#there's something in his posture the way he speaks his facial expressions all of it. just wonderful to watch

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey! I'm not sure you still do those, but I saw you giving advice to people in your inbox before and I'm kinda in the need of some. Do you have any tips on describing gesticulation/hand movement? Thank you in advance!

Writing Notes: Hand Movements

Kinesics - refers to body movements and posture

Includes the following components: gestures, head movements and posture, eye contact, and facial expressions.

Comes from the root word kinesis, which means “movement,” and refers to the study of hand, arm, body, and face movements.

Gestures - arm and hand movements; include adaptors like clicking a pen or scratching your face, emblems like a thumbs-up to say “OK,” and illustrators like bouncing your hand along with the rhythm of your speaking.

There are 3 main types of gestures: adaptors, emblems, and illustrators (Andersen, 1999).

Adaptors - touching behaviors and movements that indicate internal states typically related to arousal or anxiety. Adaptors can be targeted toward the self, objects, or others. In regular social situations, adaptors result from uneasiness, anxiety, or a general sense that we are not in control of our surroundings. Many of us subconsciously click pens, shake our legs, or engage in other adaptors during classes, meetings, or while waiting as a way to do something with our excess energy. Public speaking students who watch video recordings of their speeches notice nonverbal adaptors that they didn’t know they used. In public speaking situations, people most commonly use self- or object-focused adaptors. Common self-touching behaviors like scratching, twirling hair, or fidgeting with fingers or hands are considered self-adaptors. Some self-adaptors manifest internally, as coughs or throat-clearing sounds. My personal weakness is object adaptors. Specifically, I subconsciously gravitate toward metallic objects like paper clips or staples holding my notes together and catch myself bending them or fidgeting with them while I’m speaking. Other people play with dry-erase markers, their note cards, the change in their pockets, or the lectern while speaking. Use of object adaptors can also signal boredom as people play with the straw in their drink or peel the label off a bottle of beer. Smartphones have become common object adaptors, as people can fiddle with their phones to help ease anxiety. Finally, as noted, other adaptors are more common in social situations than in public speaking situations given the speaker’s distance from audience members. Other adaptors involve adjusting or grooming others, similar to how primates like chimpanzees pick things off each other. It would definitely be strange for a speaker to approach an audience member and pick lint off his or her sweater, fix a crooked tie, tuck a tag in, or pat down a flyaway hair in the middle of a speech.

Emblems - are gestures that have a specific agreed-on meaning. These are still different from the signs used by hearing-impaired people or others who communicate using American Sign Language (ASL). Even though they have a generally agreed-on meaning, they are not part of a formal sign system like ASL that is explicitly taught to a group of people. A hitchhiker’s raised thumb, the “OK” sign with thumb and index finger connected in a circle with the other three fingers sticking up, and the raised middle finger are all examples of emblems that have an agreed-on meaning or meanings with a culture. Emblems can be still or in motion; for example, circling the index finger around at the side of your head says “He or she is crazy,” or rolling your hands over and over in front of you says “Move on.” Just as we can trace the history of a word, or its etymology, we can also trace some nonverbal signals, especially emblems, to their origins. Holding up the index and middle fingers in a “V” shape with the palm facing in is an insult gesture in Britain that basically means “up yours.” This gesture dates back centuries to the period in which the primary weapon of war was the bow and arrow. When archers were captured, their enemies would often cut off these two fingers, which was seen as the ultimate insult and worse than being executed since the archer could no longer shoot his bow and arrow. So holding up the two fingers was a provoking gesture used by archers to show their enemies that they still had their shooting fingers (Pease & Pease, 2004).

Illustrators - are the most common type of gesture and are used to illustrate the verbal message they accompany. For example, you might use hand gestures to indicate the size or shape of an object. Unlike emblems, illustrators do not typically have meaning on their own and are used more subconsciously than emblems. These largely involuntary and seemingly natural gestures flow from us as we speak but vary in terms of intensity and frequency based on context. Although we are never explicitly taught how to use illustrative gestures, we do it automatically. Think about how you still gesture when having an animated conversation on the phone even though the other person can’t see you.

Haptics - refers to touch behaviors that convey meaning during interactions. Touch operates at many levels, including functional-professional, social-polite, friendship-warmth, and love-intimacy.

We all make spontaneous hand movements, called gestures, when we talk. There are several different types of gestures that serve different purposes:

Co-Speech Gestures - Gestures that we produce spontaneously while talking.

Iconic Gestures - Hand movements that create pictures to describe objects or actions.

Beat Gestures - Repeated hand movements that follow the rhythm of speech.

Deictic Gestures - Gestures that direct the listener’s attention, such as pointing.

Examples of Gestures around the World

Argentina: “Be careful” - If you want to tell someone to be careful or watch out for their surroundings, just put your index finger below your eye and gently pull down.

Brazil: “It’s just gossip” - If you hear someone spreading stories that aren’t true, you can tap the underside of your jaw with the back of your hand. This signifies that what they’re saying is just gossip.

China: “Thank you” - Rest the palm of one hand on the fist of your other hand and give a slight bow.

France: “It’s easy” - You’re talking to someone from France, complaining about a difficult task. If they disagree with you, they might hold up two fingers toward their nostrils, meaning “It’s as easy as this!”

Germany: “Good luck” - If you’d like to wish someone luck in Germany, don’t cross your fingers. Instead, you need to press your thumbs (enclose them in your fists).

India: “Warm regards” - In India, you might see someone pressing their palms together as they greet you. It’s a sign of acceptance, warm regards and respect.

Korea: “I love/appreciate you” - A popular hand gesture in Korea to express love or appreciation is the finger heart, made by putting your thumb and index finger together in a kind of “x” that looks like a heart.

Mexico: “A lot” - To convey that there’s a lot of something, join all five fingers together and then shake your hand. You can use one hand or both hands for this one.

Poland: “That will never happen” - If someone tells you something you don’t believe, try pointing to your palm with your index finger. This means “A cactus would sooner grow on my hand”—in other words, “That will never happen.”

Spain: “Do you get it?” - If a Spanish person wants to check that you understand something they said (a joke, for instance), they might hold out their finger and thumb, as though they’re holding a very small item, and make a gentle twisting motion.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hope this helps with your writing! (Yup, still do these. Usually in one sitting whenever I find free time, then they all get queued.)

[kittenintheden]

As someone who loves your writing, do you have advice for writing ff - especially when it comes to how to do Astarion’s character justice? I’ve tried several times to flesh out the ideas that have been swirling around in my mind ever since starting the game a year ago, but I always get overwhelmed and discouraged. I wish I were as talented as so many other writers in the fandom (like you!), but I feel just so stupid for struggling with it that I don’t even dare to write just for self-indulgence.

first of all I would like you to come here so I can give you a virtual hug. bring it in. ilu. you're doing amazing. nothing about this is stupid <3

creativity is not easy! it's frequently treated as something that people either have or don't, but that is not true. like any other skill, it requires commitment, practice, a willingness to study, and all that jazz. so the good news is: you can do this! the less-fun news is: it will take time and require some work.

it is absolutely normal for people who are just starting out with writing to feel discouraged or like they're not good enough. I STILL FEEL THAT WAY, and to be totally transparent, I'm a professional writer with publishing history and have won awards. like, objectively I am not bad at this. and yet, the doubts, they persist.

so here's my practical advice: start small. try a one-shot. if you have a particular scene that's really calling to you, focus on that. it's a lot easier to create a short work and then try to shape it into what you want then diving headfirst into longfic if you've never done longform writing before.

more practical advice: if you read something that really resonates with you, reread it and try to pinpoint what the author is doing that makes you feel that way. is it dialogue? action? setting? language? that's resonating with you for a reason. your brain is responding to it. explore that and try to figure out ways to incorporate it into your own writing. again, this is a practiced skill and it will take some time to get right!

and also: be self-indulgent! THAT IS OKAY! literally every fanfic I write is self-indulgent. I want to take these characters and put them in situations that I personally find funny or sexy or moving. and sometimes other people do to, because ultimately we are more alike than we are different. there is NOTHING wrong with making self-indulgent art. fuck, friend, I improved my drawing skills this year purely because I wanted to be able to draw my blorbos kissing.

I'll close out with some advice on doing characters justice, since you specifically asked. characterization is a skill like anything else. you're figuring out how to convey a person's unique outlook and personality without resorting to a laundry list of description.

those things can be portrayed in many ways. how they keep up their appearance. the language and phrasing they use while speaking. how their actions are informed by their history. whether they were raised poor or wealthy. how comfortable they are with intimacy. all the things they're not saying out loud but showing in other ways.

with Astarion, it came down to character study (which I'm skilled at after years of practice). who he is as a person, how his trauma informs his actions and dialogue, his theatricality as a defense mechanism, how forced vampirism and being severed from his bodily autonomy have affected how he views the world, the effects of longterm starvation on a person, who he was BEFORE all that, and who he becomes after he meets Tav/Durge.

I spent a LOT of time just putting on headphones and listening to Astarion dialogue compilations because Stephen Rooney and Neil Newbon put so much thought into how Astarion is written and acted, and those things convey so much about his character. you have to train yourself to pick up on those things, but once you can clock them, it's SO informative.

for example: when Astarion is being duplicitous, his posture, facial expressions, and even the register of his voice change. it's notably different from the way he acts spontaneously, which (in the beginning) is more fearful, reactionary, self-preserving, and, honestly, bratty.

when I say that I knew 1) he was a vampire and 2) he was using seduction as a ruse during my first playthrough, I'm not flexing that I'm smarter than people who didn't. the reason I recognized those things is because I have learned over time how to pick up on characterization clues that other writers are dropping.

a good start is watching clips from throughout the game and making notes about how he acts at the beginning vs at the end, regardless of the outcome you choose. it's everything from the things he says, the WAY he says them, the movement of his body, his expressions, to his actions over time. that applies to any character.

okay I have rambled on WAY longer than I meant to but I honestly hope this was helpful <3

you can always drop me more specific questions at any time and I'll do my best to answer!

[noxexistant]

ai-less whumptober; day twenty-seven

@ailesswhumptober 27 — kidnapping, alternate universe, “Well, there’s a first for everything.” ↳ modelling au word count; 1.3k

cw; abuse, disordered eating, grooming

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Oscar fucking hates runway days.

He doesn't know where they are, for one thing, other than in the belly of some arts centre or events hall or something, somewhere in New York judging solely by the vague familiarity of the walls and the length of the drive. Snyder had let himself into their apartment with his key and woken him and Morris up at the crack of dawn, bundled them into the sleek black car parked out front without really saying much about where they were going — and the worst part is that Oscar really hadn't thought much of it. He's used to it, a casual kidnapping whenever the company needs them, because Snyder doesn't much like keeping them too in-the-know about their schedule.

Oscar'd only asked questions when the assistant had passed him and Morris a watery smoothie each, their breakfast, and the air had sort of settled.

"You're walking," Snyder had said shortly, eyes on his phone. "Four times, today. Morris, five."

And that's that. Oscar had sat back in his seat, watching Manhattan fly by out of the window, the real rich side of it he used to never think he'd see.

It reminds him all too much of that first drive, the way it always does. The car, just as dark and sleek, that'd pulled up outside their shitty foster home the day after Oscar turned eighteen. The same men sat inside that'd come to speak to them months ago, brushed fingers over Oscar's jawline and cheekbones and brows, examined his teeth and posture and limbs, and told him he was perfect. Scouted, they said. And recruited, then. He'd signed paperwork, just as his foster mother had — she'd never liked them — and then they were being bundled into the car with their single rucksack of belongings each. Driven until the streets changed around them, concrete giving way to glass and bright lights.

They haven't been back to their old neighbourhood since. They've been kept busy, a whirlwind of runway shows and photoshoots, social media promotions, magazines — finery and luxury and a life so far beyond anything Oscar ever could've imagined in his youth.

But, of course, everything comes at a price.

The backstage is crowded and fucking loud, even in his dressing room, and Oscar is being dragged around and manhandled relentlessly. No more than usual, sure, but he likes it no more than usual. It's cold and he's only in a stupid little silk dressing robe and his underwear, the clothes are all on rails upstairs ready for him to be yanked in and out of before each loop of the runway, and some stupid girl is relentlessly fucking with his face. She's got a thousand little makeup brushes everywhere, a thousand little pots and pans of powders and creams and gels.

She's got a sharp little brush stabbing Oscar relentlessly in the fucking eye.

"I hate makeup," he says, when he sees Snyder approaching through the reflection in the mirror. Snyder rolls his eyes.

"It's necessary."

"Ain't the point that I'm pretty enough without?"

Snyder smiles then, the utterly derisive expression he makes when he's unimpressed with a joke.

"The point is that the director wants a specific look. You can be a big boy and toughen up to have some eyeliner put on."

"Yeah. Fuckin' feel real tough."

Oscar remembers a time he would've beat the shit of any guy in makeup, especially some toned metrosexual looking asshole in eyeliner and gunmetal glitter. But it's him staring back in the mirror — some version of him, at least. Still an unfamiliar reflection without the brutal marks of beatings and the sunkenness of malnutrition, but this is the new him. Meticulously trimmed hair, shaped eyebrows, the barest hint of stubble on his cheeks. Perfect skin ��� he has a skincare routine and gets facials every two weeks. A perfect body — he goes to the gym every day for at least an hour, has a personal trainer and a deathly strict diet plan and runs at least twenty miles a week.

His cheekbone is still very slightly greenish, the last remnants of a mark from when Snyder whacked him across the face near two weeks ago, but the makeup artist soon covers that, colour correcting it and then carefully dabbing concealer where Snyder's knuckles had hit.

"Where's Mo," Oscar asks.

He doesn't like that Snyder is loitering with him, though he always hates Snyder loitering with Morris. The alternative, however, is Morris being alone with strangers, and—

"He's fine," Snyder says shortly. "He'll be walking in—" he checks his watch, "—a few minutes."

"Can I go up with him?"

"No."

"I don't like him bein' on his own."

"He's surrounded by a full team of staff."

"But he's on his own."

Snyder pinches the bridge of his nose, a strand of his perfectly combed hair falling over his brow.

"I don't know why I dared to think you'd be any less of a goddamned chore today."

"Dunno why you would."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

Snyder steps closer and snatches a comb from the dressing table in front of Oscar, using it to comb his hair back into place. The makeup artist brushes Oscar's chin and then sprays a burst of—something. Oscar coughs.

"Fuck's sake!"

The girl flinches back. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I should've warned you—"

Oscar fantasises about hitting her. Shoving her away and hollering to stop fucking touching him. But a hand grabs his hair instead, twists in a brutal fistful of it, and he feels the edges of his eyes brim.

"Oscar," Snyder says lowly. "Don't be a fucking brat."

"I'm sorry," Oscar chokes.

Just as quickly as the hand had twisted in his hair, it disappears. Snyder steps calmly away, and the makeup artist wordlessly takes his place, picking up a cotton swab to start dabbing at Oscar's eyes, cleaning up where they'd watered.

He breathes carefully, and zones out. Lets that peaceful oblivion take him until his makeup his done, hair fixed, and he's being ushered upstairs by an entourage and dressed in his first outfit of the day. It's no departure from what he's usually dressed in, hard lines and angles to emphasise the cuts of his broad shoulders and strong arms, the hard line of his jaw. The parts of his physique he tears himself apart for, eating nothing but salmon and chicken and rice in the few solid meals he's allowed.

Speaking of starving himself, here Morris comes. He comes off the runway looking waifish and tired, but that's the look they love for him. He's got grey eyeshadow and pale glitter around his eyes to make them look bigger, draped in flowing clothes that make him look smaller. A top cut loose at the neck to bare the brutal juts of his collarbones and shoulders, a skirted number cut low enough to bare a strip of his flat navel, the lines of lean muscle.

Snyder's waiting for him in the shadows of backstage, and smiles warmly at him as he approaches, eyes seeming to glint. Morris smiles back, face lighting up, haloed by the stage lights behind him. He rushes straight for Snyder, stands close, and as they talk, Snyder spreads a palm on Morris' narrow waist.

Oscar's gut burns, but he's ushered helplessly past to the other side of the stage, shoved into the waiting line of models.

The music is loud, bass vibrating through the floor beneath the soles of leather shoes that aren't his. He can see the audience outside if he leans, rows of folding chairs filled with famous faces in designer clothes.

It's a dream life, he tells himself. Thinks of the farm he and his brother were born on, and the penthouse apartment they live in now. Thinks of the differences between starving for lack of food and starving for beauty.

Thinks of men in tailored suits and their hands on his brother's skin.

A hand brushes his own skin, prompting, and he steps out onto the runway.

[synesindri]

lucifer gender symbolism essay part 8: jarpad and mark p's acting styles

masterpost

this is largely subjective, but there are some aspects of how different actors portray lucifer on spn that can read as androgynous or feminine. to me, it stands out the most in jared’s depiction of lucifer, because it’s such a clear contrast to how he plays sam: sam!lucifer keeps his eyebrows raised, uses a softer/smoother vocal tone, and walks/stands differently (whether this last is just because of a difference in confidence standing up straight while moving slowly and kind of model-preening, or because it actually reads as more feminine, is kind of a toss up imo). 

lucifer:

sam in the same scene:

obviously they have different feelings here so they are expressing different emotions, but there are ways to convey smugness and condescending concern etc that do not involve this eye-widening, eyebrow-lifting, mouth-softening facial posture...these were choices that were made to make the characterization stand out in contrast to sam's characterization. sam generally does keep his eyebrows down etc, even when he's happy or insincere or bitchy; he rarely if ever uses his face the way lucifer does in this scene. lucifer's expressions remind me more of bela or meg than of sam.

mark p’s depiction (again, i can only really speak to season 5) stands out somewhat in contrast to other characters as well, for many of the same reasons. to me, nick!lucifer comes across as being acted more androgynously than femininely (again, just my own subjective take), but androgyny is very notable on spn, when so many other male actors portray their characters as very, well, to steal sam’s line about dean, butch. nick!lucifer’s voice is soft and it isn’t pitched down; he walks and stands with a fluidity and grace that is in contrast to many of the gruffer characters; he uses some phrases/gestures that would look odd on dean or bobby or castiel or whoever else. i’m thinking the finger over the lips in swan song, the “‘t’s okay, i’m not mad” line, the wrist posture in multiple scenes, etc. these are clearly all deliberate affectations on the part of the character; they’re all human mannerisms; they just are deliberate affectations that give the impression that gender was not an attitude lucifer was especially interested in conveying. gabriel moves very differently from how nick!lucifer does, but there is a parallel there, i think, because gabriel also plays with posture/gesture/vocal tone/expression/turns of phrase in ways that don’t always fit with how spn does “””Correct””” masculinity. 

anyway, like i said, this is pretty subjective. but it is something people have been picking up on in the fandom for at least ten years. here’s a historical post (not mine but linked on my blog from long after it was originally posted because there have been Deactivations…) as an example of the supernatural fandom historical precedent.

part 7: daughters vs sons part 9: sexual connotations of "vessels," stabbing, and holes masterpost

[myjunkisyuzuruhanyu]

Alright, I'm curious...

Are there ways in which you think Shoma is a better skater than Yuzu?

Uff...my initial thought was if you wanna get me burned alive by the rabid Fa*yus 😅 but well here I go, but please anyone keep in mind that this is a total subjective answer.

I really had to think longer about it, bc I think this is a really hard question not only because of the reactions it might cause, but mostly because Shoma and Yuzu have very different skating styles and approaches to their ideal skating.

I also stumbled upon the word "better" because I don't think of one as better or worse but more like different. But I still try to look for what I like and think Shoma does the better than Yuzu.

I think Shoma's arm movement is "better" than Yuzu's in terms of sharpness and precision whether the music is soft or fast (for example look at "Come Together" and the way Shoma uses his arms there to express the music) Shoma's arm movements express the music right until his fingertips. In comparison I think Yuzu's arm movements are more loose/freely/flailing.

I think Shoma's upper body movements that has been praised by multiple commentators are something totally else. I think while Yuzu is all in for high kicks and being flexible like his ina bauer, Shoma's upper body movement is more fast paced than Yuzu's and he can use his upper body almost detached from his legs. So I'd say Shoma is king in upper body movement. But I think it's also hardly fair to compare Yuzu and Shoma in this regard because their approach is different. Yuzu's focus laid more on the complexity of combining difficult steps and showing off flexibility so more on his legs and Shoma's focus is more on posture and arm movement. Just adding many ppl forget that upper body movement is as much part of the difficulty for transitions as the difficulty done by the feet.

This probably is a controversial opinion and completely subjective but I think Shoma in general emotes better to an audience than Yuzu. (Not at all saying Yuzu is in any way bad at this, just I personally think Shoma is this tiny bit better at it) And it's not about facial expression. Some skaters have tons of facial expression yet live without a closeup no feeling gets to the audience (I don't mean Yuzu with this btw just in case this wasn't clear) Shoma is a small figure yet he draws the attention towards him. You can't take your eyes off. An audience falls completely into silence by his skating and how he can draw ppl into his performance is extraordinary. Like many ppl said Shoma may be small but he skates big. His presence on the ice is huge. Yuzu has also a huge presence on the ice for sure and he commands the ice like no one else but I think the emoting to an audience differs with what program Yuzu is performing like Let's Go Crazy or Let me entertain you, he's playing with the audience but other programs are more subtle and not as directed at an audience in particular. It's not less fascinating, but for me it feels more like I'm an observer, while Shoma's gaze is always directed at the audience no matter the essence of a program - silent, wild or fun. So I feel more like a companion. I have seen both live couple of times now and I think my feeling during their skating has been very different bc of this. Not really better or worse for Shoma or Yuzu, but different and I think emoting to an audience played a part. Maybe it's also because of their different status as skaters - Yuzu as this huge "superstar" bigger than the sport and Shoma just the "skating star" - that Yuzu feels more distant and Shoma more like a "friend".

And just adding for fun: Shoma does have a better 2A than Yuzu. I am not sure I ever saw Yuzu do a 2A in 10 years...it's either a 3A or a single Axel. 🤔 Shoma's 2A is really light like a feather and especially his 3A 2A sequence makes it look so aery.

I think these were all aspects I would name where I think Shoma is a "better" skater if you even want to speak of better.

I was debating with myself whether I want to share it publicily or just in private but thought why not share? Tbh on Twt I would rather not have answered but Tumblr feels like a safer place...

[dragonmasterhiccup]

She felt soothed by the sound of his laughter, the worry that had been clouding her thoughts beginning to diminish as she curled up next to him. "Y'know, you're just making this worse for yourself… Well, better for me, actually.." Humming, Freya pretended to be in deep consideration. "So far you've got the nicknames of Dragon Master, I remember dragon dork… Dork, and O Great Defrosting One!" Snorting quietly to herself, she finished: "Tell me, what's life like for you, O Great Defrosting One..?"

Sighing in contentment, she decided to add a playful remark, "Yeah… Hey, maybe you should get colder more often. It'll give me an excuse to hug you longer." She suppressed her muffled snickers, hiding her face in the blankets and onto his shoulder.

Nodding lightly, her lips pulled into a loving smile, leaning her head on his chest as she replied. "Thank you…that means a lot to me…I wanna get better at…speaking up and not..keeping things inside, especially with you."

"And you're incredible. I'm extra lucky to have you." She glanced towards the Night Fury as he 'voiced' his complaint, narrowing her eyes in his direction. "Toothless! Are you trying to steal all of the attention?"

"Yes. But Hiccup, there's a difference between that and almost dying because of the cold." Freya said dryly, nearly daring him to retort back.

Seeing him pout in such a way made her falter in the slightest on the inside. Not that she would let him perform any tasks, no, but because it was so cute. She hardly ever watched him make an expression like it, and she was internally resisting the urge to kiss his cheeks.

'Don't stare at me like that..!' Her face probably became a bit red, but she couldn't exactly fight against it. Thor, he even made it difficult to scold him!

"You always can."

"Mhm!" Ayla tilted her head in pure confusion, Hiccup's comment of 'feeling useless' making no sense to her whatsoever. "What do you mean?… You're the Chief, Hiccup! Of course you're not…useless! And you're my brother, Fey's boyfriend, and you're our leader!" The young girl was genuinely puzzled as to why he said that.

Huffing dramatically, she nodded reassuringly. "Oh, Freya is definitely okay. She got all--" Her facial expression morphed into an 'angry' one, brows furrowing as she pointed, "You better listen here! And then after that, she started telling people what to do, helping them and things like that…I'm pretty sure Snotlout even lent a hand…Oh, and she stabbed a table with her dagger.."

Ayla shrugged. "She had to do it to make them stop yelling. Anyways, I'm fine. I'm happy you're doing better now, too!" She hugged her Sand Wraith toy closer, scooting towards Hiccup as she giggled. "You look like you're under a cave of fur!"

She gasped, a sudden idea coming to mind while she repeatedly poked his shoulder. "Hey, hey, hey! I just thought of something! What if we build snow dragons outside when the storm is gone?"

Blaze sneezed for the second time, accidentally chewing the prosthetic a little too hard. He glanced towards the younger Leif as she chuckled, an offended spark in his eyes. "Ew, why does Blaze have…your leg..?" The Sand Wraith in question grumbled, slowly leaning his head down and abruptly nibbling it again.

"Fey put the Chief in time out?!" She erupted into a storm of laughter, clutching her stomach as tears of joy threatened to spill over.

While Ayla's fit of giggles continued, Freya started to trek towards their spot, finally accomplishing her work. Hearing her younger sister, she squinted and peered through the remaining Vikings in her way. Her heart swelled in love at the sight of her being so..carefree around Hiccup.

About to walk up to them, she yelped as a kid suddenly darted right past her, the young boy nearly tripping on his feet. "Woah, woah, woah! Hey, are you alright?" She asked, skimming him over to make sure he wasn't hurt. The boy gratefully used her arms to support himself, straightening his posture as he stood.

Once he was able to get a better look at her, he merely gaped, causing Freya to feel nervous. "Uhm…you okay..?" They both blinked, unresponsive. "…"

After an eternity, he slowly nodded, dragging his feet away, all the while still staring at her, before he hurriedly ran off once more.

She snapped out of her daze when Ayla called for her, "Fey! Are you okay? Can't handle being around a kid that isn't me?"

Freya immediately looked at her, unamused. "Haha. So funny." She muttered, sighing as she sat down beside the Chief. "Did I miss anything?"

"Am I? What, I, I can't have a sense of humor about all this?" Holding back a laugh, he pursed his lips as if in deep thought. "Chilly." His eyes focusing on hers, he gave a lopsided grin, "...but, it's warming up."

Wrapping his arms around her, he questioned, "Since when did you need an excuse? I mean, I guess you might've before...before we got together, I mean--but, now? You don't need an excuse, just go for it. I'm sure you'll extend the same courtesy to one such as myself..."

Taking a breath, he said quietly, "That's something we'll have to work on together, then. Because I have the same issue, though I think you already knew that..."

Toothless grumbled a little more, waggling his head. "Toothless! You don't need to be jealous," Hiccup told the dragon, "You know I love you and Freya, just in different ways, is all..."

The Night Fury shot Hiccup a look of betrayal.

"Wh--Toothless! You're, you're my best friend! Of course I love you, but Freya is my girlfriend...the love I have for her is more of a romantic love than a friendship love..."

The dragon huffed, ruffling Hiccup's hair.

"You're my best bud, Toothless. That's a category all in of itself!'

Thinking for a moment, Toothless decided it was a suitable answer, giving a grunt before laying his head back down. Grinning, Hiccup gave Freya an apologetic look, settling back in with her against Toothless' side.

Getting quiet for a moment, he averted his gaze, "Y-yeah, I uh, I guess you do have a bit of a point there..." Looking into her eyes to show how serious he was, he added, "but the moment I don't need these blankets, we'll distribute them, deal?"

Tilting his head, he didn't understand what she meant, "Like what?"

---

Gesturing down at himself, he explained, "I'm...I'm out of commission at the moment. I can't do what Chiefs or brothers or boyfriends are supposed to do right now. Instead, I'm stuck under blankets until I've fully recovered. Granted, these blankets are soft and comfortable, but I have a responsibility to look after you, and Freya...the whole tribe. And, right now? I can't..."

Sighing, he said, "Thankfully it's only temporary. I'll be back on my feet soon enough, at least I hope I will..."

He chuckled lightly at Ayla's impression of her sister, finding it to be quite accurate. At the mention of her stabbing a table, his eyes widened briefly in surprise.

"I must've slept through all of that, I didn't hear a thing...well, thanks for the update!" Nodding, he agreed, "I'm glad to be doing better, too. I've finally stopped shivering...for the most part."

Glancing down at the blankets surrounding him, he let out a light laugh, "Hey, you're right! I guess I do! You're not cold, are you? I'm more than happy to give you one or two of these blankets if you are..."

Smiling, he nodded, "That's a great idea! And a good way to help the tribe, they probably feel a bit cooped up in here... and if they aren't, they probably will by morning."

Leaning in as if sharing a secret, he asked, "Do you think Freya would build one with us?"

If she even lets me back outside, he thought to himself, though after today, I have no desire to go back out there...but, I'd do it for Ayla, if it made her happy...

His face fell, a little embarrassed, "Oh, uh...Freya took it away, so I wouldn't try anything before I recovered fully."

Spotting his girlfriend approaching, his expression softened, becoming affectionate as he gazed at her.

He did witness the strange interaction she had with the boy, though he couldn't place exactly who he was for some reason.

Wrapping his arm and a blanket around Freya, he answered, "Not too much. Ayla and I were just talking about building some snowdragons after the storm...and you? Is the tribe doing alright, everyone has everything they need?"

Lowering his voice, he asked, "What happened with that boy just now?"

[dysthanasia-series]

Thin Edge of a Wedge Pt. 1

Summary: Isaac approaches Renato with a surprising request. (Possible future scene taking place shortly after Phagophobia, based loosely on this prompt.)

Words: 2,075

Content Advisory: Sexual themes and situations, consensual vampire hypnosis, angry sexual tension, enemies-to-forced-allies-to-lovers, swearing, kissing, biting, consensual blood-drinking, violent vampire feeding thoughts, enthusiastic consent, fade-to-black ending

Renato turned his head and leaned in a fraction as if his hearing had failed him. “I’m sorry. I thought you said—”

“Hypnotize me. Dorian says it’s possible to learn how to break out of bloodborn trances with practice. So, help me train.” Despite the direct words and his matter-of-fact tone, Soto kept his gaze—usually so bold, so sharp—trained on a far corner of the motel room. An arm crossed over his middle, gripping the opposite as he sat on one of the two shabby beds.

While his body already knew which way to cast its vote, Renato’s finer faculties hesitated. “What prompted this?”

“Hm, gosh, let me think. Oh, right. We’re surrounded by Unseen Hand agents who’d love to stab us in the back.”

“Are you implying you could get lost in another bloodborn’s eyes? Agent Soto, you wound me.”

“Can you give being an asshole a rest for, like, half a second? I’m serious.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, truth be told. Quite pragmatic really. Possibly even laudable, given all Soto had recently suffered—no small amount of which sat at the top of Renato’s ever-growing list of mistakes.

That’s precisely what made it so suspicious.

Renato took a seat on the bed across from Soto’s, the rickety frame squeaking as he crossed his legs and leaned back on both hands. “You didn’t have a problem snapping out of my hypnosis the first time. And you seem to have at least some level of immunity to Kinslayer’s version now.”

“That’s not the same as being able to resist questioning in a casual situation I’m not expecting, or with weird soul magic involved. Like you keep pointing out, if Oleander or Motley or any of the Unseen Hand gets wind of what we’re actually up to we’re dead.”

Again, a bit of strategic paranoia worthy of an aquila. Something was definitely off.

“Fine, suppose I agree,” Renato said. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

“I dunno. Ask me stuff I wouldn’t want to answer and I’ll try to resist.”

The sensible thing to do on his end was to walk away, of course. Ignore Soto and whatever strange impulse was driving him for the rest of the evening. Heaven knew there were a hundred and one tasks actually related to their survival that needed his attention.

Only none of those sent a thrill up his spine.

“Okay, let’s do it.” Renato leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, smiling. He had enjoyed the odd sleepover party—sharing secrets, truth or dare, all that—as a child when they’d been possible. A shame Ollie wasn’t staying in the same motel. He wouldn’t have minded asking for a couple of her facial masks.

With just a trace of trepidation, Soto mirrored his posture. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Released it. Met Renato’s amused gaze with grave determination. “Ready.”

“What’s your name?”

A divot of annoyance appeared on Soto’s brow. “You know it already.”

“Remind me.”

“Isaac Soto Marquez,” he huffed.

“Your birthday?”

“July seventeenth. Which you also know.”

Well, he’d glanced at it in the Coven’s personal file on Soto, although that had been weeks ago. Considering Renato didn’t remember the exact date of his own birth (which might have already passed since he did know it occurred during storm season), he’d have to make a note to write Soto’s down. Get his favorite grumpy researcher a little treat. Speaking of which…

“What sort of cake do you like?”

There. Surprise smoothed out Soto’s expression. Without disapproval or anxiety etched around his mouth or eyes, it was easy to remember he was barely coming up on age thirty. “Cake? Er, tres leches. With fruit on top, not cinnamon.”

“What kind of fruit is your favorite?”

Shoulders relaxed. Pupils dilated slightly. “Well, uh, I like summer ones the most. You know, mangoes, cherries, peaches.” A pause. “That last one’s my favorite, though. I love peaches. Even from a can.”

“Really? I used to love oranges, though of course I can only enjoy them for their smell now. Some of my best memories are of stopping at ports with orchards so I could pick some.” Renato smiled, earning a shy one in return. “Have you ever eaten fruit straight from the tree or vine, Agent Soto?”

“I…yeah. Yeah, a lot of the werecreature communities I’ve visited have gardens. And I did the whole picking strawberries thing during the spring once with Jeremy.” A soft, faraway sheen shone over dark brown eyes.

Renato ran his tongue along the back of one fang. He had Soto now. While their little game hadn’t been Renato’s idea initially, he wasn’t sorry he’d played, whatever the true stakes. “Who’s Jeremy?”

Creaking as weight shifted the other bed. “My ex.”

Careful. The trick was not to let the prey become too distressed. To give him a little guiding nudge here and there along the path, but to always keep him going with the flow of conversation, not against. Not until the trap had sprung and it was too late. “I see. How many relationships have you had, Agent Soto?”

“Just two. Long term ones.”

“Oh, that’s hardly anything to be embarrassed over.” He had one more than Renato under his belt, after all. And, well, he doubted Soto could have done any worse than Ollie and him had. “Even if you’d had hundreds that didn’t last past sunrise it still wouldn’t be.”

“I know. I guess…sometimes I wish I’d been more aggressive or outgoing or whatever. Elfy always gets pissed when we go out and I turn someone down.”

“Elfy? Your friend from the spirits department?”

“Yeah. She’s always telling me to loosen up and stop thinking with the head on my shoulders so much.” A hand flew up to cover a giggle.

As far as life’s little delights went, Renato ranked witnessing the angriest, most stubborn human he’d ever met giggle just below watching his aquarium. “But that’s not really your style?”

“Nope.” A twitch of the fingers, flicker in the eyes. “Well, okay, once in a while—when I’m really drunk—it is.”

This entire situation came into sudden, cold focus. Decades of training kept Renato’s expression, his mask, from slipping, though. “Would you say you’re bashful when it comes to flirting?” He had certainly read Soto that way during their fateful first meeting at that diner. Though he’d swiftly shed whatever reservations he’d had once they crawled into the backseat of the car.

“Mm. Not really. Not after I get what’s going on.”

“No? High standards maybe?”

“Don’t think so. I don’t have a…a type or whatever.”

“Perhaps you have a hard time surrendering control then?”

Another fidgeting ripple disturbed Soto’s reverie. “I…something like that.”

“Is that why you asked me to hypnotize you, Agent Soto? To surrender control?”

With a jerk, his flustered prey wrenched his gaze away, half-collapsing onto the mattress. Soto panted, his skin gleaming from a light coating of sweat, like he’d just finished running a lap. The tart, candy-apple scent of fear wafted over to Renato, prompting a flood of saliva. Swallowing, he let his lips twist into a smirk.

“That’s a failing grade, as far as I’m concerned.”

“What…?”

“Your tactics could use some work,” Renato continued, uncrossing his legs and rising in one smooth, dignified motion. “Also, I don’t appreciate being subjected to hidden tests. I may not have made the best choices in life, but I’m not so despicable as to ravish someone under the influence either.”

Blinking owlishly but stare quite clear, Soto whipped around to gawp at him. “What do you—”

“Good night, Agent Soto.” He could understand, at last, why Ollie and his reluctant human roommate relished their perches atop a high horse. The rush of victory was amazing as he spun on his heel and strode toward the room’s door.

The sound of grating bedsprings warned him before a hand latched onto the back of his shirt. With a deft turn and shrug, Renato broke the laughable hold on him.

“What the hell—” Soto began.

“I understand the need to hold a grudge.”

“—do you mean—”

“What I don’t get is digging for more reasons to fuel it.”

“—by ravish?”

They stared each other down. Any possibility of hypnosis taking hold tore apart in the clashing currents of hot and cold fury radiating between them.

“I wasn’t testing you,” Soto said, breaking first.

“Oh, really? Please do explain. I’m all ears, as they say.”

“I told you, I want to learn—”

“You’re terrible at lying, Agent Soto. Even to yourself.”

He bristled, the all too familiar defiance setting his jaw and sparking in his eyes. “I’m not—”

Renato whirled and reached for the doorknob.

Weak human fingers scrabbled at him once more. “I don’t know how else to talk to you, all right? And I didn’t think you’d pry into my love life, for fuck’s sake!”

The truth at last. Instead of melting, the rage inside of him expanded, sinking fresh, keen icicles deeper into his chest.

Of course Soto couldn’t simply talk to him. Renato was a bloodborn. Worse, he was an aquila. He wasn’t capable of human mistakes. Or emotions like remorse. At best, he could pretend he was. Wear a charming disguise. Beguile. Lure. Distract. But never offer anything permanent. Never anything real.

“Say something already!” The grip on his shirt tugged. “Don’t give me this silent treatment bullshit.”

Whatever mask had settled over his features made Soto let go and take a step back when he turned.

“Do you want me to make you lose control, Isaac?”

Soto stiffened. It didn’t hide the tremor in his limbs. “You conceited prick.”

“Isaac.” He’d forgotten how good the name felt in his mouth. “It’s a yes or no question.”

Narrowed brown eyes spat death curses at him before darting away again. Soto’s tightened lips parted. No sound came forth. They sealed shut again.

Renato sighed. “You’re a bad liar, but I never took you for a coward when it came to being honest.”

He could have dodged, easily. Instead, he allowed Soto to grab his shoulders and bring their mouths crashing together. Let him decide, too, when to break away and stagger back, chest heaving, stare wide at his own daring.

“That’s not an answer, Isaac.”

“You—!”

Renato slipped one hand around the back of Soto’s head, weaving his fingers into careless black curls but not pulling. Not yet. The other cupped Soto’s jaw, pleasantly rough and raspy from a couple day’s worth of stubble. With his thumb Renato wiped the frown from his lips.

“Yes or no.”

Soto closed his eyes, but it was already too late to hide anything going on behind them. A half-choked swallow made his throat flex in the most enticing way. “I…yes. Yes, okay? I want it.”

It. He wanted it, nothing more. Of course. Still, Renato could do better than a grudging confession.

His hand went from cradling Soto’s face to tearing open his shirt—the shirt always fucking buttoned up to the collar. He should have been a priest, truly. Soto gasped from the sudden violence or the air hitting his exposed shoulder and chest or both. Not giving him a chance to recover, Renato leaned in and started sucking on every bit of bared skin he could get at. Not biting, no, never that again, no matter how much he wanted to chew and rip until Soto’s pulse burst in his mouth like a ripe slice of orange. He only let his throbbing fangs graze over warm flesh, press against it to leave imprints of his teeth behind. Maybe prick it here and there so his tongue could lave over the precious ruby beads of blood afterwards. Savor each tiny shock that shot through him and made the world’s colors scintillate for an instant. Soto threw his arms around Renato to stay standing. Each sharp kiss drew a new, delightful prey noise from him.

He was even more intoxicating than memory served.

Pulling back, Renato inspected his work. Half a dozen little reddish-brown bruises trailed from Soto’s neck and skimmed along just above the curve of his collarbone. A satisfactory start.

“Yes?” Renato prompted again.

Eyes still shut, Soto shivered. “Yes.”

Much, much better. Smiling, Renato guided his willing victim back a pace and shoved him onto the nearest bed.

[qyburn]

Another Munch fan here, I like your analysis. Do you have any idea why Munch sometimes speaks in first person and out of nowhere in third? I didn't quite understand this, I looked for some theories, but I didn't find anything. Sad that the Fargo community is small, but good that we have people like you.

Прегръдки от България (⁠づ⁠￣⁠ ⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠づ

hello!!! what a kind message 🥹🥹🥹 i have thought about this a lot!!! im putting it under a readmore bc i ended up talking a lot more than is necessary

the creators & spruell himself have mentioned a sense of depersonalization munch struggles with, and I agree 100%. munch is a human weapon with little to no sense of self. there's also the subtextual connection he has with dot which makes him wary of men, & thus more connected with women & children. if you go back to his scenes with roy, his posture is hunched with tense shoulders, & he barely makes eye contact. gator is different since, to munch, he's just a petulant child. munch is even wary of wayne at the very end, refusing to make eye contact with him until he's offered the soda, & even then he looks at wayne with intense suspicion.

the story makes it clear during the dinner scene that munch & dot are mirrors of each other; both sin-eaters who were forced to swallow the rage & violence of rich men. this with added trans subtext makes munch's disconnect with manhood even more poignant. the times when he refers to himself with first-person singular pronouns are when he's feeling extremely vulnerable, i.e. talking to irma about his past & returning to roy empty-handed. he doesn't use them exclusively, but rather they sneak through when he realizes there's nowhere to hide. other than that, its always "a man" or the royal "we" or just using his name in the third person. its also a form of armor. if he disregards his own humanity, its easier to avoid pain.

you'd think he'd start using first-person pronouns during the last 15 minutes of the finale, but its the closest he's ever been to raw hope, so its all disconnected pronouns that contrast heavily with the yearning in his facial expressions. he wants to be a person, to be loved, but he also has to guard himself in case things go exactly the way they always have for him for centuries. he's also generally just scared of dot in many ways. he's scared of her empathy, of her ferocity, of the love that fuels that ferocity, of her refusal to adhere to his view of the world, and of the ease with which she challenges it. he's encountering someone who has no ulterior motives, someone who has no desire to use him for anything. he's a guest in someone's home, presumably, for the first time in centuries.

tying into this, he's also afraid of how much he loves her, because he doesn't have the language or emotional intelligence to relay why he returned. violence is the only language he's fluent in, so he comes to the house with the request to finish their battle. it's a form of honor & respect, just the same as his categorization of her as a tiger. he views himself as an animal & he connects with the animal in her. that's why he returns with such a heavy demeanor of confusion. he's thinking about the fact that he helped a fellow abuse victim out of disproportionate unfairness, that he armed her against her abuser, that he dared to touch her! it's a lot!! and reciprocated love is just not something he understands fully enough to abandon his armor to. the lyons literally have to disarm him piece by piece. they use his name with the correct pronunciation, they offer him food and drink, they take his coat, & they make it absolutely necessary for him to accept responsibility by helping with the dinner they're going to share with him. they offer him the gift of autonomy.

[furiarossa]

About personal space and Gargoyles

1. Xanatos wants so bad to hold Goliath hand! But Goliath doesn't want someone unknown to invade his personal space like that. Look at the posture. The way his arm goes back. He's trying not to get his hand grabbed. And then that facial expression, of pure disapproval. But Xanatos is eyeing a sternly frowning 300kg monster and has decided he's going to take his hand.

2.Xanatos took that hand. He seems quite happy to be able to squeeze the fingers of a monster brought back to life from the Middle Ages, and certainly that's something we can share. But he's continuing to ignore Goliath's blatant frown, and that's not a good thing, it's not good communication.

3. Goliath is not aggressive, it could be much scarier than that, but it is easily freed from the human's grip, it is enough for him to open his fingers. As he frees himself, he clearly speaks of what he feels (and in a few moments he too will tell him that he is grateful to Xanatos, but that for what happened to his clan he will no longer trust humans).

Xanatos looks surprised.

4. Now Xanatos is the frowning one. On his face: bewilderment. Indignation. He's about to cry.

He really wanted to hold that hand. But he wasn’t able to read Goliath’s face... or maybe he doesn’t know where to stop, he just wants to look super-friendly. This is not manipulation, he didn’t get the expected outcome, he wasn’t able to understand that his touch was unwanted, otherwise he would have stopped: if you want your Gargoyles to be  friends, faithful guardians, you do not try to upset them.

5. “I can tell this relationship is something we all have to work at” (-Xanatos)

This man has no friends. He has not been able to befriend any humans around him for years (he’s 40 or almost 40 here). There are a million reasons why this could happen, but since it's something I identify with so much, I tend to think it's due to very poor socialization in the formative years. And, in his case, probably also of other events that, perhaps, we will discover in the future. Besides, geniuses are always lonelier than other people, right? Especially amoral ones. No, ok, moral ones too.

This man has no friends, so he decided to summon mythological creatures from the past, but he didn't expect that it would take psychological work to make friends even with them who are not human. He expected it to be easier.  He expected that it was enough for him to try to get friendship like you do with animals, perhaps with dogs: using physical language, a happy and relaxed voice, offering food, shelter and cuddles.

6. Even surrounded by gargoyles, Xanatos seems completely alone. And helpless. Not scared, he's never afraid of them, but alone. None of the Gargoyles seem to want to give him space or confidence. The only one who might get his attention, the only one who is really dog-like (Bronx) is screened and protected by Lexington.

But Goliath was an excellent communicator. Here he looks at him as a father scolding his son, his physical language is rigid, his fists are clenched, his wings do not rest like a cloak on his shoulders. He is clearly telling him "you can't have intimacy without others giving it to you".

An entire animated series will follow about how Goliath teaches a man to respect the personal spaces of others.

Even if Xanatos doesn't make it easy for him and, thinking a genuine relationship impossible, he tends to use them as pawns, as objects, and does a lot of things that aren't really good friend’s things (but, yeah, continuing to respect Goliath as a person, admiring his strength, his courage, his brain and possibly his beauty).

Well done Goliath. You taught him something beautiful and useful and now for sure, given the fruits he's reaping (a tower full of Gargoyles, potentially good allies), he's thanking you 😌 Well, maybe one day he’ll have human friends, who knows! (Think of it, right now he has exactly 0 humans friendly towards him).

The animation of Gargoyles is something I like to look at in detail and it tells a lot about the characters, so excuse me, I had to over-analyze it. And maybe I will do it again with other scenes.

[freedthedark]

continued from [x]

     This confrontation was long overdue and both of them were well aware. Despite the words she was tossing back at him Freed found that his suspicions had been confirmed, to basic extent at the least. Everything about Lucy's posture and facial expression screamed anger and frustration and… disappointment? He would soon learn that truth.

     Not a single attempt was made to interrupt as she was speaking freely from her heart, at last, but his body still tensed on instict. Any sort of confrontation would do that to most human beings even if one's conscious was far more relaxed and the situation could be handled gracefully. Lucy's eyes were practically looking daggers at him, though that was fine. He was able to grasp her anger, it was righteous.

     For her to bring up that subject all of a sudden, however? It was catching him unawares and Freed was unable to keep his gaze from hardening, never letting it swerve away from Lucy. Fingers tensed similar to hers before he'd take a slow breath and relax them again. This was fine. It needed to be addressed even though he despised having to dig up memories of a place he had once falsey called home, he attempted to tell himself in order to soothe his mind and body.

     "All of us are shaped by our environment and our interactions with the world and its people." Not entirely but at times one had to fling oneself into a battle with one's own mind to free oneself of surrounding's influences to be one's own master again. "You accuse me of knowing nothing yet you seem to know so little yourself. None of it is going to excuse any of the harm that I have brought upon other people," brought upon my guild, ",and your anger is nothing if not justified. However, I can assure you that our beloved families were wrong in keeping us caged within their ambitions."

     Now Freed briefly averted his gaze, taking a slow breath before leading his focus back to Lucy. "People and circumstances change and there's always something buried beneath the surface." He had been called a monster before, an abomination. Sometimes rightly so and sometimes out of blind hatred. Hearing that Lucy thought of him as not kind anymore was bearable even if it did sting a little. "I may have been kind and the memories we made together up until our families decided to part ways may even be the only rays of light when reminiscing about this period of the past but I never truly felt as though I belonged. So one event led to another." I was never happy. "You can relate as much, can you not?"

@xcelestial

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

Bought by a Shelby-Part 7

Lavina goes missing. Mr. Strong seems a strong comparison in Lettie and Finn's mom.

_______________________________________________________

Family Ties

______________________________________________________________

Finn sat at the table staring at Lyria who’d just bust through his front door in a panic. She’d let the cold and light snow flurries in with her. Her black hair flipped around her face like a crazed veil keeping the snow off her reddened chapped cheeks. 

Finn was sour today after the week's events. Things didn’t seem to be going the way he had expected, in literally every aspect of his life.  Interruptions and annoyances seemed to be heaping up by the hour. 

They had gotten back from the pub late, Lettie had fallen asleep while he was speaking which irritated him. 

Now her sister seemed to be in a panic which meant his kept little wife would be upset by whatever news she had. Probably be anxious all day and too tired to be entertained by him again tonight. 

Letitia walked in from the living room. She’d taken a call for him while he was getting dressed for his day. 

She looked from her sister to Finn. Concerned over the facial expressions and slumped  posture on them both. 

“Who was it?” Finn asked as he took a huge bite off his toast. He really didn’t care.

“It was your brother, Tommy. He said there is an emergency family meeting. Asked if we could leave immediately.” Her tone was soft and gentle. She could read him so well. He appreciated that she adjusted to him. He dropped the bread down on his plate and opened his arms for her. 

He had no intention of her ever attending the family meeting. John had been right, the man could make the decisions for his household. 

She flashed him a brilliant smile and hugged him tightly, crushing his face into her breasts. He loved the height of the dining room chair. It was perfect. 

Then her sister shattered the peace he was feeling.

“Lavina didn’t go to the scrap yard last night. Da’s angry.” She sounded winded, ired and scared. Great, now she’d share her fears with his wife. 

“Do we have an idea on where she could be? Didn’t she go off with Finn’s Nephew?” Lettie looked down at her husband. His head went back and his eyes closed while he faced the ceiling. It was going to be a long day.  

After a few minutes he sat straight up and rubbed his face, his elbows propped him up on the table. He’d felt her long fingers start unworking the tension in his shoulders. He relaxed a bit. The longer he sat the more angry his older brothers would get. 

He patted her hands until she let go. He stood and kissed his little wife goodbye like he did every morning. 

He stood and walked to the hooks by the door. He grabbed his peaky cap by the door and coat walking out. He’d muttered something to her about finding out.

“He seems grumpy in the morning.” Lyria observed. She had been eating at Lettie’s place. The younger woman smiled. It was nice to have some of her old daily routine mixed in with all the newness. 

The girls often ate off each other's plates in the mountains. Nothing could go to waste.  

  Finn's plate was only partially gone. She felt bad that he’d been called away. She knew he felt useless to his family. It hurt to watch. 

Lettie turned her attention to her sister intent to get the full story. 

______________________________________________________

Finn’s day  was only snowballing out of control from there. 

  Ada and Tommy’s new venture meant more responsibility and barbs about his lack of ability in the family business. He just wanted to go home where he was appreciated. 

  He also hoped Lettie’s family wasn't staying. They seemed to be mucking stuff up. 

She’d drug herself in with Duke, her father had shown up seething. He had no doubt the drama was going to spill over into his home. 

He could murder Duke, his anger only growing monthly for Tommy’s bastard son. 

He’d been grateful when Charlie had offered to bring Lavina to his home. He had to see a man about horse shoes at the market anyway.

Finn sighed at the manilla folders his brother had unceremoniously stopped in front of him. He’d be here late tonight. 

Lettie and her sister had just cleaned up breakfast and were fishing the morning chores when a sharp knock rapped on the door. 

The man on the deck looked as startled as she felt. He slipped his cap off his greying hair and held it tightly over his heart. 

“Are you Finn’s wife?” The aging man asked. Lettie smiled, he smelled like woodsmoke and horses. She instantly liked him. 

“Mr. Strong?” Before she could answer, her sister's voice rang out. They seemed to recognize one another. Lettie moved out of the way. She saw her eldest sister jet black hair and tall form ascending the stairs toward her home.

“Why don’t you come in. “ Lettie sat everyone down as Lavina strode in completely immune to the worry and anger she caused. 

“Wow, you look so much like….Finn's mother.” Charlie Strong, as she had learned his name was…was staring at Letitia. He seemed almost melancholy and thoughtful as he looked at her, up and down his gaze went. She could almost feel the pain coming off of her.

“Finn’s mother passed away when he was a tiny lad. If you had brown hair, you’d be a spitting image. I’m surprised Tommy didn’t marry you. “ This confession took the ladies by surprise. Lettie couldn’t imagine being married to Tommy. He was so serious..

“Mr. Strong has River at the stalls.” Lavina smiled as her sister's face lit up. Lettie had no idea her horse was so close to her. She missed her daily rides. 

“If you want to bring Finn by, I'll have Curly saddle her up. She's a gentle ride.” Lettie beamed at the praise for her sweet horse. A white and grey Mare, her pride and joy. 

Charlie seemed to enjoy talking about her mare too. 

“Tommy’s mom had bought him a white mare before she…passed. We’ll stay out of trouble. Probably as far away from the Shelby clan as you can.” He pointed at Lavina who just shrugged and smiled at him. She had no intention of doing that from the dreamy look on her face. 

Lettie smiled warmly at Mr. Strong who kept stealing glances, even when he passed her window from the outside he couldn’t resist one last look. 

“We’ll he’s quite taken with you!” Her sisters commented.

Lettie turned her gaze to her eldest sister, the disapproval written across her ethereal face making her look like a pissed fairy queen. 

“So who’s bed did you lie in last night?” She asked as if she were the elder sister or her mother.

“Duke Shelbys, and it was nice. I plan on visiting his bed  a bit more often.” She replied haughtily. She’d come to the city as a gypsy girl and would probably stay a pregnant unwed mother. Her sisters looked upset.

“Lavina?!” Both of her sisters descended on her. 

“What if you end up with a child in your womb?” Lettie asked. She was married, it was expected for her to be caring a child soon. 

“Then he’ll have to Marry me and we'll raise our babies together.” She said offhandedly as if her plan was foolproof and perfect. 

“I…” sisters look at her. “I quit having my monthly after Finn and I married. He’s not upset by it but….” Lettie could feel the sting of tears welling up in her eyes. She felt ashamed and embarrassed to bring it up. 

  Lyria rubbed her sister back affectionately and squeezed her into a hug.

Lavina looked at her sister and tilted her head…she was deep in thought…never a good thing. 

_____________________________________________________

[oxpogues4lifexo]

Rose’s Interview - KUwTC

With added BTS

BTS + Unseen footage is in Orange

Full episode Here

Other BTS

(/ means cut scene. Bold letters means host)

Rose had herself next to Ward, on the couch, sitting lazily in the corner of a bundle of cushions by his hand, that rested against the arm of the seat, gently grazing her skin in a way to calm her irritated complexion. Her posture was well-presented, however her facial expressions were dismissive of the cameras infront of her. Clearly not impressed or too bothered by the experience to come. She had on: a floral pink shirt tucked into a pair of white jeans that sat above her ankles, a pair of flip-flops held loosely on her feet as her left leg crossed over the other. A glass of white wine gripped into her palm against her leg; presumably easing the moment.

Ryan's gaze follows, towards Rose. She lets out a heavy sigh as she sits up, her grip on the glass of wine tightening, "Hi, I'm Rose." She speaks planely, no emotion to accompany her words, her effort to hide her annoyance becoming little to none. Her head quickly turns to Wheezie to push the attention off of herself.

/

"Are you going to ask questions or can I go do the laundry?" From previous moments you could tell Rose was holding back from speaking, but the jokes were only causing more irritation. The three kids give each other ‘the look’ and start giggling to one another.

"Honey don't be rude, it's nice to have a bit of small talk beforehand; get to know what your getting yourself into. You'll get the laundry done soon I promise.." He whispers the last part, trying his best to comfort her. He knows she doesn't like people bothering her but he also knows that with some pushing, she'll warm up to the cameras.

One look at Ward and her body immediately melts, her face softening and a smile tugging at her cheeks. She nods to him, batting her lashes, "Okay.. sorry."

"Don't worry, we'll be doing the interviews privately so you have plenty of time to do your housework."

She nods, but stays silent. Any next word that comes out her mouth will only cause more tension.

/

“Hello Rose, So what would you say is the purpose of this show?”

"The purpose of the show, as Ward said to me, is to bring everyone down to Earth. To show them that just because we have money, it doesn't mean we have it easy. Everyone has their problems and their struggles that they deal with quietly, and I think this show will help to prove that even us, Kooks, have things going on too. Yes we're lucky because we have the fancy cars, the big house, the lack of worry for money. But it doesn't mean that we're always happy. Everyone has something to deal with, and for us, it's not money, but other things. This will show people that we aren't all emotionless snobby animals. We all have feelings and issues that we struggle with everyday, and Ward wants to share that with everyone. So they know that each and every person has their own life, and everyone has it difficult in some way or another no matter how rich or poor you are." The bottle of white wine finally hits Rose; the chores being done and the conversation with Ward beforehand has settled her. She's accepted that this is how their life is going to be from now on, with a little compensation from Ward to keep her going.

“Annddd could you tell us a little about yourself please Rose?”

"Well, I'm Rose Cameron. Im a stay at home mum. I help Ward with his business and I also run a real estate agency!" She pulls a smile, the interview finally being about something she loves, her. Somehow another glass of wine has made its way into her hand as the breeze from the now open doors blows her hair around in a rather attractive manner; complimenting her now, extroverted composure.

"Rose, earlier, Wheezie mentioned that you don't particularly like Bella that much? Could you tell us why?"

She shows us a tight smile, her eyes falling at the mention of Bella's name. Rose sighs heavily as she leans back against the couch crossing her arms like a toddler. "Because why should I? She stole Rafe from us, she takes up all Wards time, her and her brother are always here invading our space. Theres no reason to like her! It's a stupid question."

The change in tone made Ryan almost uncomfortable as he begins to break into a sweat. A man angry is scary, but a mother angry is worse. And Rose herself is one scary woman. "Right um.. Do you not think that maybe she's just trying to be nice? She makes Rafe and Wheezie very happy do you see that?"

"What is this? An interview about me or her?"

“I’ve asked everyone else-“

“You’ve asked everyone else about Bella? I’m sorry but as far as me and EVERYONE on the show is concerned, it’s about us. You know the ‘Camerons’? Where does she come into it?”

“Well everyone has a relation to her in some way. According to Ward she’s part of the family. I felt as though it was only right to ask atleast once?”

She rolls her eyes, checking her ‘watch’ that doesn’t exist and getting up off the couch without saying another word.

/

Rose didn’t want to speak anymore on the episode, so we didn’t get any extra footage of her. We tried but Ward suggested we don’t push her. She has heavy feelings on the Brooks and we have no place to ask her about them. Sorry.

[galilea-naerie]

Galilea worked with practiced focus, her hands deftly sorting through dried herbs and roots as she prepared another round of tinctures. The table before her had glass vials, jars of powdered remedies, and half-shredded leaves. The room smelled earthy, sweet, and faintly metallic, a testament to the work she and October had been doing. October sat nearby, propped against the edge of the window with a lazy air about him, though Galilea knew better than to mistake his posture for idleness. A book rested in his lap, but his gaze drifted to the street outside, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “You know,” October began, his voice breaking the quiet hum of their work, “I think Aimon might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” Galilea paused mid-reach, her fingers hovering over a jar of dried lavender. “Aimon?” she asked, glancing at him curiously. October nodded, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You heard me.” He closed the book and set it aside, his expression thoughtful. “The way his jaw clenches when he’s working. And his hands, there’s something so careful about the way he handles everything, even with the mess we were dealing with earlier.” Galilea raised a brow, biting back a smile. “You’re talking about him as if he’s a piece of art.” “Maybe he is,” October quipped, his grin widening. “A rugged piece of art, but art nonetheless. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.” He raised a brow. “I was more focused on the corpse we were studying,” Galilea replied, shaking her head as she returned to work. “Unlike some people, I don’t get distracted by chiseled jawlines and broad shoulders.” However, her mind drifted to Rhys at the mention of broad shoulders, unconsciously licking her lips. “Ah, so you did notice,” October teased, leaning forward as if he’d caught her in a trap. Galilea rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.” She stated as she tried to refocus her mind. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said breezily before his tone shifted, turning sly. “Speaking of noticing things, let’s talk about Rhys.” She stiffened, her grip on the mortar tightening slightly. “What about him?” She questioned innocently. “Oh, don’t play coy,” October said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You light up every time he walks into the room. It’s adorable, really. Almost as if—” A small laugh escaped Galilea, but she quickly covered it with a cough, shaking her head. “You’re imagining things.” She casually waved her hand. “Am I?” October countered, leaning closer. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been staring a little too long when he talks. Not that I blame you. He’s handsome, after all. Strong, kind, focused. A bit broody, but that only adds to the appeal, doesn’t it?” Galilea turned back to her work, feigning disinterest as warmth crept into her cheeks. “You have far too much time to think about these things, and you only just arrived." She commented with a pointed look. “And you’re avoiding the subject,” October shot back, grinning like a cat who’d caught an interesting mouse. Before Galilea could reply, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the street outside. Both of them froze, their gazes snapping at the door as the footsteps drew closer. “Soldiers,” Galilea murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. October was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room with silent urgency. He quickly moved them to a corner that hid them from the window view, his eyes wide with mock alarm. Galilea's gaze lingered on the window, watching as the soldiers passed by it without a care, but they were facial coverings. So royalty was well aware of what was happening. “What are they looking for?” she whispered. “But the fact they have facial coverings is telling,” October replied, stepping back but keeping his gaze fixed on the door. The footsteps passed by, their weight reverberating through the floorboards, before fading into the distance. Only when the silence returned did Galilea exhale softly, her shoulders relaxing. “It’s strange,” she said after a moment, her brow furrowing.

“That is the first time I have seen soldiers patrolling the streets. I think we need to trudge carefully. The royals haven’t lifted a finger to help these people, yet now they send soldiers to march through the streets.” October nodded but said nothing, his expression thoughtful. The door creaked open moments later, and both nymphs turned as Rhys stepped inside. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, his presence steadying. His eyes, they were ones that she could lose herself in. However, there was no time for such matters. Galilea perked up at his words, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good,” she said softly, her tone gentle. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her mind already racing with what they would need to do. “We’ll start with whomever you think is more progressed in their illness.” As they gathered their supplies, Galilea couldn’t help but glance at Rhys again. His presence was a steady anchor amidst the uncertainty, and she found herself drawn to the quiet strength he exuded. If her gaze lingered a moment too long, she told herself, it was only because she appreciated his leadership. Still, she felt October’s knowing glance from the corner of her eye, and she pointedly ignored him, focusing instead on Rhys as they prepared to leave. “Before we go,” Galilea said, her voice steady but curious, “I noticed the soldiers earlier. Do they usually patrol? It seems unusual, given the lack of aid coming from the royals.” She waited for Rhys’s response as they stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of the work ahead pressing on her shoulders but balanced by the flicker of hope his words had brought. “We’re ready to go to whomever you think." She stated as she met his gaze once more.

Rhys nodded and took the bowl from her and went to Sandrina's bedside. "Sandrina," He said her name softly, "Please, eat some soup. You need it." He said softly and dipped the spoon into the bowl and held it to her lips. Sandrina opened her eyes slightly and groaned, attempting to push his hand away, "I'm not hungry." She muttered softly. "You may not think you are, but you are, now eat." He insisted firmly, but in a soft tone of voice, "You need to stay well for Carina." And that seemed to make her push on. She accepted each spoonful of soup that he offered her. And while she did not eat the full bowl he was relied to see she had eaten most of it. "Alright that's good. Now rest." He told her and gently squeezed her hand. It was his opinion that her condition did not show great change. The only relief he saw was how much of the soup she had eaten, but he still dreaded the territory they found themselves in with her. He watched his sister closely for a few minutes before he walked back out to the kitchen where Carina was now in the company of someone else. A small smile appeared on Rhys' face and he shook October's hand, "Rhys." He told him. He hoped that another healer would help speed up the process. The feeling of impatience tugged at Rhys, but only because of the state of his sister. He found he trusted Galilea would do her best, but the worry and fear and losing was ever present. He nodded, "Right, let's go." He said and lead them out of the house. The walk to the graveyard was quick and quiet, the usual sounds of the sick echoed down some of the alleys. When they got to the graveyard he lead them to the building where the body was and then left them to do to the shed Aimon stayed in. He knocked roughly on the door and soon Aimon appeared, "They're working. I imagine when they're done you'll be able to return the body to its grave.” Rhys informed him. “They?” Aimon questioned him, “i thought it was one.” He continued, his clear confusion and shock on his face at the news of two nymphs being present. “She has a friend to help her. You are not to tell anyone. Simply return the body when they’re done. This is for the trouble of it all." Rhys said and handed Aimon a small sack of several gold pieces. Aimon pulled the pouch open and his eyes widened, "That's more than the effort is worth, Rhys." Aimon exclaimed, ever the honest bloke which was why he and Rhys had gotten along as they always did. "It's not, Aimon. Just take it." Rhys encouraged and then left the graveyard to return to Sandrina's home. He opened the door to find Carina up and sitting on the floor with her doll, singing softly to herself. But as soon as she spotted him she had jumped up, seemingly feeling much more herself again, "Uncle Rhys!" She said and jumped at his feet, her arms raised, doll clutched in her little hand. Rhys picked her up and held her against his side, "Are you hungry?" he asked her. Carina nodded, "Is mommy going to eat?" she asked him. "Mommy already ate. She needs her rest now." He told her simply. He sat Carina on the table and pulled a bowl from the cabinet and ladled some soup into it for her and set the bowl on the table, "Chair." He told her and Carina slid off the table top and onto the chair and sniffed the soup. "I need a spoon!" she demanded and Rhys quickly fetched her one and she began to eat large spoonfuls of it. Rhys shook his head in a playful nature, appreciating just how demanding she could be much like her mother. Some time later he had put Carina down for a nap, her flu still present and wearing on the little girl after her burst of energy from the morning. He put the tea kettle on and checked on Sandrina again. She looked and sounded no worse than the morning, but she still was not improved either. He stepped back into the kitchen and sat at the table, waiting for his tea to be ready when Galilea and October walked in. Her countenance seemed grave, as though she had received news she did not want to and that only struck deep worry within him. But he would hesitate hesitate from reacting.

He needed to know facts first. And indeed, her words felt like a grim outlook. There was no mention of cure. Only things slowing its progression. It felt like a death sentence. But he could find the hope in it all. Slowing the progression meant they had more time to find a cure and that was something. It was hope. And now they needed to work to achieve that. “Just tell me what you need me to do. I told you I would see to getting you what you need. I will do just that.” He informed her confidently. “I don’t know of anyone who would be willing to be tested on just off the top of my head, but I told you I would need to make my usual rounds of checks. I will ask. I’m certain I can find someone.” He informed her. “I can head out now. Carina has eaten and is napping. She already seems much better. Sandrina is no different than she was this morning. I will return soon.” He told her and stepped out of the house. He went around his neighborhood, checking in with those that still remained. It had been a few days since he had been able to speak to his neighbors, he regretted ti find one had passed just the night before. He sent for Aimon to come retrieve the body and waited with the man’s wife for Aimon to arrive. When he did Rhys helped Aimon load up the body of the dead man. “What are the names of those nymphs?” Aimon asked and leaned against the wagon. “Why?” Rhys asked him, his gaze slightly suspicious. “Just curious.” Aimon stated simply. “Galilea and October.” Rhys said finally. “I suppose October is the guy, right?” Aimon asked as though he were trying to be too casual. Rhys crossed his arms across his chest, “Yes, why?” Rhys asked him, amused. Aimon chuckled, “Just curious.” Aimon said again and pushed himself away from the wagon and lifted the handle and pulled it along. “See you later, Rhys!” Aimon called and was gone down the road. Rhys chuckled and continued his rounds. Of all the sick he asked if they would be willing to try other forms of medicine and healing. And when he returned to Sandrina’s home that evening he came in with the small flame of hope that burned now glowing a little more brightly within him. “Many of my neighbors are willing to let you try your medicine on them. Whatever you need to test I have several people who will be willing. I have ten names for you. All are ready to do what they can.” They all felt desperate. Many of them had children still relying on them.

[bullsandthebones]

"Car Lights" Pt2

Billy Hargrove x Male Reader

Fem Aligned DNI

Content Warning: Homophobia, Bullying, Rumor Spreading, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Mention of Cigarettes, Descriptions of Panic Attacks, We also have Hurt/Comfort that I didn't mean to add but yk, Reader gets beat to shit, Toxic Love, Slurs Mentioned

you did this to yourselves. repent for your sins however you deem fit. also I had just been watching A Court of Fey & Flowers before this so the wording has become regal, I apologize. I hurt myself with this as well so have fun.

Three weeks. Three full weeks had passed before you went back to school.

A fateful Friday, the day of your return, was also the day of an important basketball game, one that determined if the team would go to the state championships. You returned to school on that day in hopes that the game would overshadow your existence.

You hoped that not even he would notice, you hoped that he would be too focused on practicing to be aware of your presence.

Three weeks of letters being left wedged in your car door. Three weeks of gifts dropped off at your door in the dead of night. Three weeks of calls, three weeks of cigarette butts littering your garden, three weeks of rocks thrown at your window. Three weeks of this, three weeks of that. Three weeks that told you he was going to notice no matter what.

Your arrival was rather unceremonious. Your car sputtered into the parking lot and you slammed the door shut as you walked up to the entrance of the school. You speed walk past a group of teens chattering about in the lot, keeping your head down.

You had almost made it to your first class successfully, but you heard someone call your name before you could slip into the door. Panic arose in your chest, clutching your lungs and your heart, making you light headed and wobbly. Your breathing quickened as you slowly turned around.

A sea of eyes looked at you and the whispers began. A glance here, a cupped hand to an ear there, they all knew.

And they were all staring at you.

Your skin felt feverish, but you felt a chill run down your spine. You were freezing cold but burning hot at the same time. Your hands begin shaking as your eyes dart around in an attempt to find who called your name.

When they land on him, confusion and apprehension fills you. The former proclaimed "King of Hawkins" was rapidly approaching you, a nervous look in his eyes as he realized his mistake in calling out your name. He quickly grabbed onto your arm and led you to an empty classroom, flipping off anyone who made remarks about the scene.

Once he closed the door, he let out a sigh of relief. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get everyone's attention."

Steve rests a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to calm you, but you flinch away. You've heard about what they do to people like you in towns like this. He quickly retracts his hand and holds both of them up in surrender, not wanting to freak you out.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, we're on the same team." He gestures vaguely as he speaks, but the way he says it hints at something more than him being an ally.

Your eyebrows furrow in utter confusion. Steve Harrington, a queer? You motion for him to continue speaking as you relax your tense stance a bit.

"I thought you might-", he pauses, thinking carefully about his next choice of words, " I thought you might want a friend. I-in a situation like this, you know?"

You regard Steve carefully. His posture, his facial expression, his everything. He feels genuine, and for the first time in three weeks, you relax your whole body, almost collapsing into him. Steve catches your body, helping you stay upright.

"Yes, I.. I would like a friend." Your voice was raspy and broken due to lack of use. Steve just holds you as you attempt to regain your composure and clear your thoughts. He seems awkward but not willing to pull away, as though if he moves you'll break and crumble into millions of pieces. Ones that, try as he might, he could never put back together, not correctly. Not perfectly. Not you.

Unbeknownst to you, or to Steve, a certain blonde haired boy watched you get dragged off into that classroom.

×××

Rumors had spread about the school like wildfire.

"I heard that Steve Harrington kissed that little queer guy!"

"Well I heard they hooked up in the bathroom!"

"No way, Steve Harrington wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole!"

They all got back to you by the end of the day, Steve reassured you that rumors wouldn't deter him from sticking by your side. "I've been through worse.", was what he told you, a scary look in his eyes as he said it.

You had said some goodbyes at the entrance of the school before you both parted ways to your respective vehicles. You had majorly relaxed since the beginning of the day, no one dared to touch you with Steve by your side, and most people were too excited by the game to care. Even as the sky began to darken and the crisp autumn weather grew colder for the night, you were almost at ease.

Almost.

Hairs pricked at the nape of your neck, you felt like you were being watched as you opened your car door. Most people weren't in the lot, opting to stay and get ready for the game, so no one should be watching you. You gulp, attempting to push the feeling down as you clamber into the car.

Before you can fully sit down, a hand grabs your arm roughly and pulls you out. You fall to the ground with the force, looking up to see the one guy you had been avoiding for weeks. "Billy, please-"

Loud, howling laughter surrounds you as the rest of the basketball team steps out of seemingly nowhere. You knew what was coming, you just weren't expecting it from him.

A glimpse of pain flashes over Billy's eyes, before turning to rage. You see him wind back his leg, not even registering the blow to your side until he does it again. Cheering sounds from all around you, the situation feeling so surreal. Billy kicks and stomps you, shouting nonsense and slurs. You don't hear it, you're focused on the feeling of blood leaking from your nose and he breaks it with his fist. You don't attempt to fight back, not seeing the use in it, you can't win a fight against Billy. You could never fight him in the first place.

You accepted the beating, knowing that, unfortunately, your feelings towards the boy couldn't change.

You loved him. You loved him even though each kick to your ribs made a sharp cracking sound. You loved him even though blood was leaking from your broken nose down to your busted lips. You loved him even though you could taste blood in your throat and in your mouth.

When the jeering quieted down and the jocks felt as though the show had gotten boring, the reminder of your place in society had come to a stop. They dispersed without even a second thought, not even a glance back at you, at your body that had curled up in on itself as soon as they started leaving.

Billy stood back for a moment, a look of pure disgust and remorse adorning his features. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but when he saw you tremble and cough up blood, a tear fell from his eye and he briskly walked back into the school.

Leaving you there.

Alone.

On the freezing cold concrete that welcomed you as you lost any sort of consciousness that you were desperately clinging onto.

[juneknight]

*Dizzy, Drunk*

About this: Jake/fem!reader. You’re on a drive with Jake and he notices that something is distracting you 😏 Spanish speaking Jake. Jake likes when YOU speak Spanish but that’s neither here nor there.

I’m definitely going to write the smut for this, I just can only commit to a drabble’s worth of writing at a time

*

“We’re almost there.”

You blink, startled from your thoughts. Casting a glance towards the driver’s seat, you can read the tension in Jake’s posture. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes shadowed from the bill of his cap. He hasn’t shaved, preferring the rasp of facial hair, but it suits him. 

“Are you okay?” you ask him. 

He casts you a dark look. “Are you?”

“Of course!”

His look says it all: skepticism with a healthy dose of resignation. He drums the fingers of one gloved hand against the wheel, and it nearly drives you to distraction. 

“Really,” you say, heart pounding. This is your first instance spending time together outside of the flat. Your relationship with Marc and Steven felt solid, but your connection with Jake was new, still resting on shifting sand. The last thing you wanted to do was make him think you weren’t enjoying your time together. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“You haven’t been able to sit still for the last twenty minutes,” he says dryly. 

Your heart stops—then starts again at a faster pace. You can feel your face growing warm, and you are suddenly aware of the way you have been constantly crossing and uncrossing your ankles, legs pressed tightly together from thigh to knee. 

Jake nods to himself. He throws on his signal and makes a smooth, unexpected turn and points the car back towards the flat. “We don’t have to do this,” he says. “If there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

“No,” you rush to reassure him. “No, Jake, it—it isn’t that. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Do I make you nervous?” 

You can’t help but laugh. “No. It’s not nerves. I just—don’t laugh, alright? I didn’t realize how attractive I would find it. Watching you drive.”

He stares blankly at you, car still hovering at the exit of the lot he had turned into. You glance behind you, but there are no other cars waiting. Jake looks out the windshield, staring at the bleak London suburbs.

“This?”

“You,” you amend. 

“Driving.”

You clear your throat, fingers finding the hem of your skirt to torment. 

He makes a soft, incredulous sound which ends in laughter, his quiet, unbothered, chest-rumbling laugh so different from Steve or Marc’s. Under his breath he mutters something about mujeres.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you say through your smile. 

“No lo estoy,” he says. 

“You don’t believe me?” you ask, a little breathless. At his skeptical, raised brow, you drag up the hem of your skirt, the fabric looking at the top of your thighs. His dark eyes drop to the movement, growing distant as he eyes the bare flesh of your legs. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you slip a hand between your legs, sliding two fingers past the crotch of your panties. Slick, you pull your hand free, letting the wet digits speak for themselves.

Quicker than you can fathom, Jake reaches out to snatch your wrist. The rasp of smooth leather against your skin makes your pulse race. When you meet his eyes, you fight back a shiver. No one should have eyes so dark, so expressive. Without looking away, he pulls your fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. 

“Jake,” you groan. 

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he mutters, lapping at the webbing between your fingers. You can’t help but think of his mouth between your legs. He lets go of your fingers and reaches down to tap your thigh. “Abre tus piernas. Wider.”

Jake isn’t satisfied until your legs are spread as wide as the passenger seat allows. Your skirt is drawn taut across your thighs. He fixes you with a firm look: “Don’t you dare close them—unless you want me to stop. ¿Me comprendes?”

“Yes,” you breathe. 

“Dime. Say: te comprendo.”

“Te comprendo.”

“Perfecta,” he mutters, sounding winded. Reaching up, he begins a ritual you’ve watched him perform many times: tugging on the fingertip of each glove, gently removing them so as to not stretch the leather. 

You open your mouth but shut it with a click. Jake’s too sharp to miss it, though, eyes flashing towards you. Something about the look on your face must alarm him, because he gives up on the endeavor, reaching out to cup your jaw and ask, “What is it?”

The soft rasp of leather against your skin has your knees shaking. You fight to keep them spread apart the way he asked, even if your cunt is swollen and aching, desperate for pressure. 

“Nothing,” you promise. “I just—would you keep them on? The gloves?”

His eyebrows lift. “First my driving, now my gloves?”

“It’s you. Everything about you turns me on. I can’t help it.”

The answer pleases him, his eyes turning molten and warm. He caresses the curve of your jaw once more before spreading his reach, squeezing your face until your lips pucker. The firmness of his grip makes your mouth dry. 

“Next time, you tell me,” he says. “I want to know every little thing that makes you wet. I want to use them against you. If you want me to.”

He lets go of your face. Feeling dizzy, drunk on him, you can only nod.

A car behind you presses their horn, jolting you in your seat. Unflapped, Jake throws on his signal and turns the car back towards the flat, pulling out into the street. 

“Hey, I thought we were—“

“Change of plans,” he says. Taking one hand off the wheel, he reaches over to brush the hem of your skirt up and lay the warm leather of his glove against your thigh. “You don’t cum until I put us in park, back home. Yes?”

You swallow, the click of your dry throat deafening in the quiet cab of the car. “Yes.”

“Say: sí, Jake.”

“Sí, Jake.”

Letting out a shaking breath, he squeezes your thigh and then his gloves hand disappears up beneath your skirt. 

Next drabble here

[glitter-stained]

Putting Jason through the dsm-5 catatonia checklist

So, to be able to diagnose catatonia, we need 3 symptoms out of a list of 12:

Stupor (aka lack of psychomotor activity ; no active relation to environment). We already know this is untrue for Jason, as he is able to interact with his environment and do pretty good motor activity, for example fighting (and even growing to get better at it!!!) when attacked.

Catalepsia (muscular rigidity+ fixity of posture regardless of external stimuli+ decreased sensitivity to pain): Well, Jason's posture in Lost Days doesn't seem to indicate any kind of muscle rigidity and it's certainly not fixed: he just kinda sits there unless something happens (like someone other than Talia attacking him), lets himself be moved around: if anything, I'd call him utterly malleable.

Waxy flexibility: this one is just "when you try to change the posture, there is a mild to not mild resistance to that manipulation" which I don't think Jason shows at any point? (To clarify, this isn't someone being hard to lift because they're basically "dead weight"; this is, for example, someone holding their hand next to their head and when you try to bring it down there's a resistance.

Mutism: so, this one Jason does show! He indeed does not speak. However, this has to not be explicable by a preexisting aphasia, and since aphasia (albeit usually a fluent one) is a frequent consequence of TBIs in children, I would take it with a pinch of salt; but hey, gotta stay honest, he is indeed not speaking.

Negativism (opposition or absence of reaction to instruction or external stimuli): again, it's quite the opposite, Jason is very pliable and reacts to external stimuli.

Posture taking: so here we're looking for an unusual, unnatural posture against the laws of gravity (for example having an arm raised long term for no apparent reason): So Jason's posture in Lost Days (the first steps) is peculiar as he is always shown slightly hunched over himself with his shoulders raised ; however this posture does not really defy the laws of gravity and I wouldn't exactly call it unusual, not like what's typically described in catatonia. It appears to be reminiscent of a foetal stance, like he's curled over himself protectively, which makes a lot more sense for traumatic dissociation.

Manierism (bizarre or solemn caricature of ordinary actions): well, Jason doesn't do that, his only actions are things necessary to survival like eating or defending himself (and his automatic tendency to help people in the streets apparently, fucking adorable): he reacts, but he doesn't seem to act unless there's an extremely urgent need (to him that's apparently feeding himself and others), and there's nothing particularly strange about the way he carries those actions.

Stereotypia: so we're talking repeated movement that doesn't seem oriented towards any goal (also very common in autism. Interestingly, this sign isn't specific to humans! Amongst many animals, stereotypical movement is a good stress indicator). Jason doesn't seem to display any kind of stereotypical movement in Lost Days.

Motor agitation not induced by any external stimulus: again, kinda the opposite of what's going on with Jason, he's not moving unless there is a specific kind of stimulus.

Grimacing facial expression: Jason's face in The First Steps, in contrast, is blank with a kinda far-away look.

Echolalia (repeating spoken sounds/words): well, he doesn't speak at all, so.

Echopraxia (repeating watched movements): this one could have happened maybe in his training with league fighters, if we're stretching it, but in all honesty we don't have any reason to assume it did happen.

So that's 1 out of 3 necessary criteria! Verdict: Winick didn't do his homework

I have no medical knowledge but JT had me googling the five levels of consciousness I’m like what is this some specific form of hypoactive delirium JT has going on like what is thissss is this based off the movie Awakenings

Hell yeah! I love this ask so much

Let's talk about catatonia

Could Jason's TBI have given him catatonia?

Okay so catatonia is a syndrome that can be caused by either an underlying mental disorder (best known causes are schizophrenia and some forms of depression) or another medical affection (this is what the characters in The Awakenings have!)

I'm basing myself on the DSM-5 revised text here because it's my favourite classification (as shown by the fact I talk shit about it all the time). So, in Lost Days, Talia's hypothesis for Jason appears to be catatonia caused by another medical affection, this affection being caused by the brain damage he sustained. Because this hasn't been proven (i am, btw, very intrigued: does the LOA have MRIs? We know they interrogated the medical professionals who worked on him during his coma, but we don't have any info on that... What do the images say!!! I wanna know!!! And did he have an EEG? 😭😭😭 I wish we had these images... Alas.)

Anyway, so because the medical cause isn't confirmed, the actual diagnosis would be "unspecified catatonia" but that's more of a "eh, can't know for sure" diagnosis so it's not really important.

So I asked the one of my teachers who sees a lot of children and teenagers with TBIs, and he told me that while he couldn't tell me this didn't exist, he had never seen a patient develop catatonia as a result of a TBI. Because my personal hypothesis is a dissociative episode, I also asked my teacher who specialises in trauma if it was possible for dissociation to induce catatonia... He confessed that he wasn't sure what catatonia was and thought it was an outdated category people didn't use anymore and then when I was starting to detail the symptoms he kinda ran away from me in a pretty comical manner... (I'm not kidding, it was very funny). So, safe to say that this man (otherwise a really good teacher, with a great and in-depth understanding of trauma and the psychopathology around it) hasn't seen many catatonic patients lmao. So, that makes catatonia relatively improbable in terms of etiology, but nowhere in the dsm does it say that it's impossible for a tbi or dissociation to induce it, so let's check!!!