your relationship truly is. Behind all the affections, you two were just too different. Sometimes, different can be good —there's a thing they call 'opposites attract'— but sometimes, people don't need different.

It was not that the two of you stray far from each other's passions, heck, it was your passion that brought the two of you together. But rather, it was your values that contrasted with each other.

He thought you were just as infatuated as he was, all the while you were thinking that you were all he needed.

Yes, he was the most comfortable with you, but his happiness was not you. He felt relieved by your touch, your voice —but he would never admit that that is all it was for him, a sense of relief and nothing more.

He was thankful for everything you've given him, all the comfort, the nagging for him to take care of himself, the photos you've taken of him and hung on your little cork board, and the songs. He was genuinely touched and couldn't believe that you could get any more incredible than you already were.

Unfortunately, you thought more of him, memorizing every bit of him, his physique and his very psyche.

You two would resolve your argument, temporarily.

He would begin to visit you again regularly, and take you to their studio, a new one, one that would be in a bigger building. And just like that building, everything was different.

Your whole life, you've learned to fight change, to adapt with ease, but this was one you did not want to adapt into. It was one you wanted to escape.

You missed the way his fingers would play with the shorter strands if your hair that rested at the sides of your head as he rests himself on you. You missed the warmth in his voice, and now it was all fading into nothing. That fire in your hearts that you lit up for each other, it was slowly dying out.

It was painful to be aware when you were still so in love, when you still saw the same Wonbin that one fateful day at the park.

You knew that he knew. During his visits to your dorm room, he'd often doze off, and would lazily leave sloppy kisses to your lips, that would slowly become light pecks on your cheek, and soon nothing.

When he took you to his studio, he would be practicing, and she'd be there too. You would be in your own little corner, writing your songs.

“Hi Y/n, what are you up to in there?” she would ask, peeking at your journal.

“Oh, I'm writing songs.” she was a nice person, but she was also the reason for the falling out of your relationship, it was crystal-clear.

“You should seriously consider showing some to the producers around here. I feel like they'd love your work.” as nice as she sounded, you felt sick in the stomach, just like how those stupid moon photographs made you feel.

She and Wonbin, they were both like the moon, just letting others take in all of their physiognomy, all of their beauty. They remain unmoved, as if they're the pillar to everybody's constancy.

They fit each other. —you thought to yourself as you kept writing.

I never could rely on you,

And a few times your face came into view,

Into view.

I'm not into you,

Into you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It's been a good while since you've cut ties with him. You found it amusing how surprised he was with how you responded to his notion.

“I don't think we should continue being together, Y/n.” he blinked a few times, not having the heart to look into your eyes like he used to anymore.

“Yeah, I know.” you were so blunt with everything that he couldn't believe that it was really you who was speaking to him. “I'll bring you the stuff you left at my dorm. I'll just leave it here.”

You were in their studio, where he had asked you to meet him.

“I could just get it myself—”

“I'll spare you the trouble Wonbin.” you were so cold, it sent shivers down his spine. You were no longer the intelligent and timid girl he knew. “It's great to know you've been feeling the same way all along, if not, I would've felt bad for ever doubting you.”

A single tear would escape his eye, and he'd wipe it away before you could see it.

“Thank you for…” you fished for his gaze, and you would catch it like never before. “...everything.”

You went out of their studio and started making your way out of the building with your journal in hand.

The journal. It was full of him. From polaroids and sketches, to the lyrics that brought you to where you are.

You were glad he finally came to his senses, that he was the one to break it up. If he never did, it would've taken you ages to blurt it out, or maybe you never would've done it.

As your feet followed the same path you took going in, you could feel the hot tears flowing continuously. The last you would see as you stepped out of the building was her. Worry was written all over her face as she called for you once, twice. You looked back at her for an agonizing and very few seconds before completely turning your back from her.

That day was excruciating for you. You could only imagine, he already had her to comfort him, and you? you were still in the same spot, pouring all of your feelings out into a song.

After a few lengthy months of practicing with your guitar, you were able to make a full song.

You recorded it within the confines of your dorm room. You were again satisfied with your work. It was a simple, homey video. Your voice was as soft as the clouds, and your presence was like that of the sun, bright, shining against the woe of your heart.

You posted the video to YouTube, even providing them with the lyrics you've put your whole heart into in the description box.

At first, you didn't really think you'd get as much as fifty views, three likes and maybe one petty dislike. Either way, you didn't really care. It was the least of your worries at the time.

You were planning to move back to Media Arts, in spite of him. You moved courses because of him, and now you are moving back another step for it.

Though, your plans would be halted when you were approached by a deceptive man —what made him deceptive? you may ask, well, you would've never thought that this man worked for the same recording label that your ex was in.

“What do you want?” you spat.

“Okay, miss. I'm Jung-Sung-Chan. I've been in the xxxx label for two years now. So, I saw your song—”

“And what about it?” your voice was stern, and it seemed as though it was atypical for him as it did not match your appearance at all.

“So, there's this band, don't know if you've heard of them—”

“Is it 'Everiizing'?” he was flabbergasted with how you just kept cutting him off when he was supposedly the one to be intimidating you.

“Uh, yeah.”

He would go on to explain how the band had been struggling to come up their next hit single and they needed it by the end of the month. You told him off by saying that you'd think about it, and think about it, you did.

It was quite funny, Wonbin would be the one singing since he was the vocal of the band, and he would be singing a song that you wrote and composed about him and the fallout of your relationship.

But you also thought, maybe this was a start for your own career. Maybe after this, you'd be a well known song writer, credited in every hit song in the charts.

You would call Sungchan back and tell him you've made up your mind.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

So I started to think 'bout the plans I made,

The debt unpaid.

And you just can't call a spade a spade.

Wonbin read through the lyrics of their supposed upcoming single. He couldn't help but feel… familiar. The style of writing, the choice of words, he feels like he'd seen it all before, and he'd felt it all once upon a time.

“The writer is Y/s/n Y/n.” Wonbin's breath hitched, very subtly that he was the only one that heard. “I saw her on YouTube —that's where we discovered that song. She agreed to sell it to us.”

“The song is on YouTube?” Wonbin asked as he grabbed his phone from the table in front of him.

“Yeah, that's what I said.”

He searched for your name, and there it was. He hurriedly tapped on your video, and watched, and listened.

You never changed in his eyes. You were still as mesmerizing as you were when he could still have you in his embrace, or when you'd massage his hair.

“So what do you think?” he ignored Sungchan and kept his eyes and ears on his phone, following every note and every strum.

“Wonbin?” —for a minute, he thought it was you who called for his name, but then he looked up.

“Paige.” he responds to their bassist.

“I listened to Y/n's song. It's really a masterpiece, I say we try recording it now.” Paige, with pure excitement, would cling onto Wonbin, and he would look at her the way you would want him to look at you.

Sungchan knew, because you had told him everything. It was weird to tell a stranger about these things, but if he was buying your song, he should at least know the story behind it, right?

That day, Wonbin would record his vocals for the song, and Sungchan would be there to monitor. Wonbin seemed so emotional. He must've realized what the lyrics truly meant, and it punched him right in his guts.

This is all she's been feeling huh —he uttered in his mind as he fought back his sorrow.

Sungchan had spared you the details of everything that went down in the recording, and soon they would release their own version of the song, and it would be theirs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“...we have 'Everiizing', to perform their new hit single, 'Tek It'!”

You were once again, at the same seat you'd always be when he performed, but this time, you were happy. It was your creation being recognized and loved by many. Its story will remain in your memories forever, but it will never cause resentment.

You couldn't help but smile and just enjoy the music. They were the same —if not better than before. Wonbin and Paige were truly a different story. They seem to be doing great. You had no idea if they actually got together, but you didn't care.

There was a lingering feeling for sure, but it would fall weak knowing that you have a line of opportunities ahead of you, and so did Wonbin and his band.

After their performance he would go on to acknowledge your presence, giving you credit for writing and composing such a beautiful song, though of course, he would never say you were his ex and you wrote it about him.

You two would meet again backstage, for the first time in almost a year.

“Y/n.” you smiled, not for the same reason as you would with him, it was because he failed to have the same effect on you as he did before, and it brought your mind to peace.

“Wonbin.” he would smile back, but it was quite not like himself.

He was a lot more tentative. “I'm guessing you've been well.”

You nod at him and say, “I could say the same about you.”

“So, will you continue to work under xxxx?” he asked hesitantly.

“You know I would never do that even if things ended a little better.” he would drop his smile as he listened to you speak. “I'm moving to Sungchan's label. He's starting one of his own. Might consider being an artist myself, but for now I'll finish my studies.”

Wonbin was once again fascinated with your strong will, it was something he thought he could learn from you, but as soon as forever was promised, it would disintegrate right before your eyes.

The promises of making songs together, singing them together, performing them with your souls intertwined. They were nothing but long gone.

Wonbin is the moon, and you're the sun. The two are never meant to meet, or to even be close to each other. Being opposites was never a problem, it was because you two had different understandings of what it meant for you to flourish and shine, what your purpose is in this world and how you would salvage it —it is the sad tale of the serene but incredibly fallible moon, and the ravishing sun, that's just as tainted.

And there would be no more eclipses to follow.

I never thought we'd see it through.

So long nice to know you, I'll be moving on.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

happy hearts day <333

#riize #riize au #riize fanfic #briize #riize x reader #wonbin #riize wonbin #park wonbin #Spotify #songfic

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ladiestbug · 2 months ago

Text

The one where Adam lives and Lawrence dies

The first days following the bathroom are glorious, everyone around Adam is fucked up over some planes and like a tower or two, he doesn’t care much — he’s alive. He begins attending survivor support groups and in all his glory he introduces himself and meets the eye of a terribly scarred woman and the little girl that clings to her. The Gordon family. It twists his gut, unsettles his lunch in his stomach, but he gets over it. Lawrence was using that woman, that little girl is better off not knowing what kind of man her daddy actually was, that’s what Adam tells himself for maybe 5 meetings, then he decides he really just cannot stomach Alison Gordon’s hiccuping sobs or the lost look on Diana’s face.

He tells himself he’s gonna change. He survived to change, but Adam has little going for him. Once, he dreamed of being a veterinarian, fuck maybe even a father, he’d even considered where he’d retire. That dream died quickly after stuff got bad for Scott.

Scott Tibbs has always been better than Adam, despite the slight stench that followed him and the way most kids avoided him on the playground, Adam has known since he was just a little girl that Scott has something he doesn’t. When Scott started insisting he was a rockstar, Adam decided that ‘something’ was star power. And so, he found himself wasting his little money on a decent camera and developer, propped up at the foot of every shitty stage Scott could book, snapping pictures like his life depended on it because Scott swore the pay would come and it’d be big.

But it didn’t come, and Adam’s rent grew closer, his morals more dubious.

That’s what had landed him in that bathroom in the first place, Scott, his shitty band. Adam had been a fine person until then maybe. He doesn’t have much else after he stops attending meetings though, the occasional meeting with the police over a new victim, and he ends up back at Scott’s.

It’s hot, the air is sticky and Adam is easily too old for this but he’s still pushing through a crowd of 18-21 year olds to get closer to the stage. He’s a solid 32 now, he’s getting thicker from the beer and less aware of his own strength. He’s fixated on his push forward when something next to him shatters, and the sound of a girl certainly too young for this show has him spinning in her direction.

“Watch where you’re going shit for brains!” Shouts a bony blonde girl with eyeliner smeared on her all too familiar face.

———

Diana Gordon’s life is ultra-fucked. She’d been on course to a decent one, once upon a time, up until her dad ruined his relationship so terribly that he was abducted by Jigsaw and a strange man took her and her mother hostage. The night was not unlike the storybooks her father had read her before bed and promised to be, in a way, true. She’d felt herself a damsel in distress, and maybe that cop passed for a knight in shining armor and the ambulance a mighty steed.

But her stories tended to end there, happily ever after and all that, and quickly Diana began to wish the one she was living would as well. Her father’s passing sent her mother into what she could only describe as a fog, Alison wasn’t particularly fond of her husband but he was still her husband. Diana never saw her mom cry much, she was more a yeller, a thrower even, but after Lawrence’s passing it seemed to be all her mom could do, eat, cry, work, eat, sleep, repeat, survivors’ meetings on Saturday.

Diana didn’t feel like she got much from the meetings, other victims were in situations so horrific she couldn’t wrap her head around them, she didn’t even really understand her father’s circumstances. But it.. sort of helped her mom? She assumed at least, because Alison picked up another job, and started hanging out with friends. It was nice seeing her mom feel better but the issue was… Diana wasn’t actually seeing it much. By about 10 years old she was a latchkey kid to the highest degree, dressing herself and making her own microwave dinner after school, even putting herself to sleep more nights than she should’ve been. It was lonely, but she quickly adapted her own way of fixing that.

Diana learned quickly that you do not actually have to ask permission, so long as you don’t leave evidence. It started off innocent, neighborhood kids coming over for unsupervised play dates after school, then movie nights in middle school, sleepovers once she hit 12 and Alison started sleeping at other people’s houses. The summer before her freshman year, one of Diana’s close friends introduced her to two things that would be potentially vital to who she was; shitty, shitty bands and shittier alcohol.

“Wrath of The Gods should not exist, they’re awesome”, is how Diana was introduced to her favorite band by a girl with uneven bangs and too much eyeliner one night. Diana is 14 and a half, and entirely unsupervised most of the time. When she does see her mother, it’s brief and an argument. More frequently, she sees a bottle of cheap vodka and free venue like tonight. It stinks, mostly is what’s on her mind, she doesn’t care much for the music at these shows anymore, she’s mostly here to take her anger out on unsuspecting concertgoers. As she’s scanning the crowd, attempting to decide which unlucky loser is the one she’s decided is stinking the place up, she’s interrupted by a shove and then her bottle dropping, shattering.

“Watch where you’re going shit for brains!” Diana shouts at the pusher, balling her fist up like she’s going to punch him then hesitating when she sees the height he has on her. She’d fight him without question were she bigger or drunker, but instead she stares for a moment before he speaks up.

“Do I know you?” He inquires, his face scrunching up as he digs through his memory to recall why he knows this little girl. Diana frowns, considers calling him a predator, then realizes she does recognize him, “oh fuck, you’re the guy who like killed my dad or whatever.”

———

Lawrence Gordon was not a good man, Adam reminds himself as he looks down at the dead man’s inebriated, certainly underfed daughter. He doesn’t really answer her, just sort of stammers and mumbles something akin to “I’m so sorry for your loss”, and leads her out of crowd — screw Scott’s pictures, she should not be here. He takes her outside and sits her on a curb, offering his jacket to clean the vodka off her before inhaling sharply. “You.. are you all right? Your mom know where you are?” Adam asks, he tries to sound as casual as possible, he doesn’t want to upset her with his concern.

“She doesn’t care, I’m all good.” The girl insists, ready to rise from the curb already only to be sat back down by Adam. “Not the best scene for you, y’know? You’re already drunk, can I call someone to take you home?” He offers her, reaching for his phone but the girl is already rising from her spot again and heading back inside.

Adam wasn’t sold on the concept of karma until he started recognizing that mess of lazily straightened and crimped blonde curls at every other gig he did for Scott. He didn’t kill Lawrence, but God, Adam winning might be what leads to the youngest’s Gordon’s demise. It’s all he can think about, every crowd he pushes through, every shit song Scott shows him, every substance he tries, supplied by the same people Diana Gordon is partying with. She becomes a constant weight on his chest, a pit in his stomach eating him from the inside. Scott gives him more beers than usual, and insists it isn’t Adam’s problem — she’s not Adam’s kid.

But when a fight breaks out over her backpack, and blood spills, Diana might be Adam’s kid — that’s what the 20 something year old guy trying to rob her thinks when Adam is on top of him, prying the bag out of his hands.

Diana’s nose is gushing more blood than Adam thought she even had in her body, and he doesn’t realize until they’re headed to an emergency room that his camera is gone. An eye for an eye, maybe, he took off with Scott’s car, maybe Scott’ll find the camera and make a quick buck but Adam doesn’t trust he’ll see it again. The night is long, and draining — Alison Gordon is not happy to hear about her daughter, who is facing an open fracture, and was transported to the emergency room by a strange 30 something year old. Though, by 2 AM she is sat next to Adam in the waiting room, begrudgingly thanking him for looking out for Diana. Adam wants to apologize, but he’s not certain where he should begin. He settles on, “I worry about you guys.”

#ladys textposts #sawposting #lawrence gordon #saw 2004 #sawtism #sawtistic #adam faulkner stanheight #diana gordon #my writing #scott tibbs #alison gordon #my fanfic #my fic #saw fanfic #diana gordon centric #again mwahahahaha

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wildlife4life · 2 years ago

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Seven (+) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by the truly astounding, @panbuckley, @spotsandsocks, @wikiangela @devirnis @hippolotamus @monsterrae1 @prince-buck-diaz @try-set-me-on-fire and @forthewolves

Say it with me: NFL Buck!

“It’s still training camp babe. On a new team and a new offensive system, so picks are going to happen. Especially around a ball hawk like Ramsey. But he shouldn’t be bringing Maddie up, not even opposing players are that crass.” Eddie points out, “If he does it again, confront him.” Evan starts to object, but Eddie continues, “I’m not saying shove your face mask into his, but you need to be direct, remind him that your sister is off limits and bringing her up is un-sportsman like. That he’s not being a good teammate by reminding you of your trauma like that.” “And if that doesn’t work?” Buck asked apprehensively. Eddie shrugs, “Video of practice get leaked all the time, you just need to find the right source.” He gives his boyfriend a devilish grin and a wink. A burst of laugher erupts from Buck, washing away all the annoyance and tension from his entire demeanor. “You are so petty and vindictive.” “And I know you love me for it. Just like how much I love you for always trying to rise above the trash talk and harassment. We complement each other very well.” Evan softens, becoming gooey and love stricken (one of Eddie’s favorite looks, just after his adoration for Christopher and dark lust filled one). Pulling back a bit from the camera, Buck taps his naked chest with his right hand, three times, “I love you too, so much. And I really fucking miss you and Christopher.” “We miss you too, so much.” Eddie taps his own left chest side three times, “But I’ll be down with Christopher Friday. You can sign his new jersey, maybe get Kupp to come say hi. Then you have this upcoming Monday off and I will be coming off a 24 that morning, so the whole day is ours to enjoy.”

Hope you all enjoyed!

Tagging: @911onabc @heartbeatdiaz @cowboydiazes @cowboy-buddie @cowboy-buck @thekristen999 @lizzybizzyzzz @alyxmastershipper @transbuck @thewolvesof1998 @brokenribsdiaz @glorious-spoon @oliverstaark @starlingbite @jesuisici33 @rogerzsteven @bigfootsmom @shortsighted-owl @spaceprincessem @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @sibylsleaves

#seven sentence sunday #tag game #my wip #911 fox #911 abc #911 show #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #nfl #evan buckley #eddie diaz #quarterback buck #firefighter eddie #secret relationship #the love each other

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alvin-draper · 11 months ago

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Alien: Romulus

spoilers!

let's chat. and also preface with the fact I've only seen alien and Aliens before, both of which I adore and rewatch endlessly.

I've seen some reviewers talk about this, but Andy carried that movie character wise. Everyone else was good - props to the weird cousin guy. He was a dick but he added some much needed internal group conflict.

Andy and Rain - she was weirdly cookie cutter in a very video game protagonist kinda way. She had a goal: get off planet. She had a brother who she viewed both as person and as pet. Something to be loved and coddled. At no point was she ready for him to have more agency. From the minute you knew she'd decided to leave him behind, you could plot the course of her entire arc. Andy was better. I was worried they were doing a weirdly placed take on adults with strong autism to start with, and was kinda relieved to find out he was artificial with a buggy system, and then realised that actually no the comparison still 100% works, but I like how they played it. He gets agency with intelligence, but it's at the cost of losing his human connections. His little sister, and the friends he's an outlier to. He never feels integrated into the group, always slightly on the outside. When he gets his new chip and directive, I read it as equal parts programming and rebellion. It took away some of his desire to do anything for Rain, and replaced it with pragmatism. But you can see its still him in there, and that he's mad about them leaving him behind. He keeps making decisions to keep Rain alive, but he focuses in on her life rather than her emotional needs, and lets other people die. It still reads as love, to me. But instead of her sacrificing him for her better life, he sacrificed her emotional wellbeing for both of them to live. Definitely the character with the most intricacy.

As said, everyone else and everything else felt kind of cookie cutter. The characters don't make interesting decisions. Its still well written and well done: you understand the how'd and whys of every decision they make. But none of them shine enough to keep up with Andy.

Okay, enough character stuff. Let's talk everything else.

The score and sound mixing: incredible. Loved that it started on that deep space silence. The music is good and more than functional, will probably listen to the soundtrack as a background for a while. The best choice sound wise in the whole movie is when she floats out the bottom of the cargo bay in the final act and the sound cuts almost completely. You could've heard a pin drop.

The look of the thing: impeccable. The minute they get onto those prowling H G Geiger ships I was sold on the whole thing. The wires and curves and me grin so hard. Less excellent alien hiding places than I would've liked, but they didn't use that trick too many times so it worked out. The red and orange lighting in the dark rooms gave the movie a very distinct aesthetic, separate from the other Alien movies that I've seen. And of course the shot composition was glorious. One of my favourite visuals was in the water filled cyro fuel room, when Andy freezes and reboots. Hi standing stock still as the camera pans up and we the audience understand: oh shit, that's a lot of facehuggers.

Things they set up and paid off: the pregnancy. Andy slipping a vial of the compound into his pocket. The X Ray scanner. The dropped key. The gravity timer. Just about the security cameras. Things they didn't quite pay off: the temperature sensing device. The facehuggers travelling through the vents. The sharp edges and quick mechanical closing of the vent covers they get into the ship through.

Shit that came out of nowhere: all the goddamn fully grown xenomorphs. That bit was pretty out of left field. I had anticipated there being more Aliens, but they fact they left it so late doesn't really make much internal sense. I guess because they were in the other half of the outpost?

Callbacks I loved: the Nostromo at the start and the vague references to Ripley. Rook being Ash. That was gooooood. Also shows that the companies whole thing in Aliens that synthetics aren't like that anymore is kind of bollocks.

That fucking thing: I'm calling it Romulus for obvious reasons. I thought the design was excellent. So fucking horrifying. I will be having nightmares. Its like they reached into my subconscious and designed it specifically to get to me. Incredible. Didn't like the fact it roared I think if it had made either an Alien hiss or a human noise it would've been way more compelling. Properly horrifying though. Really hit home that it's a horror movie more than anything else. Also. The death scenes in the movie? Incredible. It did those Well. My favourite was absolutely the acid blood literally burning a whole through that guys chest, because it was visceral and brutal and horrifying and so so hell done. You could really feel the panic and tension and still clock him scrabbling at his chest just to melt his fingers and feeling sick all over again. Just brilliant.

Overall: it was good! It sucks that I only really liked Andy, and he only really atarts coming into his own after Rain betrays him. Still fucked she took his autonomy away again at the end, even if their quipping was cute. Loved them raising the temperature of that room as a disguise that was inspired. Loved them turning off the Gravity to shoot the Aliens that also worked great. The elevator was also a good set piece. The biggest let down in this movie is the characters. Andy's great, Rain is alright, and sos the cousin who's only around for the firstish act. Bit the main side character guy, who's sisters pregnant? I don't even remember his name. They kept hinting at there being both backstories for him and for Rain that were more interesting than what he got. For him, some kind of genuine military past. For her: she'd been to Yvaga before. Maybe even grew up there as a little kid. It was an opportunity to add proper dimension to both characters that was squandered in favor of the crazier action scenes, which sucks. This movie was in dire need of clearer and deeper characters, particularly because in my eyes that'd what Alien does best, and Aliens takes a really good stab at considering the larger main cast.

Essentially. It's a good damn horror movie, but I'm not sure it's a great Alien movie, for all the incredible HR Giger and weird sexual violence undertones. I'm just not sure that plot wise it earned its Alien credentials. Like the last few lines. Rain leaves a log, as she's the last survivor of her ship. But there's no passenger log. It was never an authorised mission. Its a pointless message to leave. It gives the audience closure because it flashes us back to the end of Alien, but it makes no sense as closure for Rain. That's where I'm at.

#alien romulus #also i called Rain Ellie for at least 30 minutes bc of how much she looks like TLOU 2 Ellie. she was Ellie #Andy was brother #british friend was friend #Kay was sister #cousin of british friend was cousin #his gf was girlfriend #my naming techniques r nothijg fancy but its the onky way i can keep track of a group movie for more than 5 seconds #alien #romulus #alien: romulus #alien romulus spoilers #alien: romulus spoilers

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sergiosimptellitto · 30 days ago

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The director and the Dare

Chapter 1: Bet

The Cine Elettra Studios didn’t look like a dream. They looked like a half-demolished opera set.

Clio stopped just past the main gates, one Converse already dusty with plaster. The old security guard hadn't even looked up from his crossword—just waved her through with a grumble and a flick of the wrist like he was shooing a pigeon.

Inside, a statue of some forgotten patron saint of cinema presided over the cracked courtyard, covered in pigeon droppings and two protest stickers.

Clio's heart raced—not from awe, but from caffeine and nerves. She clutched her bag tighter and stepped forward.

She had made it. Sort of. The studio had sent a welcome email that looked like it had been written by a drunk fax machine. There was no mention of a supervisor, no schedule. Just:

Arrive before 9. We’ll find a use for you.

Her bag was heavy with notebooks and printed screenplays—none of them hers. She had wanted to bring her script, her own first attempt at a screenplay—half love story, half housing crisis—but had left it on the floor of her bedroom. Too obvious. Too hopeful.

This wasn’t about ego.

This was about producing.

That was her in.

Not directing.

Not writing.

Producing.

Pulling the strings behind the curtain while everyone else squabbled for the spotlight. She didn’t want fame. She wanted influence. And eventually: control.

Of course, one day she would become a screenwriter and have her own projects published. But for now, baby steps.

Clio dodged a dolly track as a crew rolled past her with a camera the size of a Vespa. A man on a walkie-talkie shouted something in Roman dialect she didn’t understand. Someone else offered her a cigarette without looking at her face.

She declined, nodded like she’d done this a hundred times, and pressed deeper into the noise.

It was chaos. Glorious, messy, yelling, powdered-wig-wearing chaos.

She liked it.

She liked how real it was. How imperfect. There were cords on the ground and extras eating cheap brioche out of catering trays and a man in a neon vest arguing about shadows with someone in a cravat. This wasn’t theory. It wasn’t essays or lectures or watching Cassavetes in the dark. It was all moving parts—hot tempers and exhausted runners and last-minute rewrites on soggy paper.

And Clio wanted to run it. All of it.

She made her way toward the main building, where the administration offices were, or at least were rumored to be. Her phone buzzed in her bag—her mother, probably. Or her ex. Or the friend she’d screamed at last week for saying women didn’t make good directors because “they focus too much on emotion.”

She ignored it.

She had to focus. This was day one.

Her internship. Her foot in the door.

A voice called out ahead of her.

“You. With the fringe. Are you lost?”

Clio turned. A tall woman in black heels and an expression like a permanent eye-roll was holding a clipboard like it was a weapon. Around her neck hung an ID badge that read: SILVIA – COORDINAMENTO PRODUZIONE.

Clio stepped forward.

“No, I—I’m the new intern. Clio Gaitán. From Roma Tre.”

The woman skimmed her up and down like she was scanning a bar code

“You're late.” “It's 8:42.” “And coffee’s at 8:30. Come on.”

She turned and walked off before Clio could reply.

Inside, the office smelled like old paper and hairspray. A vintage Fellini poster curled on the wall above a fax machine. Silvia didn’t slow down.

“You’re assigned to the pre-production team for La Vita Imprudente.” “That’s the... new Elica film?” “Yes.” “I thought that was still just a rumor.” “It was. Until two days ago.”

Clio blinked. Franco Elica. A name that buzzed like a dying lightbulb. A filmmaker who hadn’t worked since before she’d enrolled. Who once threw an espresso cup at a distributor for calling him "mid-period." A man half legend, half cautionary tale. And now he was making something again?

Franco Elica.

Italy’s golden boy of cinema—until he wasn’t.

Director.

Disgraced genius.

Romantic narcissist with a cult following and a God complex.

They say he once threw a shoe at a critic mid-premiere.

They say he wrote an entire script because a woman walked past him eating cherries.

They say… he hasn’t made a film in six years.

Until now.

He’s the director those boys quote.

You know the ones. The self-anointed cinephiles in black turtlenecks who “know their way around cinema,”

who mistake gatekeeping for taste and misogyny for depth.

The kind who furrow their brows and sigh dramatically when you admit—God forbid—you enjoy a romcom.

Who claim emotional storytelling is “formulaic”

but will worship four hours of grayscale silence from a Soviet arthouse relic

where a man contemplates mortality by staring into a bowl of soup

and the only woman speaks twice—once to be slapped, once to die.

They call that brilliance.

They call that truth.

You call it what it is:

pretentious, derivative, and quietly hostile to your existence.

And now, that man—the myth, the menace—is directing again.

And somehow, you are on his set.

Silvia handed her a stack of call sheets and post-it notes scribbled with phone numbers.

“You’re assisting the line producer for now. Don’t speak unless asked. If anyone offers you wine before noon, say no.” “Noted.” “And don’t get attached. Films fall apart every day.”

Clio smiled faintly.

“Then I’ll just help hold it together.”

Silvia gave her a long look.

“Ambitious?” “Focused.” “Same thing. For now.”

As Silvia disappeared into a flurry of shouting down the hallway, Clio stood in the middle of the buzzing office, surrounded by phone cords and calendars and arguments.

She grinned.

She was finally inside.

And the movie hadn’t even started yet.

Franco Elica not a man. A liturgy.

At least, that’s what his disciples said.

The young ones—film students, dropout philosophers, aspiring auteurs with Camus paperbacks and nicotine-stained fingertips—spoke of him in the tones usually reserved for saints or war criminals. They quoted his interviews like scripture, dissected his commentaries like forensic analysts poring over sacred text.

To them, he wasn’t aging. He was aging well.

He wasn’t reclusive. He was elusive.

He wasn’t difficult. He was demanding truth in a world of compromise.

There were essays written about how his early films anticipated the death of postmodernism. Master’s theses claiming his use of silence redefined grief. One particularly deranged admirer had a tattoo of his 1993 Palme d’Or speech transcribed across her ribs.

He was loved.

And he was loathed.

The critics had sharpened their pens into scalpels the moment his career dipped below divine.

They called him indulgent. Regressive. Obsessively male.

They accused him of romanticizing dysfunction, aestheticizing abuse, hiding mediocre storytelling behind beautiful women and metaphors about train stations.

The New York Times once called his work “a tender elegy to narcissism—if narcissism could wear a velvet suit and quote Pasolini mid-slap.”

La Repubblica described his last public appearance as “an opulent collapse: Visconti without the grace, Antonioni without the silence.”

He didn’t respond. Not in interviews, not in letters. He didn’t need to.

He knew how to vanish. And that was power in itself.

But something had changed.

Franco Elica had been quiet too long. The last film had stalled mid-shoot. The one before that never made it past casting. He had retreated somewhere along the Adriatic coast, grown a beard, whispered strange ideas into expensive dictaphones. The world moved on—streaming, branding, women speaking, screens shrinking.

And now, without warning, he was back.

A script. A cast. A name. A budget.

The studio called it a comeback.

The papers called it an accident waiting to happen.

Franco called it Cinema—capital C, whispered with reverence, like it was a dying religion and he was the last true priest.

The cameras weren’t rolling.

The lights weren’t placed.

The actress stood waiting in a faux 1950s kitchen, holding a cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light, wearing a robe that itched.

But none of it mattered.

Because Franco Elica had entered the building.

He floated in like he had been summoned from a higher plane—though truthfully, he had simply woken up late and arrived in the same clothes he’d fallen asleep in: tailored linen pants, a vintage Cinecittà crew T-shirt, and an open dressing gown the color of burnt rosé.

No one commented.

He wore sunglasses indoors.

Spoke in riddles.

Held a cigarette he never lit and gestured with it like a conductor.

And when he spoke, the room paused—not out of respect, but out of a strange mixture of terror and awe. Like maybe, just maybe, if they listened hard enough, they’d catch a glimpse of God between the smoke and the nonsense.

He stood center-stage. Hands behind his back. Inspecting a fake window.

“The lace curtain,” he murmured, voice rich with sadness. “It tells us everything. The death of desire. The childhood of memory. It must be... limp. Like a forgotten handkerchief. Like a mother's sigh.”

A second passed.

Then another.

Then the set decorator sprinted to the curtain and began shaking it apologetically.

Franco did not nod. He never nodded. He simply moved on—drifting past interns, past confused crew, past the actress still waiting for a cue—until he reached the edge of the soundstage and stood like a man surveying ruins.

Then came Luca—his assistant, or possibly just a lifelong devotee who refused to be dismissed.

Luca was thirty-four, wore button-ups too tight for his chest, and spoke in the vague erotic tone of someone describing cheese or Italian cinema. He was the type who cornered interns to monologue about Tarkovsky and once said Almodóvar is just a woman’s idea of a man trying to understand women.

He grinned as he approached Franco now, eyes gleaming.

“The air feels charged today,” he said. “Like something is about to bloom. Or break.”

Franco said nothing. He was staring at the espresso machine as though it had insulted his ancestors.

Luca stepped closer.

“You know what it is?” he continued, conspiratorial now. “It’s because you’re circling back. Returning to the source. Art needs a rupture to flow. That’s why your best work came after she left.”

Franco’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly.

He took a slow, deliberate sip of espresso. Black. No sugar. No milk. No humanity.

“The one with the red boots,” Luca added, unnecessarily. “She was insane,” Franco said, at last. “Exactly,” Luca beamed. “But she moved you. You wrote Notturno per un Addio in six days. You shot the lake scene in one take. Genius like that doesn’t come from peace, maestro. It comes from pain. What you need is—”

Franco waved him off with the grace of a declining Pope.

“What I need,” he said, dry, “is a woman who won’t inspire me.”

Luca laughed like that was the punchline of the decade.

“Which means you’re doomed, maestro. You only fall for muses.”

Franco didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to look at the set again, at the actress still waiting for his direction, at the lace curtain trying its best to wilt.

“Tell wardrobe,” he said suddenly. “No bras.”

“For the actress?” “For the film,” Franco corrected, tone solemn. “We must feel the weight of reality. A brassiere is a cage. A man would never wear one. Why should she?”

Luca nodded like he was hearing gospel. Then whispered:

“God, I missed you.”

Which sounded and felt more like “I missed you, God”

And just like that, the revival began.

The legend of Franco Elica—half myth, half erotic fever dream—was in motion again.

Deep down he knew: all he needed now was the right woman to undo him.

Franco paused mid-stride.

A sound—soft, bright, female laughter—spilled from a corridor near the lighting bay.

Not the performative giggles of actresses, not the sharp smirks of producers’ wives. This laugh was different. Unstudied. Slightly hoarse from too much coffee, too little sleep.

Untrained. Real.

He turned, slowly. Like a dog catching the scent of something that didn’t belong.

Then, a flash—not even a full glimpse.

Just a blur of movement.

A tangle of frizzy, dark curls, bouncing behind a shoulder.

A voice trailing behind her, melodic, fast, rising into a question. Was that—?

“¡Perdón! Siempre dejo manchas de café a donde voy, es mi distintivo…”

Spanish.

Not the Castilian crispness of Madrid.

Not the Latin heat of Buenos Aires.

No.

Something…different?

Franco’s feet were moving before his brain caught up.

He rounded the corner, heartbeat sharpening into the tick of a metronome.

She was gone.

All that remained was a paper coffee cup. Left sitting precariously on a prop crate.

Plain white.

Lipstick mark—faintly berry-stained.

Coffee ring seeping through the bottom like a worn-out echo.

A note scrawled in looping black pen, just above the cup sleeve:

No caramel. This is cinema, not Disneyland.

He stared at it for a long moment, then picked up the cup like it might still be warm.

Fade to black.

The espresso machine groaned like a dying animal.

Faded Godard posters clung to the cracked walls. A dusty bookshelf leaned toward collapse under the weight of unread screenwriting manuals and someone’s half-finished manifesto. This was the kind of place that thought it invented cinema.

Clio Clemence Gaitán Solano stirred her espresso slowly, as if imagining it was the eyeball of someone who deserved it.

Across from her, Matteo, in a leather jacket two decades too late, shoved a sugar cube into his mouth like a dare and grinned.

“I’m telling you, Clio, men date who they want, women date who they can. That’s how it’s always been.”

Clio blinked.

Then blinked again, slower, like she was buffering.

“Did you read that blog of yours, or did it just manifest in your testosterone cloud?”

“I'm being objective. Look at Elica, for example—brilliant, uncompromising, raw. And even he lost it the second he stopped dating actresses. His best work? All of it during his relationships. Then they leave, he spirals, he writes something even better. It’s like—alchemy.”

“Or a pattern of codependency mixed with unprocessed grief and a God complex.”

“Genius, Clio. That's how genius works.”

He picked at a croissant like it owed him money.

“He just needs one real woman. You know. One good muse to shake the rust off. After that? Boom. He’s back.”

Clio sipped her coffee in silence. Not because she agreed. But because she was weighing the moral price of bludgeoning him with a paperback copy of The Second Sex.

“So what’s your plan?” Matteo asked. “Still hoping to, what, produce? Big girl dreams.”

“I am going to produce.”

“Sure. With what money? With what last name? No offense—wait, I am going to offend you, but honestly, women always go for the bad boys and then pretend to be surprised when he turns into a cheater, idiot or abuser, or all of the above.”

Clio inhaled slowly.

“You ever get tired of being the punchline of your own theories?”

“I’m serious. Look at the women who make it. Behind every breakthrough? A man who let them in. One way or another.”

“You think we get in by osmosis? Or are you suggesting we crawl in?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Cleems. I’m just saying—you can’t not play the game and still expect to win. You wanna be the first girl on the call sheet? Be the last girl in the director’s bed.”

Clio smiled now. But it was the kind of smile that preceded global disasters.

“You want a bet?”

Matteo paused.

That was dangerous.

“A bet?”

“I’m going to get on a real set. A major production. I’m going to help make a real film. And I’m going to do it without touching a single man in the process. Not a flirt, not a fling. Not even a footsie under the craft service table.”

“You won’t make it past pre-production.”

“Watch me.”

She grabbed her coat.

Matteo raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not even in a production.”

“Aren’t I?”

“You’re bluffing.”

Clio smirked, pulling her curls into a french twist with a plastic knife and the practiced hand of a girl who’s always underestimated.

“We’ll see.”

“You swear you won’t touch a single guy?”

“Not even if he’s Franco Elica himself.”

“Elica? Please. That man invented sex in cinema.”

Clio gave a long, dramatic pause.

“Then let’s see how he does without it.”

She left.

The door shut behind her.

And across town—

Franco held the paper coffee cup in both hands like it was communion.

The lipstick. The faintest whiff of berry-scented chapstick. The inked scrawl on the side.

No caramel. This is cinema, not Disneyland.

He didn’t know who she was yet.

But he knew he wanted her.

Not to cast.

To write.

If not a new actress or face, at least…

A new muse.

#sergio castellitto #Il regista di matrimoni #Sergio Castellitto

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casimirt · 2 years ago

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Dear Readers,

These are my top 10 images from Good Omens scenes. Not necessarily my favourite scenes, just stills from the show in general. The lighting, poses, expressions- everything! Such glorious directing and camera work. Truly wonderful.

#good omens fandom #aziraphale x crowley #good omens #ineffable idiots #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands #crowley and aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable #idiots in love #renew good omens

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whimsywhomp · 2 years ago

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Daycare Attendants Need Training Too

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Mini Chapter - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

Hey everyone!!!! I know it's been forever but all my glorious motivation for writing self destructed haha. I'm trying to get it back, so that's how we got this chapter! I really want to finish this story and though I don't know how many more chapters will be left, I think we're a little over halfway through.

Anyways, thank you so much for sticking around!!! The fact that y'all like this story idea so much is a big part of the reason I want to finish the story! Please enjoy the chapter!

Here’s the AO3 link if you’d rather read it there!

Now faced with the training that had been making Sun miserable for the past few days, Moon couldn’t help but feel nervous. He didn’t let any of it show in his movements though. Instead, he chose to focus on the fact that Sun was getting a well deserved break from this misery. It was only fair after all and the justification helped ease him somewhat.

As a soon to be role model for children and friend to Sun, doing what was right was important.

“Even though we are a few days early, we’ve already put together your schedule,” Mrs. Beverly snapped. Behind her the other technicians were rapidly typing and swiping as they pulled up this new itinerary. “As you should know, your basic duties are quite similar to Sun’s. Recite some to me now.”

Even having watched her through Sun’s eyes, being given her direct attention was a little, he hated to admit, intimidating. “Keep the children safe. Cover the security desk at all times. Verify everyone who enters and exits the daycare-”

“That’s enough,” she interrupted. “Now what are your specific duties?”

Moon had had plenty of time to look over his special programming. Since Sun was their default setting, everything about him was general information that Moon needed to memorize. “I initiate naptime protocols when the lights dim. This includes preparing sleeping placements, storytime, and handing out Moondrops as needed. During closing, I connect to various cameras throughout the Pizza Plex as I conduct security checks until morning.” His voice lacked any emotion as he spoke to her. She wasn’t deserving of the cheeriness he’d reserved for the children.

Mrs. Beverly nodded in approval. Moon’s main job wasn’t going to be dealing with children very often, so Sun was their main priority. Whatever Moon was programmed to do with intruders after hours wasn’t her focus. Since both personalities in the Daycare Attendant had separate muscle memories, going over Moon’s reflexes would be their first step.

“This may seem familiar to you,” she started. The technicians had already taken their places. “We shall start with basic daycare management. Go stand in front of the bridge.”

Moon could guess what she wanted to do and dread immediately flowed through him. Was it worse to know there was no winning Mrs. Beverly’s games rather than hope you could? He couldn’t think of the answer before he arrived at his spot.

‘We can still switch, Moon.’

‘Everything will be fine. Let me handle this.’

Sun’s anxiety was so strong, Moon could feel trying to take over his own thoughts.

“Keeping this daycare clean and safe is only one of your tasks. I expect you to perform especially well.” Mrs. Beverly’s cold voice interrupted his worries.

‘And so it begins,’ Moon thought to himself.

“Start now.”

The red warning came and Moon was off. While Sun was quite the gymnast as he moved, Moon was more akin to a spider as he used the playground walls to propel him to places faster as he ran around. Yet, even with how quickly he was moving, he’d only managed to clean two messes before multiple red warnings were coming in. As soon as he saw the build up, he knew what to expect.

Still, his first shock stopped him in his tracks as he yelped. The already sore joints he was working with seemed to force themselves into their curled positions. Just like Sun’s first shock it was over as quickly as it started, though the state of their shared body made it harder for Moon to right himself as quickly. This is what Sun had been feeling for days and it was much worse than Moon had prepared himself for. The training wasn’t going to be as easy to get through as he’d hoped. From Sun’s experience, he knew that Mrs. Beverly didn’t like to be kept waiting though. Another shock so soon wouldn’t help his situation at all.

‘Moon! I’m so sorry! I - I’ll take over now!’ Came Sun’s frantic thoughts.

There wasn’t time or energy Moon could spare to respond. He stood again and ran for the next mess to clean. He was better prepared for the next shock that came. All he let out was a grunt as he faltered for a moment. He happened to catch the look on Mrs. Beverly’s face as she pressed that button. The corner of her lips were quirked in the slightest hint of a smirk.

At the first hint of some satisfaction from their pain, Moon’s anger flared hotter than it had before in his short time awake. The pain, though continuously stiffening his joints, was pushed aside in his sudden need to prove her wrong. She would feel so stupid if Moon managed to beat her game. Her superiority would be shaken if Moon managed the impossible feat.

He flexed his fingers and kept going.

Mrs. Beverly’s game was unchanged in its difficulty though and as Moon continued to get shocked, his speed and agility fell too far behind to even try keeping up. Frustration at his body not moving as fluidly as he wanted filled him with each stumble and flounder. Sun made this look so easy and, dare he admit it, graceful, even when he was struggling.

When her voice called “Stop” Moon collapsed on one knee. His trembling fingers found the fabric of his pants as the terrible ache moved through his body. Up and down his spine and arms was the steady thrum of the overexerted wires that let him experience pain.

“For all the eagerness you presented to be a part of this training, you’ve failed to meet my expectations. Even worse, what little was done could hardly be called presentable,” Mrs. Beverly said as she walked towards his knelt form.

Carl suddenly piped up. “Well, for having a first run of the body, I’d say he did pretty good.”

He received a raised eyebrow as his only response.

“Yes, well, there will be much more to do to get even further adjusted. This daycare will not be left to a sloppy attendant.”

Moon stood as she spoke, slowly straightening up to hopefully ease some of the ache. He could still feel the buzzing concern Sun was projecting but his counterpart had decided to stay quiet for now. Moon was thankful for it so he could focus. Using their physical body like this was a lot different than his cartoon one. He allowed himself to feel a bit of pride that he’d been able to move so fast without any kind of warm up.

“We’ll break for lunch and return to this . . . mess in an hour,” Mrs. Beverly announced.

No one hesitated to leave. The technicians were crowded in a flock as they wrote down their notes and discussed their findings. Carl spared Moon one last look over his shoulder before he joined the others outside the daycare.

An artificial sign escaped Moon as he slowly sank down to lay against the padded floor. He’d been expecting another impossible task but some rest was a much better surprise. His back was surprisingly against laying down but Moon ignored it in favor of stretching out and really getting a chance to feel how this body moved.

‘Moon? I can take over now! You can take a break!’ Sun called. He hated watching Moon be shocked. It should've been him taking this pain. Moon’s frustrations with their body weren’t totally familiar to Sun since he’d taken his wake up functions like a newborn took to crying. It was just natural. He wasn’t entirely sure why Moon was stumbling so much, but guilt settled in that maybe it was because of the shocks Sun had been receiving through the week.

“No, I’m alright Sun. I’m just . . . figuring out our body.” Moon could tell Sun was guilty but this was their role. Moon was determined to share this burden. “It moves differently from the one I made in our head,” he continued. “Maybe it's a blessing I switched with you today so I could get some extra practice in with using our physical one.”

‘I - I guess so.’ Sun still didn't sound totally happy but Moon did make a good point. Sun wanted to be the best Attendant they could be! ‘Well, other than the new body, how does it feel being out here for so long?’

“It’s interesting. Our synthetic nerves pick up a lot more sensation than I thought they would. I didn’t know what silk felt like but after touching our pants, I do. I like it,” Moon mused.

Sun excitedly jumped into this topic since it had been something he’d noticed too. Comparing what they could do to humans, they had many features to help them connect with kids. Even better, their mind cataloged it all so Sun could revisit it anytime he liked! Such as all the new colors he’d gotten to see. He couldn’t wait to draw with the children when the daycare opened.

When Ms. Beverly came back, Moon stiffly resumed the training from before. Both Attendants were surprised when Ms. Beverly cut the training short after only a couple hours and declared they were done for the day.

“I’m sure you know the consequences of failing your tasks. Besides, we don’t have your full training set up yet,” was her reasoning.

“Thank goodness,” Moon sighed after she left, “Security mode was eating up our charge.”

‘Does that mean you want to switch back now?’

“Unless you know how to turn the lights off.”

Sun was quiet for a moment. ‘Shouldn’t we have a switch for that in here somewhere?’

Moon straightened, putting a hand to his chin in thought. “Yeah, we should. Let’s go charge and we can look through our settings together. Maybe not moving for a while will give our circuits a chance to stop aching.”

Sun cheered as Moon, after a few tries, called the wire to go back to their room.

#five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddy's: security breach #fnaf security breach #fnaf sb #daycare attendant #fnaf sundrop #fnaf sunrise #fnaf sun #fnaf moondrop #fnaf moon #hurt/comfort #whump #electrocution #conditioning #angst #fanfiction #chapter 9

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