#they're so everything . nobody's ever done it like them

[womanofwords]

Silver Swan (Part 14)

Neglected!fem!reader x yandere!batfam

Alone time. You hadn't had a lick of it ever since the moment that Bruce had cradled you. You felt eyes on you wherever you went.

Barb, Cass, and Steph had started basically kidnapping you from your room the moment they sensed you walking around for the sake of doing your hair. Earplugs would go into your ears in a vain attempt at stopping you from hearing your brothers argue with your sisters for extra time with you.

"You can't monopolise Y/N like this! We have rights! We're her siblings, too!" Dick yelled.

"Hand her over and nobody gets hurt!" Jason yelled.

Cass braided your hair as Barbara swore at the boys. "They're silly," Steph said.

"You are so cute, little birdy," Dick cooed, carrying you around just as Bruce had done. "You are just the best, aren't you, wing? Now, you're going to be eating breakfast with-OW!"

"She will be eating with me, Grayson," Damian said, leading you away. "You have wounds to nurse."

Dick got to his feet and limped forward. "You evil little-"

"Evil little what? Grayson, do you really want Y/N to hear you use such language?" Damian gestured to you, and you waved.

"Using Y/N as a human shield. And I thought you couldn't get any lower," Dick said.

"I do what is necessary," Damian said. "Come on, Y/N. We'll eat whatever your favourite is."

"OK, Damian," you said. Titus trotted up to you, sitting by your side as Damian drew his katana. "Where are you going, Damian?"

"To show you other inferior siblings who the best is. I'll be back before your breakfast arrives." Damian patted your head and walked towards Tim and Cass. Screams and the clashing sound of metal on metal rang in your ears.

"Oh, they'll be at it for some time," Alfred said. "In the meantime, why don't you eat and contemplate how you have been hoisted by your own petard? It might do you some good."

Your fork froze in the dead air between your mouth and the plate. "What?"

"You wanted your family to spend time with you. You have it, but now you have no privacy and will never get to be Silver Swan again because you don't have the necessary solitude needed to change. The way I see it, you have been hoisted by your own petard."

"Maybe, but that now means that there is no reason for me to keep your gun collection secret. None of them believe that I am Silver Swan; even when they saw me in the getup they thought I was a devoted fan who needed guidance. That's actually what started all the monitoring and quality time. You have a week to find a new form of payment if you want me to keep your secret gun collection a secret."

Alfred hummed. "Sabotage."

"Sabotage?" you repeated.

"I will sabotage whoever or whatever I have to so you can have the free time or alone time that you want. I will also give you a heads-up for whenever you get security cameras in your room or tracking devices on your person or belongings."

"Deal." You shook hands with Alfred and went back to eating your rapidly cooling cereal. Alfred raised an eyebrow at the shocking display of . . . nothing in particular.

"Aren't you going to ask more about my gun collection, Y/N?"

"What gun collection, Alfred?"

"I could ask the same thing, Alfred." Bruce was at the entrance to the dining room, glaring daggers at Alfred. "What. Gun. Collection?"

"Oh, shit," Alfred said.

You sniggered into your cereal.

*_*_*_*_*_

The novelty and charm had worn off. You were getting sick of your family's yandere tendencies. You grabbed your mask and put it on, writing a note for the family as you called for your darling board, leaving your home with a small bag of essentials plus your sewing machine. (You had a job, and could buy everything you'd left behind.)

Dear Alfred and the others,

I'm sick of it. I spent years being ignored by you and left to rot, only to suddenly capture your attention the moment you saw me idolise someone that wasn't any of you. I was left behind while you socialised and you simply thought I would be OK with that, that I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Well, I didn't.

I always wondered what was wrong with me, only to find out, for once, that I wasn't the problem. Someone has been hiding my letters, feigning that nobody wanted my presence there when it had actually been requested. Nobody wanted Y/N Wayne to show up? Fine; Y/N wouldn't show up.

Silver Swan would.

I sewed my identity together using blackmail and bobby pins while you masked my noise with your stomping feet and banging fists on doors. I had no idea it was possible to be louder than my sewing machine, and yet you proved me wrong. Thank you for the cover story.

You began your pursuit of me after I mentioned and emulated Silver Swan. It probably made you bite your tongues with rage. How dare I fawn over the girl who glue Damian to the floor and was personally responsible for making him need a haircut? Why was I not loyal to this family?

I put up with hair braiding from Barbara, Stephanie, and Cassandra, tolerated eating breakfast with Damian, and suffered through Dick giving me a suffocating amount of Nightwing merch. But I'm done. Birds need to fly freely, and my people need me.

You guys clearly don't.

Sincerely,

Y/N Wayne, AKA Silver Swan.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14 <- You are finished.

Taglist: @tinybrie, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @simpingfor-wakasa, @kittzu, @simpingpandas, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @galaxypurplerose, @wisefuncherryblossom, @vanessa-boo, @deathbynarcisstick, @sirenetheblogger, @asillysimp, @toxicvoidsstuff, @kneelforloki, @trashlanternfish360, @tsxukikami, @lovebug-apple, @blackhood1229.

OK, folks, this train had to stop eventually! Thank you for sticking around for so long, and look out for my next multi-part series, Frozen Heart!

[ianenjoyer]

what's great about the brain damage that i got from watching this show at a crucial time in my development is that it never really goes away. it'll lay dormant for months sure but it gets activated so easily like a sleeper cell and then all of a sudden i'm on netflix dot come slash shameless and i see ian and i'm like OUGHHHHHH -100 health

[izzy-b-hands]

I will be forever grateful i can be on this new med. it's one a lot of folks also need and can struggle to have access to! It's important i be on it, especially if i start doing any vid collabs

(some of which, really, all of which, i unfortunately actually need to cancel that were in the preplanning stages, bc the election results have me wanting to wait and see how the general atmosphere of the country is before i agree to meet up with anyone. I feel bad for cancelling, but also i just can't know for sure how safe things are/might be going forward and I'd rather avoid the potential of. ya know. various not great things that could happen at a meet up, tho i would certainly hope they wouldn't. i don't feel like actually addressing them rn, u guys know what i mean)

That said, if the truvada initial side effects could fuck off asap would be so lovely. three weeks at worst, then they should be gone/much better or so i am told. really hope that's true bc losing my mornings to being dizzy and nauseous is Not Working for me lmao. im on week two, and now understand why my new doc said to call if i needed any 'cheerleading' and support to get thru the side effects, bc apparently she's done that for several ppl to make sure they actually make it thru the three weeks and keep on it (lovely of her!!)

[light-wrath-paradise]

If Carpenter finds out about what happened to Vaughan I'll start crying. Let her live in the uncertainty and the idea that maybe her friend really did make it and is living the life Paige is (which is a nightmare ngl but it seems like in the world of TSV you can't get a lesser nightmare than what Paige is living through).

[homunculus-argument]

Have you ever thought of something in your own worldbuilding that you didn't intentionally plan, but just connect the dots afterwards like "wait, that actually checks out"?

Like in the story of the Book I Am Not Working On, there's the fisher folk. They don't fish, actually, they live in diaspora and nobody really knows why they're called that, anymore. They're more known for their numerous, strict and often seemingly random and nonsensical ritual purity rules, and stereotypically having absurdly large numbers of children. The twist is, they don't actually have more children than any other peoples of the Empire, their purity rules just ensure that they maintain higher levels of physical hygiene in everything to do with childbirth and handling infants - and therefore have a lower infant mortality than other peoples.

The "why do these people have huge families" thing also had another side: Fetishisation. The fisher folk's purity rules also involve no sex outside of marriage, and there's a myth on top of the stereotype that the reason why they seem to have a massive amount of kids is because their husbands are so good in bed that their wives cannot turn them down even if they're 100% done having kids. And since fisher folk do not have sexual relations outside of marriage, no outsider has had enough fisher dick to verify this.

But while they are loyal to partners, they are also polygamous, both ways around. A perfectly normal fisher marriage arrangement may feature a man and his two wives, and his second wife's first husband. One household may cover seven married partners, and all their mutual children. It's considered taboo to pry into which kids are "really" whose, paternity is unknowable and unless you were close enough to the family to know which one of the wives gave birth, the biological mother is none of your business either. Every partner in the marriage is equally a parent to each child born within it.

And this is where my own "wait hold on" comes in. Besides the lower mortality, the illusion of fishers having insane amounts of kids may also partially come from the way their families are structured. If you've just met a group of five people you don't know anything about, and they all claim that they have nine children each, it wouldn't cross your mind that they might all be claiming the same nine children.

[joycrispy]

One thing I love about Crowley --never stated, but consistently shown-- is that he is, at heart, an engineer.

I have a few different things to say about that. Let's unpack them.

As the Unnamed Angel, we see his designs for the Pillars of Creation are millions of pages long, comprised of cramped text, footnotes, diagrams, schematics, etc. It's very...Renaissance polymath, in the way it implies a particular intersection of artist and inventor.

Also: in the naked romanticism with which he views his stars.

We already knew he made stars, but in s2 we learn that he did NOT sculpt each of them by hand. He designed a nebula ("a star factory," he says) that will form several thousand young stars and proto-planets, and all --aside from getting the 'factory' running-- without him lifting a finger. We also learn that these young stars and proto-planets stand in contrast to those made by other angels, which are going to come 'pre-aged.'

...I'm reminded of Hastur and Ligur's approach to temptations. Damning one human soul at a time, devoting singular attention to it over the course of years or decades, and how that stands in contrast to Crowley's reliance on, quote, 'knock-on effects.'

Ligur: It's not exactly...craftsmanship. Crowley: Head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there.

Hm.

I'm also reminded of the M25.

The M25 may not be as grand as a nebula (sentences you only say in GOmens fandom...), but LIKE his nebula it's an intricate, self-sustaining engine that does Crowley's work for him, many times over. Again.

That's some pretty neat characterization --and so is the indication towards Crowley's disinterest in victimizing anyone tempting individual people. It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort (and creeping about in wellies), but in accordance with his design the M25 generates a constant stream of low-grade evil on a gigantic scale.

Cumulatively gigantic, that is. Individually? Negligible.

But no other demon understands human nature well enough to parse that one million ticked-off motorists are not, in any meaningful way, actually equivalent to one dictator, or one mass-murderer, or even one little influential regressive. That's the trick of it. Crowley gets Hell's approval (which he NEEDS to survive, and to maintain the degree of freedom he's eked out for himself), and at the same time ensures that any actual ~Evil Influence~ is spread nice and thin.

It's some clever machinery. And he knows it, too:

The Unnamed Angel and Crowley are both proud of their ideas.

(musings on professional pride, Leonardo da Vinci, the crank handle, and 'the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale' under the cut)

In the 1970's Crowley gives a presentation on the M25, projector and all, to a room full of increasingly impatient demons. Maybe the presentation was work-ordered; the 'can I hear a WAHOO?' definitely wasn't.

Before the Beginning, the Unnamed Angel can barely contain his excitement about his nebula. Aziraphale manages a baffled-but-polite, "....That's nice... :)"

11 years ago, Hastur and Ligur want to 'tell the deeds of the day,' and Crowley smiles to himself because (according to the script-book) he knows he has 'the best one.'

(Naturally, his 'deed' has nothing to do with tempting anybody, and everything to do with setting up a human-powered Rube-Goldberg machine of petty annoyance. Oodles of 'Evil' generated; very little harm done.)

Hastur and Ligur don't get it, of course. That's also consistent.

Nobody ever knows what the hell he's talking about.

It didn't make it on-screen, but, in both the novel AND the script-book, Crowley was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. The quintessential Renaissance polymath. That's where he got his drawing of the Mona Lisa --they're getting very drunk together, and Crowley picks up the 'most beautiful' of the preliminary sketches. He wants to buy it. Leonardo agrees almost off-the-cuff, very casual, because they're friends, and because he has bigger fish to fry than haggling over a doodle:

He goes, "Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you?" Because he's an engineer, too.

(It is 1519 at the latest, in this scene. Why the FUCK would Crowley know about helicopters, and be able to explain them, comprehensively, to Leonardo da Vinci?

...Well. I choose to believe he got bored one day and worked it out. Look, if you know how to build a nebula, you can probably handle aerodynamics. And anyway, I think it's telling that this is his idea of shooting the shit. 'A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,' and all. He probably babbled about Aziraphale long enough to make poor Leo sick)

Apart from Aziraphale, Leonardo da Vinci is the only person Crowley has any keepsakes or mementos of.

Think about that, though. Aziraphale's bookshop is bursting with letters, paintings, busts, and personalized signatures memorializing all the humans he's known and befriended over 6000 years (indeed: Aziraphale has living human friends up and down Whickber Street. He's part of a community).

Crowley doesn't have any of that. It's just the stone albatross from the Church (for pining), the infamous gay sex statue (for spicy pining), the houseplants (for roleplaying his deepest trauma over and over, as one does), and this one piece of artwork, inscribed, "To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V."

To me, at least, that suggests a level of attachment that seems to be rare for Crowley.

...Maybe he liked having someone to talk shop with? Someone who was interested? Someone engaged enough to ask questions when they didn't immediately understand?

...Anyway.

There's also the matter of the crank handle.

This thing:

This is one of the subtler changes from the book. In the book, Crowley knows Satan is coming and, desperate, arms himself with a tire iron. It's the best he can do. He's not Aziraphale; he wasn't made to wield a flaming sword.

The show, IMO, improves on this considerably. Now he, like Aziraphale, gets to face annihilation with what he was made for in his hand. And it's not a weapon, not even an improvised one like the tire iron.

He made stars with it.

[both gifs by @fuckyeahgoodomens]

If you Google 'crank handle,' you'll get variations on this:

Crank handles have been around for centuries. Consisting of a mechanical arm that's connected to a perpendicular rotating shaft, they are designed to convert circular motion into rotary or reciprocating motion.

Which is to say they're one of the 'simple machines,' like a lever or a pulley; the bread and butter of engineering. You'll also get a list of uses for a crank handle, archaic and modern. Among them: cranking up the engine of an old-fashioned car... say, a 1933 Bentley. That's what Crowley has been using his for, lately. But he's had it since he was an angel and he's still, it seems, very capable of it's angelic applications.

Stopping time. For instance.

(This is conjecture on my part, but, I like to imagine that Crowley has the ability to stop time for the same reason I can --and should-- unplug my computer before I perform maintenance on it. Time and Space are a matched set, after all, and in his designs in particular, one feeds into the other.)

I know everyone has already said this, but: I REALLY LIKE that when he needs to channel the heights of his power, he does so not with a weapon but with a tool. Practically with a little handheld metaphor for ingenuity. One from long-lost days when he made beautiful things.

(And he loved it. Still loves it --he incorporated that metaphor into the Bentley, didn't he?)

Let Aziraphale rock up to the apocalypse with a weapon: he has his own compelling thematic reasons to do exactly that. Crowley's story is different, and fighting isn't the only way to express defiance. And if you've been condemned as a demon and assumed to be destructive by your very nature, what better way than this?

He made stars. They didn't manage to take that from him.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are fighters, really --they have no intention of fighting in any war. They'll annoy everyone until there's no war to fight in, for a start. But between the two, if one must be, then that one is Aziraphale. Principality of the Earth, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword... all that stuff. Even if he'd prefer not to, it's very clear that Aziraphale can rise to the occasion, if he must.

Crowley was never that kind of angel. He wasn't a Principality. He doesn't have a sword.

...And yet.

It's Crowley who protects. He's the one who paces, who stands guard, who circles Aziraphale and glares out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near.

In light of everything else I've said here, I think that's interesting.

Obviously part of it is that Aziraphale enjoys it and, you know, good for him. He's living his best life, no doubt no doubt no doubt. But what about Crowley? What's driving that behavior, really?

Have you heard the phrase, 'loved to the point of invention'? Well, what if 'the point of invention' was where you started? What if where you end up involves glaring out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near? What is that, in relation to the bright-eyed thing you used to be?

What do we name the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale?

...Thinking about how an excitable angel with three million pages of star design he wants to tell you all about...becomes a guard dog. Is all.

[inkskinned]

the problem is that being single is seen as the consolidation prize, and not the natural neutral state of being-a-person. at the end of the movie or the book or the poetry, there is a person waiting for you at the altar, and they love you. if the play is a comedy, everyone gets married. the metaphor is about how you are not-whole. the metaphor is about how everyone is going to be happily-ever-after. the metaphor is that romantic love is the most important resource on the planet, not just all-love. all-love is not a thing, that is a disappointment. the treasure is not the friends we made along the way. the treasure is the girl you landed.

the metaphor is that you cannot be alone, that means you are broken. are you getting over someone? that is acceptable, you can be getting over someone, but not for long. you must be single because you would rather not be single. you must be single and looking to not-be-single. you must want to date, eventually.

friendship and community are never seen as being equal-to or even-better than romantic connection. that person is your one! you need to find them. you need to hunt through the sand particles until you can shift out some kind of gem. this is regardless to your own experience of the beach and the sun. you need to be somewhere with someone.

if you are taking this time alone to heal, that is so sad. everyone gives you this little pitying look. the understanding is that you are not actually happier than you were before you were single. it is seen as a sort of pity - oh, you are choosing yourself, making yourself the priority? - that isn't quite right. you must mean that you are making yourself ready for the right person. you are just laying the bed better this time. open up your heart. you'll find them, we promise!

what do you mean you're really-truly genuinely-very happy? you are probably misremembering what it was like to be in a relationship. and besides, once you meet your person, that time will look grey and bland and wasted. your person is the only way for you to see in color. so what if you have taken this time - for the first time in your entire life - to actually-for-real do the fucking work. you can be proud of yourself, sure. but the way we need to know that you got better is that you get a partner. you're healed enough for the next bad part!

people don't choose to be single, they just say they're choosing to be single - they actually mean "nobody wants to date me." it doesn't matter how many people you have gently rejected or how many times you've talked it over carefully in therapy. what matters is that you are single, and by all accounts - that means you are something worth our pity. your successes and life all seem pale in the sunlight. sure, you have done amazing things and finally found your way in life. what matters is that there wasn't a person in the room with you while you did it.

you want to tell them - that's the whole thing. i didn't know how to be alone in the room. i didn't know how to handle the silence. every moment was so sharp, and i kept choosing the wrong way to close the door. i have spent my entire life in the empty well, living in the ricochet of someone else's cruelty. for once i have built myself a ladder. for once everything i taste is all mine, every bite of sunshine and laughter. i have learned how to sleep out in the open with my memories. recently, they have started to purr.

your father rolls his eyes. listen. this isn't about you. i just want a grandchild in my future.

[felassan]

David Gaider on Fenris, under a cut for length:

"Fenris. Now, DA2 is a story all on its own but I'm not going to go there other than to sum it up as "we had just over a year and a half to make this". It's why I only wrote one follower, Fenris, and although it'll make his fans mad: I probably shouldn't have. Let me explain. The way we'd approach making the followers is brainstorming a list of concepts covering first the array of gameplay classes (and sub-classes) and then making sure they each have some skin in the game when it came to the story's conflicts - ideally having characters on both sides of the major ones. Why? You can't make a player care about the world, but you can make them care about characters who care about the world. It's the easiest way to provide hooks into a conflict, outside of it knocking on the player's door. Heck, it's probably better than that. Players will burn the world for approval. After that, we'd decide things like romances/sexuality. Then the writers would pick who they'd write. I always let my writers pick first. I figured they do their best work when it's something they're inspired to write... and they got so few chances at ownership, I wanted to give it whenever I could It's why I (reluctantly) let Patrick wrest Cole from my grasp in DAI, a character I'd created in Asunder. It's also why I let Jennifer take Anders in DA2, who I'd started in Awakening. In this instance, it meant I was left with the angry elven warrior character who nobody else appeared to want."

"It should have been my first clue that something was up. The second was how the artists had zero clue what to do with him. The art concepts were all over the place - from mages to crows to... well, even weirder. No matter how hard I tried to explain the idea, the artists simply didn't seem to get it Does this mean he was a bad character? Not exactly. Just an idea that probably deserved some re-examining. You can tell when an idea has a certain spark, and part of that is being easy to communicate. Sadly, there wasn't time for any re-examining even if it'd occurred to me. And it didn't, not yet. If it had, if I had time, maybe I'd have re-booted him as a templar. Someone pro-templar rather than anti-mage, who could give a personal hook into Meredith and give the templars some badly-needed humanity. But this falls into the shoulda-woulda-coulda category. I had a follower to write. Quickly. I struggled, at first. It was hard to get away from "Fenris hates everything, all the time". It felt very one-note, and I didn't know where to take him. My third clue, I guess. I also wasn't sure if I was the right person to write a former slave. I did know that couldn't be the center of his story. I did know trauma, however. How it can eat you up. How the hate and resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. How it can infect your relationships. Fenris's trauma isn't my trauma, obviously, but here I dipped into a more personal part of myself than I'd ever done before."

"It gave me the center of his story I was missing, but wow was it uncomfortable. In a good way, maybe. I likely wouldn't have, if I hadn't been so desperate. In a way, I think DA2 had some of our best writing *because* of the timeline. It was raw, with little time to sand down the interesting parts. I wouldn't have done the "Fenris doesn't talk to you for three years" thing if I'd known we were going to cut all the reactivity initially planned for the time jumps. When that call was made, I campaigned to cut the jumps to a year, but there was no time for the revisions it'd need. So, um. Awkward. I used to get asked where the name came from, and I... don't remember? Obviously it's derived from Fenrir, but I don't recall why we picked that. Someone pointed at Fenris the Feared from Joe Abercrombie's books... and I did read them, so maybe the name lodged in my head? Wouldn't be the first time. Casting Fenris turned out to be easy. He was the first time I requested a specific VA and got him. (The other times were Merrill and then Solas, my two "I want these specific Welsh actors, please".) Why? OK, if you must know, I'd played a bit of Final Fantasy XII. I heard Balthier. "Yes, that." 😅 And Gideon Emery was a delight, as it turned out. Consummate professional, and that lovely gravel in his voice... good god. Bite the knuckles. There was a struggle to find the voice at the outset where I did my best not to say "just pls do Balthier" but he found Fenris on his own and it was amazing. Overall, Fenris turned out better than he had any right to, considering the rocky start. He had a lot of soul, a vulnerability forged by pain that struck a chord with a lot of players, and I'm glad. Do I regret anything? Probably having him live in a corpse-filled mansion that would never update. That's a hindsight thing, though, as again the cut to reactivity over the time jumps came late. Outside of that, maybe letting the player give him back to Danarius? Poor shock value and a waste of resources because almost nobody took the option. Good evil options are ones that are tempting to take. And the lyrium tattoos. Interesting concept, but they're probably why you'll never see Fenris in a future DA. He requires a custom body, and the tattoos make that expensive. It's why I put Fenris in my 4th DA novel - the cancelled one. Don't fret, though. He died in it, so this way he lives on. 😉"

[source thread]

User: "Wait wait how does he die in [the cancelled novel]??" David Gaider: "Gloriously, after taking up a cause he didn't believe in at first but then made his own, one that allowed him to rediscover what it meant to be elven." [source] David Gaider: "I’m not sorry about the novel cancellation. I’m the one who cancelled it. I am kinda sad we couldn’t make it work, though. Considering it was after I left the DA team, it would have been my final DA hurrah." [source] David Gaider: "From my perspective, it was kind of "well if you're never going to use him again, let me at least give him a proper send off" and the story required a glorious death... but I get that's not the story his biggest fans would want (which is Hawke + Fenris 4ever), so it's just as well." [source]

User: "You all did some incredible work with such a tight deadline" David Gaider: "I'm of the opinion that even if we'd had only another six months to bake, DA2 would be remembered as a classic and not either a flawed gem or underbaked sequel, depending on who you ask." [source]

David Gaider: "Just to clarify the "they're probably why you'll never see Fenris" thing, as it's spawned commentary: 1. It's the reasoning as was explained to me back then. 2. Obviously, if Bio *really* wanted to, they'd find a way around it. But it was a complication that meant he couldn't be included casually." [source]

[womanofwords]

Everybody's Favourite (Part 1)

Everything turned upside-down when the principal pulled you out of class when you were seven years old. You'd been colouring nicely when she came in.

"Y/N, I'd like to talk to you," she said. "Could you come with me?"

"Have I done something wrong?" you asked.

"No, dear. Just get your stuff."

You collected your things and went with her, where a police officer was waiting. "Here's Y/N, officer," she said to him. That was when you learned, in a haze of horror, that your dear mother had died while you were colouring in class without a care in the world. Car accident.

"Not to worry, she made arrangements as to who would look after you in the event of this happening," the police officer said. "Your biological father . . . Bruce Wayne."

So off you went to your new home, away from your friends and old neighbourhood and everything you'd ever known, and towards the figure known as Bruce Wayne.

The first thing you noticed about your father was that he was, obviously, very rich. All his cars were the fancy ones you used to stare at with your mom when you would walk together.

When you arrived, you had all sorts of questions for your father. "How did you meet my mother? Why didn't you talk to me before this? Did you like spending time with her?"

"I'm rather busy, Y/N. I'll show you to your room," Bruce said, escorting you to a guest bedroom. "We can decorate it later."

Later never came.

After a few weeks, you met his other kids, Dick, Jason, Tim, Barbara, Cass, and Stephanie. They all looked so cool, like teenagers from a movie. But they always had to 'do stuff'.

"What kind of stuff?" you asked.

"They're a part of scholarships for gifted students," Bruce said, before any of them could say anything. "I happen to be privately tutoring them."

"Oh. So you spend time with them because they're talented?"

"You could put it that way."

That revelation lit a fire underneath you. If your father wanted talented kids, then you would have to be a talented kid.

In everything you could get your hands on.

You became a polyglot, devouring different languages like nobody's business. You took part in gymnastics, just like Dick, and also track. You got straight As in everything, forcing yourself to study night after night. You read the same classic books Jason loved so you could (hopefully) have something to bond with him over. You took some coding classes so you had something to talk about with Tim.

Alfred became a consistent source of comfort, bringing you food and making sure that you didn't over work yourself. He came to every event you had, loyally videotaping it for future viewing.

Nobody cared to look at the tapes. Nobody watched you collect your awards for fastest times, or graduate early as valedictorian. Nobody listened to your headmaster sing your praises as he listed your various scholastic accomplishments.

Damian was the worst. The moment he met you, it was clear that he would hate you until he died. He looked at you with such disgust, such contempt for your existence. Once, he cornered you with a katana that he held so close to your neck that you were cut. Another time, he sicced Titus onto you, leading to a nasty bite mark on your arms when you put them up to defend yourself.

"Titus mauling you would have been an improvement to the Wayne bloodline," he sneered, as you bawled your eyes out. "When are you going to get it through your simple-minded skull that we don't care what happens to you? It's annoying to hear you chatter to us and make conversation about being head of your class and breaking sports records. We all scoff about it when we're on patrol."

Your throat went dry. "Patrol?"

"Of course. Father, Dick, Jason, Stephanie, and myself all have our own alter egos. I am by my father's side cleaning the streets of scumbags as Batman and Robin while you are trying to be top of your stupid little class." He punched you in the stomach, hard. "Honestly, it's a relief to get away from you and your nauseating neediness."

Alfred came to console you after the fact, but he wouldn't hear a word against Damian for hurting you, or Bruce for letting it happen. "Master Damian has had a . . . difficult life, Y/N," he said. "And Bruce's childhood was by no means easy."

You gave up on your family after that. Nobody really wanted you, and Damian actively hated you.

You were nobody's favourite.

Part 1 <- You are here

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

[thealexchen]

Why Dontnod's games feel original and inspired (and why Deck Nine's games don't)

So, I've talked at length about how Double Exposure feels much more like a corporate product than a playable piece of art entertainment [My initial thoughts on the DE trailer] [My thoughts on the early access paywall] [My thoughts on the weird marketing].

But now with the release of Lost Records, I feel like I have no choice but to confront the question: were any of Deck Nine's games truly original or inspired in any way? And honestly, I have to say no.

Objectively, I could say it's because Deck Nine literally has not produced any original IP's since their rebrand from Idol Minds in 2017. Their only narrative adventure games are all part of the LiS franchise. But even their most original game, True Colors, pretty obviously follows the first game's narrative formula (young woman with a superpower investigates a sudden disappearance/death in a small town with a dark secret, has two opposite sex love interests, learns about a twist villain, is nearly murdered, and goes through a psychological nightmare in the last episode) to a tee. But oh look, there's also a LARP!

But I believe there's more to it than that, because when I look at Dontnod's games, they are always inspired by other works. Life is Strange 1 plays very clear homage to Twin Peaks with the Pacific Northwest setting and Rachel Amber resembling Laura Palmer. Max Caulfield is named after the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, another novel about the fleeting innocence of childhood and superficiality of society. Life is Strange borrows tropes from Donnie Darko, Groundhog Day, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stand By Me, and even Blue is The Warmest Color for its themes and plot points. Just take a look at its "Shout-out" page on TV Tropes. And the result is... something completely original, with riveting plot twists, memorable characters, and an ending that will make you cry.

This shouldn't make sense, right? You'd think this big soup of references would turn into an indistinguishable mess of cliches, but Life is Strange managed to be a synthesis of everything the writers loved and were inspired by, to become something completely new. Why? Because nobody had tried to take Twin Peaks, Donnie Darko, and The Catcher in the Rye and turn it into a video game before! And make it gay!

The point being, Dontnod consistently makes original material because they take creative risks. This is definitely not done lightly, since they still need to be a company that generates profit, but they still prioritize making art over selling out. Their stories feel inspired because they are inspired; when writers love what they're writing about, the result is a passion project that has loving, clever nods to all the works that are woven into it.

So perhaps a way to reword that first question is to then ask, "Have Deck Nine's games ever been inspired by anything?" And unfortunately, the answer is still no. Instead, they just copy what they hope will sell well. And a bland imitation for the sake of generating profit is never going to produce anything that feels original.

This takes me back to Lost Records, which is also clearly inspired by the same works: Twin Peaks, It: Chapter One, The Craft, The Blair Witch Project, The Goonies, Stand By Me. But again, no other game studio besides Dontnod has ever looked at these works and thought, "But what if it starred teenage lesbians instead?" Or, more specifically: "How do we capture the spirit of what made these media great and incorporate that into a new story for a new audience?" And those characters have so much thought and care poured into them too: while I've been disappointed that Double Exposure Max looks airbrushed to hell and back, I love that the Bloom & Rage girls have asymmetrical faces, acne, freckles, body hair, skin discoloration, and diverse body types. Double Exposure is marketed as nostalgia bait for fans, where Max is reduced to a prettied-up, polished-up, representation of nostalgia, not even her own character anymore, in a game that otherwise has no connection to the original. Her quips are reduced to "Hey! Remember our good ol', dad-joke cracking, dorky Max Caulfield??" and her grief is shoved aside for "Hey, look at that appealing new love interest! Because we knoooow y'all love your sapphic romance, right?"

By contrast, Lost Records has only been out for 10 days, but I already feel like the girls are some of the most memorable characters I've come across in gaming for the niche they fill. Swann seems like your typical Max-like dork, except she's also a movie buff and giddy about bugs, horror, and the paranormal; and has clearly been affected by her mother's fatphobic beliefs. Autumn is a level-headed leader who always stuck to her desire to help others, and her Blackness naturally informs her desire to feel valued and not cause trouble in a small, very white, conservative town. Nora intrigues me so much for going from a fun-loving rebel punk teen to a more gender-conforming, capitalist-leaning, influencer businesswoman. And Kat feels like an evolution of Chloe's cynicism, where her scrappy charm belies an almost unsettling obsession with the occult and a deep, tragic chasm of rage at having to confront her mortality far too young. They make sense. They feel carefully written, genuine, and like real people.

But most of all, Dontnod's games have never felt like products. In fact, most of their characters have historically gone against the grain of what traditionally "marketable" characters are. The first LiS took all these aforementioned stories about straight white men and chose to remix and retell it through the eyes of a young, queer, time-traveling girl instead. Tell Me Why is the first AAA game with a trans protagonist, and Tyler is voiced by a trans actor in all the language dubs. Lost Records decided that it would tell its story through four queer teenage girls, with women writers onboard, and fucking own it. As long as Dontnod keeps making games that stick to their creative integrity, I'll keep respecting their vision in whatever they decide to create next. Also, maybe I should finally watch Twin Peaks.

Thank you for reading!

[orteil42]

some undifferentiated thoughts about my Starfield playthrough as i have them. i am a game developer with a strong interest in procedural generation and i've enjoyed a bunch of other bethesda games so this might get pretty mean sorry

(this is a long one)

starfield dialogue is already exhausting me "oh you must've been living under a moon rock ;)" get it! because they're in space! this would've been too corny for the Jetsons

there's a kind of cheap dusting of space theme over everything. the food isn't salmon but alien salmon. it's not seaweed but alien seaweed. cooking alien stir-fry. come on

cannot get over how clumsily the theming is handled. books, board games, weapon names revolve heavily around space. these people have been living on alien planets for hundreds of years yet have this unending sense of novelty about it. the game takes itself completely seriously but feels like it's attempting to parody itself

people's EYEBALLS are CLIPPING THROUGH THEIR EYELIDS

a woman is speaking to me in french. her accent is about as believable as her haircut

these are some of the worst reflection maps i've ever seen

next to nothing is interactive. you can sit in chairs and sleep in beds and that is about it. can't even drink from people's toilets. disgraceful

game helpfully crashes 5 seconds after i decide i should get some sleep. very handy!

my character has not said a single thing since i started playing. not one peep. this is an unmitigated improvement over Fallout 4 i'm so glad honestly

the more i poke around the big city the more the NPC quips feel like something out of gen-1 pokemon. can't get enough of this coffee :) this city is where it's at :) spacesuits are comfy and easy to wear

very strange sense of altered reality from the quest dialogue too. has anyone at bethesda met a person before? i move on to some mission that has me scanning wildlife on a faraway planet hoping this will, somehow, feel less alien than human conversation

just as with No Man's Sky, every planet is uniformly dotted with equidistantly-placed points of interest that you slowly make your way to (no vehicles besides your jetpack) which always turn out to be some cave or building identical to those you've cleared before

unlike with No Man's Sky, the seamless exploration is faked and the biodiversity is nil. you do get an impressive amount of raw loading screens however

the prefab bases and power stations found everywhere on planets seem to have very sparse, very specific slots for spawning consumables, which results in encountering some giant industrial installation in the middle of nowhere with, i don't know, a loaf of whole-grain sandwich bread just casually sitting next to it all proper. there is no breathable atmosphere here. who is eating this

planetary traversal is a CHORE. i am saying this as someone who loved Death Stranding

heinous "hold to confirm" buttons sprinkled in various flow-breaking places throughout the interface

enemy AI is abominable. nobody is pathing their way to get my ass. "must've been the wind" taken to the next level. an infant playing peekaboo has more object permanence

hoisting yourself up on ledges when jumping is…nice

companions randomly nowhere to be found. persists through multiple fast-travels and loading screens until, just as randomly, they pop back up

storage space is now limited! unlike in Fallout 4 and virtually every other bethesda game, your containers now hold a finite item capacity. god forbid we let the player have fun

baffling inventory UI. i imagine there's a mod out there that completely overhauls it the way SkyUI did for Skyrim. this should not be needed! how are your UIs getting worse a decade later!

scanning the precious few species inhabiting some dusty planet; one of them is this arching red root i've already seen several times before. my job done in this biome, i travel (read: teleport with a loading screen) to the polar region to find some other species. the first one i catalogue is the exact same red root again but this time it's named "boreas root" todd howard is a genius

some alien horror comes at me full fangs out. i hop on a pebble. obscenely, i am safe

procedural terrain generation beyond dull, impossibly unimaginative. these people have not had one critical thought on what makes a procedural world interesting. beginning to feel validated in my belief that only i should be trusted with proc gen. along with perhaps tarn adams

jokes aside this is making me feel genuinely insane. there have been excellent procedural generation techniques that produce compelling explorable maps for decades now. bethesda absolutely has the budget and know-how to do miles better than this yet somehow they just…do not? the same way Pokemon has decided to just no longer bother with their mainline games despite being the highest-grossing media franchise in history? hello? what is for real going on

some of the most cynical breadcrumbing i've seen in years. approaching some random cave and this person in space gear, who in the vast immensity of the infinite cosmos just happens to be snapping pictures right here, tells me more-or-less verbatim "if you like this place, you should see this other place" [other random cave has been added to your map.]

i do not like how good this makes No Man's Sky's gameplay look. it depresses me how much i have to hand it to No Man's Sky for at least not fucking up this bad. please stop making me wish i was playing No Man's Sky instead this is grotesque

i think i've exhausted my interest and patience for this game at the moment. i'll get back to the main story at some point and try some other systems ie. crafting and base-building to see if there's any engagement to be found but so far, my god. my god

[tacticaldiary]

A Cracked And Fissured Door

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking."

It stings, if she's being honest. Being kept at an arms length when in public. Most people know about them, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

Masterlist

"If he sends us out before next week I'm quitting." Soap groans, back cracking as he flops down forward on the bar. "Three ops in a week? What do I look like, a machine?"

Gaz snickers, raising his glass to that. "Bloody might well be at this point."

She hides a smile behind her own drink, leaning back into the bar. They had done three ops in a week, mission after mission after mission. It had been pretty rough, just as Soap said and she was more than ready to crash and burn and sleep for three days straight but abandoning their tradition of getting drinks at this specific bar everything Saturday was not something anyone on the 141 was willing to break.

"Just be glad we got the weekend off." Ghost says from beside her. She smiles warmly at him, is rewarded with a slightly blank look.

The flicker of her smile is hid behind another sip.

"Betcha your gonna take advantage of that, eh?" Soap nudges her, looking pointedly between her and Ghost. The latter rolls his eyes and says nothing.

"Only thing I'm looking forward to is an actual mattress." She knocks back the last of her drink and stands, shrugging Gaz's arm slung over her shoulder. "Speaking of which, I think it's about time we call it a night." Casting a glance at her boyfriend, who merely nods in confirmation and pushes the stool back himself, she nods at the others. "Don't cause too much trouble, boys. Text us when you're home safe, yeah?"

"We just got shot at for a week, don't think a car ride home is gonna be the end of us." Soap snorts.

"You never know." Is all she says before stepping out of the bar with Ghost, who offers her her coat to shrug on.

"Hell of a week." She comments, glancing at him gratefully as she shrugs on the warm fabric.

"Just glad it's over," Simon says simply.

Walking back to their car, she can't help but cast quiet glances at him as they walk. She knows Ghost notices them, chooses to keep looking ahead and keep the silence.

Truth be told, she aches to touch him.

Aches to feel his skin on hers, to feel the callouses of his hands brush against hers. His heat, ever all-encompassing makes her feel safe in a way no bulletproof vest ever could.

"Think I might ask Price to assign me desk duty for a while." She jokes, knocking their shoulders together gently.

To the untrained eye, to someone who might not have been tuned to what makes Simon Simon, it wouldn't have been noticeable, but he leans subtly away so they don't touch again.

She doesn't mention it, but it makes her heart heavy.

It's nothing new. She's not sure why she's even surprised anymore.

Trying again, her arm hangs beside her, purposefully brushing against his gloves. The frown on her face deepens when he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Maybe it's the exhausting week she's had, but it gets to her, infects her heart, mind, and soul with the insecurity she keeps locked behind a cracked and fissured door in her mind.

It stings, if she's being honest.

He's not the most...social person. Closed off and private, but baring her soul to someone she loves and getting so little in return...

Being kept at an arm's length when in public, even though their relationship is not a secret. Most people know, actually, so she's not sure why he's so...cold and distant when they're not alone.

The car ride home is silent, but not in a comfortable way their quiet is usually shared. Simon seems to pick up on it, because he grips the steering wheel a little too hard, the tension in his shoulders a little too foreign.

Gaz had no problem touching her. A friendly punch to the arm, an arm around her shoulder. Soap was a touchy person by nature, nudging her and ruffling her hair.

So why was it that Simon always pulled away?

The one person who should love her the most, who should be proud of loving her...why does he pull away and pretend this thing between them doesn't exist.

She doesn't get it, hasn't understood for the past two years they've been together. Pushing was not something she'd considered given his stubbornness and private nature, but there's no denying she's always felt a twinge of hurt whenever he disregards her in public.

Was he...ashamed? Of her? Did he not want to be seen with her?

The thought latches itself onto her, sucking away the usual confidence she carries and leaving her a nervous mess. It makes her sick. Before she knows it they're back home but she can't find herself to walk any farther than the front door that's shut behind her.

He doesn't comment on it, just casts her an inquisitive look before moving to the kitchen in view.

Simon always did like a cup of tea before bed.

"Simon?" The word comes out a little garbled, caught in her indecision, and morphed into something muffled. He hears it, because of course he does, and hums. Doesn't look up from where he's rifling through the cupboards for his kettle.

The air is cold in her lungs, freezes up with nerves, and this is all so ridiculous. It's stupid and she shouldn't be feeling this way but she does because she just does.

Trust was a precious jewel, a diamond only given to those who trusted enough to keep it unmarred. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets, she feels like she could make millions of intricate pieces with the bits of trust she had bared for Simon to take and keep as his own.

Simon knows what she loves, what she hates, how she feels about anything and everything. The rhyme and reasons, the way she ticks, and what throws her off kilter. He knows it all, it's been given willingly and eagerly to the man who took her heart with that rough demeanour on the tarmac two years ago.

She had given him all her gems, the shiniest and the dullest ones, but he's never even been bothered to spare her a piece of coal.

When she doesn't speak immediately, he pauses his movements and sets down the kettle on the counter with a 'clink'. "What's the matter, love?" He straightens up.

"Do you want to be with me?" She blurts out, unable to fathom leaving this conversation for another day. Not when she's so worked up and hurt and feeling.

His face stays blank, and when he responds it's almost as if he's doing it carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I asked." The sides of her coat are clutched with a knuckle-white grip, nausea making her an inch away from ruining the lovely carpet they'd picked out together when they'd first moved in.

Simon furrows his brows. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's not what I asked." Unease starts to curl up in her gut. "Do you like me, Simon?"

"Of course I fucking like you, what are you talking about?"

"You sure don't act like it."

There.

It's in the open now. Simon stares at her for a moment, shocked or stunned or whatever emotion that causes him to clam up for a moment.

He never really was good at this part of their relationship, but this...it was vital. It was important because she refuses to let this problem define what they have together.

"You don't touch me when we're not alone." She starts, "You act like I'm just no one when we're out together. You barely acknowledge me any more than anybody else, pull away when I try to touch you." It feels good to let this all off her chest. Months and months of trying to figure out what was going on. "Tell me why. I just want to know why."

"I'm a private person-"

"No Simon, that's not what this is." She shakes her head, emotion rising inside her. "You just...you make me feel like you only want me when nobody's looking. Like I'm...like you want to keep me a secret."

Her eyes are glassy because saying it hurts so fucking much, but it needs to be said. It needs to be voiced, he needs to listen and acknowledge-

"You know that's not true, so it shouldn't be a bloody problem-"

"Do I?" A laugh burst out of her, unexpected and short. It's enough to cut him off, cause him to narrow his eyes. "You've never told or indicated that to me. Not once. Not in two years."

"It's common sense. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want you." She can tell he's trying to stay level, to meet her in the middle but all caution gets thrown to the wind because is he really trying to argue with her on this?

"No, it's not." She insists, trying not to raise her voice as anger bubbles up inside her. Was he not getting it? Not understanding that this was hurting her? That he was hurting her? "Sometimes I-..." She swallows, "Sometimes I'll be having a great time, like today. I'll be laughing and enjoying myself and then I'll glance at you, or try and do something as simple as brush shoulders, and I'll watch you push me away. Or pull away." Her voice waver but she fights to keep it steady. "And it makes me feel miserable because what is it about me that makes my own boyfriend not want to accidentally touch me?"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He says, hackles raised at being put on the spot like this. Ghost doesn't mean to, but this is all so new to him and the only thing he knows how to do in these rapidly changing situations is to be sharp and jagged and tense. "If you're so miserable, why are you still here?"

"Because I love you!" She cries out. "And I can't help but think that I might never get the same back from you." Her grip on her coat tightens.

There's a beat of silence.

"I never asked you to. You knew what you were getting yourself into."

His words cut through the quiet, as sharp as the blades he keeps strapped to his thigh.

"Oh, fuck you." She whispers. "Don't give me that bullshit. That's not an excuse for not trying-"

"Not trying?" His voice gets slightly louder. "I try every day. I try to be someone you deserve but you're bloody well making it difficult when-"

"Just stop!" She yells over him. "Stop. I'm not asking for something you can't give. I'm just asking for an explanation."

"I can't-"

"You can!" To her dismay, her eyes burn with tears that are bound to fall in a few seconds, but she's too far into it to turn around now. "It's been two fucking years, Simon. Two years. I've never pushed or pressured you, I've listened and sat here and tried to be the one you can come to, but you never do." She sniffles, wiping her tears away roughly.

He stays silent, visibly frustrated but letting her talk.

"Do you know what they say back at base?" She spits out. "About me? They say I've forced you into being with me." A hollow laugh. "That I've got some dirt on you that keeps you quiet, or that I'm just someone you pass the time at night with because everyone thinks that you want nothing to do with me during the day. They talk about why we're still together, why you're still with me when you clearly have no interest." Her tears are long forgotten, left to trail down her cheeks in rivers of hurt. "They say...they say I'm only on the 141 because of our relationship."

And that was what hurt the most. Her own skills undermined like that.

That startles him enough to pull his brows in confusion "I didn't know..."

"Of course you don't, why would they say it in front of the man who looks like he could snap their spines in half?"

She waits for him to speak. To say something, anything, but all he does is stare at her with those half-blank eyes that she can never decipher and it infuriates her because did he not just listen to what she's told him.

"You know what, forget it." She chokes out. "I'm done. I'm fucking done with this." She gestures to them both, vaguely watching his eyes widen with muted panic. Getting shoved into a woodchipper would be less painful than the hurt that tears through her chest, hiccupping on swallowed sobs.

"Hold on-"

"I can't be the only one keeping us both afloat." She reaches behind her for the doorknob. "I don't want that. I love you, Simon. I really do, but it hurts so fucking much when you act like I'm disposable, like you're ashamed of being seen with me."

The door is pulled open by her, and then roughly shoved shut by Simon. He moves quicker than she could register, behind the counter one moment and right in front of her the next. His hand stays firmly on the door, keeping it shut as he leans down to catch her gaze.

"Ashamed is the last thing I am about you." He says quickly, clumsily. "I-...fucking hell that's not right at all, love."

Simon is...he's panicking.

The thought strikes her immediately with the way his chest rises and falls quickly, the lack of that cold clipped grace in his voice.

"I don't care." She chokes on a cry, hands planting themselves firmly on his chest to shove him away. It's like nudging a brick wall. The man is immovable, standing in place with their bodies so close it feels like they're sharing heat. "I'm tired, and you're making it worse so let me go." He grabs her wrists, presses them against himself to keep her in place. His hands are warm, rid of the gloves he usually dons.

She's met with every inch of that scarred face of his. She hadn't noticed but he'd discarded his mask as he'd been rushing around the counter to get to her.

"Listen to me." He breathes, trying to get his thoughts straight and keep her there with him. He can't lose her, can't let her walk out the door because he's afraid that she might never come back. "Please."

It's the last word that pauses her struggle. Simon...he was someone who operated on orders and demands so the frantic and silent plea pushed into the word is enough to make her still for a moment.

And a moment is all he needs.

"I've never..." He thinks for a moment. Never has she seen him look so frazzled. He tries again. "Everyone I've ever loved has been killed." Her eyes widen at the declaration. "My family. My friends...everyone." His breath fans over her face with how he's leaned down, hot so very him. "I think I'm afraid if I show the world I love you it might try and take you from me too." Simon's voice breaks at the end, as if he's voiced something from his nightmares and despite the pain she's feeling the sound slices through her. "And I can't...I can't live with losing you too."

With bated breath, he waits for her to respond. Part of him can't bear to look her in the eyes after the admission but he finds himself staring at her face anyway, drinking in any sign of hope.

Hope. How long has it been since he's felt the warm rays of such a feeling?

Slowly, so slowly it makes his breath hitch, she tugs her hand free on his. For a moment Simon thinks she might push him away again and his heart sinks like a stone, but then her fingertips graze his face, her hands cup his cheeks and suddenly they interlock behind his head, pulling him in.

Simon crushes her into him, tucking her head under his chin with a shuddering breath of relief. He's not lost her, not completely.

Hope.

There was still such a thing for a man like him after all.

"I'm not going anywhere." She mumbles into the crook of his neck, the feeling of his lips moving on his skin sending a shiver up his spine. "I'm so sorry, Simon. If you'd told me that before I would have tried to help-..."

Simon shakes his head immediately, arms tightening around her. "I chose not to tell you. The thought of coming home and seeing you on the ground...bloody...like them." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Fuck, I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart."

Simon didn't apologise often, so when he did that means he knows he's fucked up.

She does not tell him it's alright, that she forgives him or that he's fine. Because he's not. His apology, his honesty doesn't make the months of hurt go away. It still aches at her like before, but this time the ache has a meaning behind it. It has a reason.

They hold each other for a moment, against the door, two people knee-deep in a problem that's been brewing for weeks and weeks, bubbled over the edge in the ugliest way possible.

"I need you to try." She whispers after a moment, the barest of smiles gracing her face when he nods slowly.

"I know." He says simply against her hair. Gently swaying in each other's hold, both are content to stay there for a while, to calm their racing hearts with the knowledge that the other is still there, is real and solid under their hands.

And it's enough.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Change is a slow trek to an ever extending finish line.

Simon keeps his word. If there's anything it's good at, it's resilience. Though it makes him antsy and paranoid and dare he say slightly nervous to open such a part of him to somebody again, he tries.

He tried because he'd rather saw his own arm off than be the one who gives her a reason to leave. Not her. Not the best thing that's happened to him in years, the person who's managed to wake up Simon after years of being Ghost.

A subtle brush of hands as they walk.

An arm around her shoulder while they drink.

Thighs and sides pressed together as they take their seats on a heli.

The squeeze of her knee from under the table.

It builds and builds into something warm and new and fresh, a feeling that overshadows all the worry he had about the universe having a vendetta against him because if there was one good thing that Simon Riley wanted to keep, it was her.

Their weekend is filled with conversations, real conversations about things they've kept to themselves, worries and concerns, and moments of hesitance. He tries his best, though some words die on his tongue before he can get them out. She pushes him, but never more than he can take. Heart, body, and soul, she knows him like the back of her hand but he's the only one who can truly let her into his mind.

All that aside Simon also has another more personal task to work through once their weekend is over.

After paying some not-so-nice visits to more than a dozen people (to his absolute fury), she never once hears a peep of another disgusting rumour ever again.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(26/07/2023)

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Portraits

If you have ever seen an image of royalty or nobility, it is likely in a portrait they sat for. Be it paint or photograph, these aren't just images. These are statements, these are slogans, these are reminders of one's power, one's good traits and one's wealth. So, what do we need to know about portraits?

Why are Portraits done?

Portraits are painted for all sorts of reasons but mainly it is to convey a message. Whether it is to introduce to the masses to the face that leads them or to attract a future spouse or to prove to the haters that you're just as wealthy, just as pretty, cute and just as smart as Caesar, these images are made to relay something to anybody who sees it. Of course, paintings and photographs can take ages and can be very expensive, so no royal/noble is going to drop a lot of pics of themselves. Most monarchs would release a portrait sometime after their coronation as an introduction of sorts. Some prospective brides and grooms would sit for a portrait that would bring in marriage offers. Portraits might also be painted or taken as mementos: lovers might carry miniatures of their beloved, a loyal servant might be given a portrait of their monarch, a portrait might be sent aboard to an ally as a sign of favour.

Meaning

These were the propaganda posters of the time. But slapping slogans into pictures and portraits is a little on the nose so symbolism was often used to highlight certain messages. Take the infamous Rainbow Portrait of Elizabeth I above. Not only is Elizabeth standing there in her finest drip but every inch of this portrait is a message. The snake on her sleeve, a symbol of her wisdom. The eyes on her dress, she sees all. The ears on her dress, she hears everything. Her uncovered red hair, a mark of her Tudor lineage. Her pearls, she's the Virgin Queen. That pole thingy in her hand, well it used to be a rainbow which symbolised peace and prosperity. Portraits are often choked full of the finest jewels, finest clothes but these items are often paired with symbols. Animals are often used, dogs for loyalty, horses for power etc. Stances are important. You know that one portrait of Henry VIII? That big stance with the hands on his hips, massive codpiece? All that has meaning. Colours are important, as are the placement of people in the portrait if it is a family portrait. Images could reach the illiterate which is why there are so many visual easter eggs in many portraits.

Logistics

Like I said above, these are expensive and costly - even if it is only a photograph. The sitter will have to spend hours at least getting ready, sitting for the portrait, often for multiple sessions. It can be tiring, stressful and irritating, especially if the artist is a bit of a diva or has a habit of taking ages. Large scale portraits will take longer, especially if there are a lot of sitters. These portraits, painted ones, could be done in part with the artist taking sketches of each member and then adding them in. Dead relatives could be added in or deities or mythical creatures too, if you're delulu like Henry VIII. You're looking at weeks at least of waiting, longer if the portrait is being sent from one nation to the other.

Official vs Official-ish

Most portraits you've probably seen are official, approved by the sitter to pass on a certain ideal image they want to convey. For monarchs, it's usually a portrait of them sitting on a throne or in their crown and robes. However, in more modern times, it's become more acceptable for a royal to show themselves as more human - but these images are in themselves tailored. Nobody wants to be caught on candid camera and royals especially so. Modern royals often set up photocalls - especially if they're doing something they want attention for - or release their own photographs, which are like the portraits of their ancestors are edited to fit a certain profile - happy families for example. Even an unofficial image is an official image.

Truth is in the eye of the Beholder?

As you might of guessed, portraits are lies. They are Fairytales concocted to influence, to beguile, to lure. These people aren't wearing these clothes on a day to day business. Their hair isn't that perfect, they don't wear those jewels, they certainly don't go around with tiaras from dawn to dusk. The sitters probably woke up with bad breath or just yelled at their servants or aren't as tall or good looking but these portraits aren't there for reality. When one is looking at a portrait, one must remember that.

Pride of Place?

Where might you see portraits, you're asking? At palaces, yes. But you might see them at the houses of the noble and wealthy. Portraits were often gifted to loyal servants of the Crown, a sort of "thank you for being cool" sort of gift thst you have to have on display because of the honour attached. But with so many ancestors, there may be a lot of portraits so often they might be put into storage and taken out when desired. A new war minded monarch might pick out ancestors who were warriors. A weak monarch might surround themselves with images of powerful relatives. Shameful relatives will often see their portrait stashed away.

For the @the13thhourglass

[callme-holly]

Can you please do Darrel Curtis x Wife reader, like they got married shortly before the Curtis parents death and it’s just the reader staying by Darrel throughout the grieving process and Bob’s murder and Pony and Johnny going on the lamb. And he’s like ‘why did you stay with me with all the stuff going on?’ And the reader is like ‘because I love you and I made a vow’?♥️♥️

𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 - 𝐃.𝐂

a/n: im done with exams which means im back to my usual schedule!!!

The glow from the lamp in the corner does very little to diminish the shadows looming in the corners of the room, making them all the more intimidating than usual. The silence that hangs over the house is unbearable, and everything feels as if it’s been tipped on its axis and forced to cope. 

Nobody is themselves, especially not Darry; he’s been on his way to burning out for weeks, like a candle burning down to the last few centimetres of the wick, and now the flame has finally reached the bottom. He’s sat at the table, head in his hands, glaring down at the bills spread across the surface, but you can tell he's not taking in an ounce of what’s printed on the paper. There are dark shadows under his eyes, his skin is drawn and pale, and he looks so tired that it pains you.  

“Darry,” you call out, voice cutting through the stillness in the kitchen. He doesn’t look up, simply shaking his head, brushing you   and keeping his gaze downwards. “Darrel.” You try again, the finality in your tone more insistent this time, and he lifts his eyes slightly.

"Not right now, sweetheart."  His voice sounds raw from lack of use, and your heart breaks just a bit for him. You push off of the doorframe where you were leaning, stepping towards him slowly and resting your hands on his shoulders, chin on top of his head. You don't miss the way he relaxes under you, his whole body slumping  , an exhausted sigh leaving him.

"Take a break. I'll make us dinner," you offer, giving him a squeeze. He nods slowly, swallowing  , and you finally see through the mask he's been wearing ever since the boys ran off, since Bob's face landed in the papers, "MURDERED," written in bold above. Beneath that stoic facade is a man, a kid, who's been through too much too fast, and it causes something in you to tighten.

A gentle sigh leaves you, and you move round to sit yourself in his lap, not saying anything when his arms wind around your middle immediately, clutching onto you as though there might be nothing left in this world for him to cling too tight too. Your fingers trail idly through his hair, stroking it lightly. 

"They'll come back."  Your voice is soft, calm, reassuring. "They're both smart boys. They wont be gone much longer."   His only response is a nod against your chest. You know how difficult this has been for him; losing both parents, and now his little brother is something no one should ever have to go through. It's a miracle he isn't completely breaking apart by now. 

"Soda called. He's staying with Steve tonight." You don't mention why; don't tell him that it's because he can't take the silence, the emptiness, much longer.  He doesn't need to know.

"Okay," Darry whispers into your shirt before pulling back just enough to look up at you. There's something in his eyes, an almost apologetic look that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, and your heart ache. You wish he'd just stop for a moment, lie down, sleep, rest... But asking him to do so would be futile.  No amount of begging or pleading will change his mind, especially not now.

You lean forward and catch his lips in a gentle kiss,  cupping the side of his face, thumb tracing along his jawline in a manner that's nothing but comforting. He lingers for a moment before pulling back, leaning his forehead against yours, letting out a long breath.

"I'm sorry," he mutters finally, squeezing his eyes shut. "You deserve more than this shit." You reach out and gently pull his head away, forcing his attention onto you instead of whatever he sees in his own mind.

"No. You have nothing to be sorry for," you begin, but he cuts you off sharply.

"No, hon.... I just, I don't get why you stay with me through all of this. It's just..." You watch his expression shift, becoming pensive, and your heart squeezes painfully, knowing exactly what's bothering him. 

You run your fingers through his hair again, pulling his head down so that his face is tucked in your neck once more as you rock back and forth gently.

"I'm with you because I love you, Darrel Curtis. I made a promise, a vow, to stick by you through thick and thin, and I don't break my promises."

Darry only hums in response, but you know he heard you. You know from the way he takes your hand in his rougher one, fingers lacing together, wedding rings glinting in the dim lamplight.  He squeezes softly; you're gonna be okay. Both of you. 

[discountlittlebro]

big brother this little brother that what about TWINS

twin brothers with an extremely close bond, that only strengthens when they become curious of their sexuality as they're getting older? they don't trust other people enough to let themselves be vulnerable with anyone but each other...

and it's fine, right? they've always done everything together..

They have always done everything together. They’re close, maybe closer than brothers should be. People have pointed it out before, the way they’re always together, always touching in some way. Whether they’re wrapped around each other or just touching their pinkies together on the table, it’s like they can’t handle being apart.

They tell each other everything. So it’s no shock when they’re sitting in their room, shoulders pressed together and knees knocking against one another, when they start to get curious.

“What do you think it’s like to kiss somebody?”

“I don’t know…wanna try it?”

“Is that something we can do?”

“It’s just a kiss, right? It’s not a big deal.”

It’s messy and awkward, teeth clash and they don’t know how to move their tongues together but it’s okay because they know the other won’t laugh, won’t mock them or tease. They can be clumsy with each other with no fear of judgement.

And it just escalates from there. They spend whatever time they have alone exploring each other’s bodies. They kiss different parts of their bodies, run fingers over their nipples, softly at first then harsher with little twists and pulls. It pulls a different reaction from both of them.

“Do you like this?” As he curls his fingers in his hair.

“Yeah…does this feel good?” Wrapping his hand around his twins throat

“Oh fuck…yah I like that.”

It isn’t long before they’re moving on from just touches. Kissing has gotten better, and it’s something they both enjoy very much. They takes turns sitting in each others lap, grinding against the other as they pant into each other’s mouths.

“More…please need more…”

“Ah..hmm…what do you want me to do?”

“I wanna feel you inside me. Please? Need you closer. I love you. Love you so much.”

“I love you too. So so much. Do you want my fingers? Or my tongue?”

How are they ever expected to be like this with anybody else? Nobody will ever know them better than they know each other. Inside and out.

[identitty-dickruption]

Is there anything that you see when someone writes addiction/alcohol addiction specifically that really annoys you? As someone trying to write something related rn, having someone who actually knows about it's perspective is really useful :]. Obviously no pressure to answer! Have a nice day <3

oh absolutely yes. I've seen some truly shocking things of late. and also in general very happy to bitch about it for a bit

it may sound obvious but don't. like. blame the entirety of a person's addiction on a single factor or act like "if only they had access to x piece of information, they wouldn't be an addict!". in candy house by Jennifer Egan, one of the characters became an addict because of her dyslexia and her inability to find fictional characters who Truly Understood Her. don't do that.

try not to smooth them out into a singular dimensional person. or even a two dimensional person (where the two dimensions are addiction and trauma or whatever). an addict is a human being. weirdly difficult for people to conceptualise this

NOBODY gets withdrawal right. withdrawal is Not a couple shakes and then you're good. withdrawal can last weeks, if not months, depending on how dependent the person was on the substance and depending on what the substance is

similar to the above, if someone relapses while they're experiencing withdrawal, the withdrawal symptoms do not immediately disappear. if you're throwing your guts up you won't be magically fine the moment you get your substance in you. you will still feel incredibly shit for a good couple hours Minimum

implying that addiction is inherently irrational, or selfish, or stupid. addiction is a response to a set of circumstances that make sense to a person at the time. nobody becomes an addict for shits and giggles. there is always something else going on

likewise, the "high functioning alcoholic" trope has. problems. like I spent an entire year being tipsy non-stop while I was also doing alright in university and whatever. very definition of high-functioning alcoholism I guess. but I think those characters are done Poorly a lot of the time in that the nature of the interpersonal issues they have never feels Quite Right

"I got sober for love" shut the fuck up. "you saved me from myself" go away. "one real human relationship fixed my dependency on substances" no it did not. if love cured all ills, I would be the healthiest guy on the planet. it simply does not work that way <- falling in love makes it easier to love myself and have hope for the future but at the end of the day I'm still a traumatised bitch who struggles with shit

the entire concept of an intervention. addiction does not end with One Grand Event that will make everything better. forcing someone to go to rehab barely ever works. interventions are not one-off events, they are a series of kind and compassionate conversations that occur over a long period of time

sorry this ended up being a lot more than I thought it would. I think if you asked me again tomorrow I would have five to ten more things to bitch about. idk. people get the complexities of addiction wrong A Lot and I've read/seen more bad rep than good rep. but oh well. it's important to me that people are out there trying their best to do better! so thanks for asking