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browniefox · 3 years

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The One with the Motorcycle

@wrightfamilyweek day 4 - Free day! Which I took to mean 'shove my headcanon here'. At first I wanted to do something with Ryuunosuke, but I still haven't finished tgaa so uhhhh sorry my boy. Also, you can find this on AO3 here.

In which Trucy and Phoenix decide they need to find a more reliable method of getting around. Luckily, Phoenix already has a vehicle registered under his name.

oOo

“Does this mean that when I turn sixteen, I’ll get a motorcycle license?”

Trucy skips alongside her Daddy as they walk through the aisles of the storage facility. They pass locked garage after garage. Trucy has always known that her Daddy had somewhere he stores a bunch of stuff that doesn’t fit in the office, the stuff he used to keep in his apartment back when he had one, but this is her first time coming along with him.

There’s been a lot leading up to this. Now that Trucy’s getting a little older, there’s more things she wants to do, or go to, and Daddy seems to be getting a little busier too. He’s started going down to the library more often, and having some kind of meetings for lunch, and getting calls by people Trucy doesn’t know. They’re both getting busy, and buses and taxis only get them so far. Daddy had declared, in an almost resigned-sounding voice after they missed a bus and had to wait underneath the bus stop in the pouring rain for another thirty minutes, that perhaps it was time to find a more reliable method to get around.

“Dessie says she’s running a little late, but she’ll be here soon.” Trucy is in charge of the phone while Daddy frets over the pieces of paper in his hands, crinkling the edges up in his nervous hands.

Daddy doesn’t reply to this either, just keeps walking forward. Trucy frowns to herself. Daddy’s been kind of weird about this whole thing. From getting the Learner’s Permit, to the practice drives and lessons with Desiree, to his final test, but now if anything he seems at his most awkward and strange as they approach the storage unit.

They final come to a stop, and Daddy pulls up the metal door.

If old case files in the office were little glimpses into who Daddy was before Trucy knew him, this place was an in-color photograph.

There’s cardboard boxes with ‘sketchbooks’ scrawled on the front. There’s a dead plant in the corner. There’s a stack of picture frames, an old couch shoved into a corner, and a small wood table with rings from the ghosts of old drinks, a few splashes of paint marring the surface. There’s some art supplies shoved off in a corner that Trucy immediately goes over to, and piles of books Trucy hasn’t read before, and Trucy wants nothing more than to stay here all day and look through everything and anything in sight.

In the middle of the storage unit, however, is what they’ve come here for.

It’s a lilac-colored motorcycle. There’s an unhealthy-layer of dust on it - there’s a layer of dust on everything in the room - and Daddy brushes his hand over the seat and handles, sending a plume of the dust into the air. He starts sneezing and coughing over it and Trucy laughs a little at that. She stops in a moment, though, because of the almost-grim look on Daddy’s face as he stares at the bike.

They’ve been building up to this for months, in reality. Trucy realizes this now, that everything up to this point has been to get this motorcycle out of the garage and back onto the streets, because it was a vehicle Daddy already owns, and he wouldn’t have to go through the hassle nor money involved in getting a new one. But it’s also all conflicted with Daddy’s attempts to distance himself from the past.

Daddy wants to move forward in life, she gets that, but it makes Trucy sad anyway to see how nervous and resigned he’d looked about so much as calling the Delites for help. Like doing that much is losing something.

“So this is Aunt Mia’s bike?” Trucy asks, going over to it as well. She doesn’t know anything about things like this, but it looks like it’s in okay condition. It’s certainly not as shiny as Desiree’s, but it’s not bad.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry I haven’t by.” He says, and she can tell he’s not talking to her. His eyes are fixed on the bike like sometimes he’ll stare at Charley for what seems like hours on end; it’s never for that long, but it feels like it might be at times. He tilts her head to Trucy and explains, “I used to come by and try to keep it clean and stuff, but things have gotten… complicated. I’m sure Mia’s upset I haven’t done more to maintain this since she’s been gone.”

Ah, it’s one of the days where he’s talking about Aunt Mia in the present tense. It’s hard to tell if that’s ever a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it’s just A Thing he does sometimes. Even after four years, there’s still so much Trucy hasn’t figured out about her daddy. Sometimes, he talks about Aunt Mia as the dead person she is, gone and out of this world, a deceased but loved person, just like Trucy’s mommy was talked about. Other days, though, it’s like he expects Aunt Mia to walk through the door any minute.

“Alright, well, let’s see what we can do before Desiree gets here.”

Daddy’s temporary license, the edges of which are almost torn up by his worrying hands, is set aside on top of the sketchbook box and he grabs a towel from one of the other boxes, setting to work on a more thorough dusting. Trucy searches through Daddy’s phone for the list of what to check for that Desiree had texted him and passes it over to Daddy.

Trucy picks a stool out from the mess of things and rifles through the sketchbook box, finding one and flipping through it. There’s mostly little doodles and the like on the pages, or realistic portraits of faces Trucy doesn’t recognize. She wonders if, were Daddy not so determined to distance himself from the past, she’d know any of them. There is a picture of Miles, and she knows him, so she smiles at that picture and lightly brushes her hand over the pencil markings. Miles looks really angry in the picture, and scribbled right next to him is ‘I’ll save you’.

And Daddy did.

“Alright, let’s see what we have to work with today!”

Desiree announces herself, carrying her own box of tools

“Thought you might not show up for a moment.” Daddy jokes, but it’s one of his hollow-sounding jokes. Desiree laughs anyway.

“Oh please, I’ve been waiting to get a look at this beast for myself ever since you told me about it!” Desiree says and starts going over the bike. She talks about oil and gas and spark plugs and batteries, looking over everything and digging through her stuff and checking things. She says they’re going to need a new battery, and definitely replace just about all of the fluids. Luckily, Desiree is well-capable of doing all of that, she assures them, and they’d be able to get it up and moving enough to get it to her shop where she could do some of the rougher things to do.

“How much do I owe you?” Daddy asks, and Desiree waves her hand.

“We can discuss that later, let’s focus on getting this beauty out of this dusty-old place and back here she belongs, huh?”

Desiree has said that every time, so far, that Daddy asks about price. Trucy can see that it means Desiree doesn’t really want to make Daddy pay for any of it, but it seems to put Daddy more and more on edge every time Desiree says it. He’s waiting for something bad to happen, and his tension over it bleeds into Trucy, even though she’s not worried. Desiree is a nice lady who likes to chat to Trucy and can talk a mile a minute about motorcycles. When she’s not talking about them, she’s talking about her husband, Ron

They walk the bike out of the storage facility, Desiree filling the space with chatter about what the make and model of Aunt Mia’s motorcycle is, and the pluses and minuses of it, and how it’s lucky that it already has a backseat for Trucy. Daddy says that he used to ride with Aunt Mia sometimes, eyes trained on the bike still, as if he expected it to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

Desiree’s red-hot bike is parked out front and she tells them to meet her at her shop. She’ll be able to finish up there, where the rest of her supplies is.

“Don’t worry, she should be able to get you there just fine. And anyway, you can tell me if anything starts sounding worrying!” Desiree says as she climbs onto her bike. It’s been what Daddy has been practicing on, what Daddy even passed his driving test on just yesterday, and the rumble of it had just started to become familiar. Trucy feels like she’s going to miss it, but she’s excited to see how Aunt Mia’s bike works out.

Desiree peels out and leaves Daddy and Trucy standing on the side of the road, Daddy regarding Aunt Mia’s bike like it’s a python that’s going to bite them.

“... maybe this was a bad idea.” Daddy says five months too late.

“You worry too much! C’mon, Dessie’s waiting for us!” Trucy hops next to him, excited to get on the bike. Daddy sighs, turning his helmet over and over in his hands. Trucy has her own, bought a couple months ago, but she hasn’t been allowed on a bike yet. ‘Not until I get my official license’, Daddy had insisted. Now is the time, though.

“But what if something happens? What if I crash, and you get hurt?” He says. Trucy feels a ripple of shock run through her and she looks at Daddy’s face. His expression is grim and an open wound of his emotion. Of worry and fear, “What if I crash and I ruin her bike? What if-”

“Daddy, you’re being dumb” Trucy informs him. Daddy looks at her, and she can already see him starting to close off again, but she steals the last few moments of honesty she can, desperately, “Daddy you can do this, okay? We’re going to be okay. Even if we have to go five miles an hour to get there.”

“I think I’m actually worse at driving slow.” Daddy grumbles. Trucy grabs his hands.

“Then we’ll go really fast. We aren’t giving up on this just because you’re scared.”

Daddy sighs and then ruffles her hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’d be stupid to give up right now. It doesn’t matter how long it’s going to take.”

They put their helmets on and climb onto the bike. They both hold their breaths when the engine first starts, and then it roars to life. It’s different than Desiree’s although exactly how, Trucy isn’t sure. She wraps her arms around her daddy’s stomach as they get going, keeping her eyes open. She isn’t scared, she can’t be. She needs to seem sure and trusting over this, for his sake, for their sake, so that they can make it through here together.

Things don’t change a lot with Daddy. They’ve lived in the same place for all this time, and Daddy’s worked at the same bar, and Trucy’s worked at the same bar, and they have the same routines day to week to month to year. This is new, this is change, but it’s a good thing.

They roar down the streets for the first time, Daddy is shaking, Trucy can feel it with how tightly she’s holding onto him. The air roars past them, chillingly-cold.

He did this for me, Trucy thinks, and then, no, he did this for us. For family, so that we can keep moving forwards .

If they had stood still, they would’ve been alright with buses and taxis and rides from friends. But they are moving forward in life, they need the ability to do more, be more independent, further their own things.

And help, here they had help, from Desiree, and from the thoughtfulness of Aunt Mia to leave Phoenix to her bike, and Ron had told Trucy before that Phoenix had helped them (Trucy had already known this, she’s read that case and every other case what feels like a thousand times over, her illicit self-read bedtime stories) and that they’d been wanting to do something for the man ever since they heard about The Disbarment.

It’s sort of funny, how independence and getting help seemed to go hand-in-hand.

Trucy and her Daddy roar down the streets, and her grip loosens as she gets more comfortable, and Daddy stops shaking so badly as he gets into his groove, because he’s done this before and has been training and practicing, and he knows how to ride a bike now, and Desiree has taught him how to maintain it, and now, now they are going towards a new normal, a new schedule, a second half of the darkest time of their lives (of course, Trucy doesn’t know this, and neither does her daddy, and now it seems like the shadows is simply where they will always be living) and they prepare to meet it together.

#wrightweek21 #ace attorney #trucy wright #phoenix wright #fanfiction #fanfic #browniefox writes

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0poole · 4 years

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Soul

Breaking news, everyone: Pixar made another slapper.

I’m gonna get it out of the way first, but the only (and yes, only. Not like someone trying to say “only” even though they have many more nitpicks that they just don’t want to talk about) problem I had at all was that the super high realism of the settings of Earth kind of made the more cartoony faces of the people look a little more off. But, it’s kinda like the same thing people were talking about with that cat in Toy Story 4. It looks super real, which is impressive, but I feel like it was almost too real compared to the faces. Obviously it was too real compared to the supernatural settings because that was intentional, but yeah. It’s not even a big problem, it’s just the only one I can think of. I do think the realistic renderings of hair, light, water, etc at least work with cartoony stuff, but apart from that it looked almost like it could’ve been a photograph, with no exaggeration in the buildings or anything else.

I mean, I love the faces, so I definitely wish they went the extra mile showing extra personality and character in the buildings, as faces do with characters. Considering the faces matter like a bazillion times more, I still think they knocked it out of the park on the visuals. People with more investment and knowledge into the topic already said that the faces of any of the people of color felt cartoony and unique while also being true to life and respectful (My family recently stumbled onto some old animations from the 30s and lemme tell ya... We’ve come a long way), but seriously the characters that sold me on the visuals were the Picasso-esque beings who may or may not be the Gods of the universe maybe?

Spoiler boundary of course. It’s definitely worth a watch.

And that’s honestly what made the realistic world so much better. When the accountant guy went into the real world to set the count right, it was one of the most fun I’ve had just watching something. The sheer contrast between him and the world was so much fun, and it even solidified that those beings weren’t even acting in a different dimension or anything. They’re literally just beings that exist, meaning that all the other parts with the unborn souls and such are just as real as Earth. Or, even better, they’re the ones who can just casually rip a hole in dimensions. As far as depictions of Gods go, if they are even Gods at all, I think they’re one of the best I’ve ever seen. They feel like they could actually be how Gods actually exist, since all the commonalities of Gods involve supernatural power, which would suggest they’re supernatural themselves. I mean, I have a story with Gods in it too and they’re basically just that although admittedly a lot less imaginative.

With those guys being my favorite design, second place definitely goes to the lost souls, although obviously for more subjective reasons. 1) They’re purple, 2) They have one eye, 3) That eye is yellow which I always think is the best compliment to purple, 4) Tentacles, 5) Creepy in a kid’s movie. Franky, I would’ve made them a lot creepier, but even then they’re super creepy, if not visually then in their behavior. They’d just be kind of sad if they were just mumbling around, but since the first introduction to them starts charging at the main characters like a deranged monster. Considering how weird everything in that dimension is, finding something that isn’t nearly as innocent as everything else instantly invokes fear, since you have no idea what that thing can and wants to do to you. Sort of similar, I would’ve also made the “In the Zone” moments a bit more crazy and colorful, like when Joe fell through the void between the road to the Great Beyond and the You-seminar (is that how it’s spelled?), but these “I would do it differently”s might just be a fault of my design ideas or just subjective interests. I would’ve watched 2 hours of pure, nonsensical abstract worlds like the You-seminar with no explanation to how they work.

I definitely have a relief with the story, mostly entirely revolving around 22′s character. I was kind of worried she’d be too childish to really enjoy, but I feel like she was done really well. All the major historical figures’ remarks on how hopeless she were both funny and also really tied into her character “flaw” at the end as she was a lost soul. It might not be the most unique character archetype of all time, but it definitely makes sense, with all the people bringing her down implanting in her mind that she was an anomaly, and after a while was just sort of following it. Plus, she seemed genuinely interested in Joe’s weirdness, instead of being super mindlessly irreverent. And her being able to expand Joe’s understanding about his own world, like with the barber and his student, brings her up as more than a whiny, bratty child in the scope of the story. She didn’t JUST learn.

Even though I kind of expected it from the get-go, I’m also relieved that the movie didn’t shy away as much with the dark elements of death. It was kind of suggested that this wasn’t going to be a perfectly casual romp through a magical afterlife like Inside Out was with the mind because of the unborn souls unabashedly saying “Hell” in the TRAILER of the movie. I feel like that alone made the story super interesting, because it shows they’re actually going to be a bit more serious with things instead of just simplifying the unknowable complexities of the before & afterlife. Even with the dead souls going into the Great Beyond, it was a mix of being weirdly peaceful for some and super scary for others. My family thought it was peaceful for the most part, but my mom specifically though it was terrifying, and even though it’s a lot more peaceful than almost all other depictions of death, I can’t blame her. The souls were just kinda accepting it, like they’d been brainwashed or something, but still acknowledged that they were dead and were going into the afterlife. Plus, Joe, being the main character who we are supposed to sort of reflect in a way, was super freaked out by it, so that could easily suggest it’s to be afraid of and the other people are the weird ones.

I think the true message of the story being so strange was better too, because it would’ve been so boring if it fell into a super basic message we’ve heard millions of times. I feel like it has a similar sentiment to the basic messages, but is at least a more interesting way of saying it, if it is even like that in the first place, because it’s also somewhat vague in a good way. I think my brother/mother misinterpreted and simplified things a bit too much, where they thought it was sort of like a happier way of saying “accept your lot in life and don’t change it.” I could probably go on a full other rant about why I think this is wrong, but part of it is I don’t really know how they came to this conclusion in the first place, considering with that scene with that guy who threw the computers off his desk as his lost soul was cured (I guess you could call it that?), who obviously realized he wasn’t okay with his lot in life and was destined to change it. I think they sort of misinterpreted “the spark” and other things it as a 100% for-real, this-is-how-the-real-world-works sort of way, and not as much as a fictional way of saying things. Not necessarily symbolic, but I guess symbolic also? It has some of the same weird logical problems as the Cutie Marks from My Little Pony, except they’re obviously better since Cutie Marks determine your life down to your very job some of the time, while “sparks” are more vague and seemingly up to you. They’re more like when an unborn soul realizes there’s something on Earth they want to figure out, not necessarily their hobbies or jobs. For example, they kind of cited the barber character as the one who supported their point, but I think he does the complete opposite. He wanted to be a vet, but he ended up being a barber. But, they sort of assumed his “spark” was to be a barber, and that his personal interests didn’t matter because the “spark” forced him into a less favorable job. But, in reality, I feel like his “spark” is more his interest in love for the people around him, which is why he decided to get a more practical job to support his daughter (wife? one of the two) when he really needed to. Plus, he still enjoys being a barber because his devotion to love lets him connect to people as he cuts their hair. After all, he seems to be succeeding in his goal, since Joe was just like “Hey, let’s go see this guy he’s the exact guy we need!” People who don’t show love and interest for others don’t make that kind of impression in people’s minds. I feel like if we knew each story of everyone’s life down to the last detail we could fully determine what the mechanics of the world and its people are meant to say from a fictional context, but with such a limited selection I don’t think you can say something so sure. Sure, every choice in a movie is made specifically for a purpose, but I feel like if a movie tries to hard to be like “Oh but don’t worry here’s an exception” a million times it gets bogged down by its own attempt to make the message as obvious as possible.

Anyway...

There are also a lot of neat little details I loved, like how even though they did this for basically no other point in the movie, they made sure to include people from all around the world in that mess of dead souls, firmly sort of putting in the idea that the entire globe is in a sense one single entity that leads to the same place. They could’ve so easily just made everyone speak English for that throwaway scene, but I feel like including people from all around the world was very beneficial. Even the EXTRA little things, like the path to the Great Beyond looking like the neck portion of a guitar with the metal bits that separate the notes, or the facial features of the Gods blurring when they turned their heads in the other direction.

But yeah, who would’ve guessed Pixar made another good movie, right? Even then, Soul’s in the upper echelon of Pixar films. I really hope they (and Disney) realize they can go bonkers with a movie and still benefit/survive from it, since they’re so damn rich and inherently profitable. I think AAA animated movies like this that are the perfect amount of artsy are few and far between, and we need more of them. If anything, I hope they get more artsy, but I guess I’ll still never say no to a fun fantastical romp either. Basically, Pixar has looped me into watching any and everything they produce because it’s never “bad” I think. In the grand scheme of quality, even their worst work (Cars 2) is still not “terrible,” per se, even if it feels like it exists more as a cash grab than a genuine tale.

#soul #pixar #christmas #disney plus #disney+#poole #opinions #rant #rambling #review #thoughts

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #429

“i’m just a bad luck charm to blame when things go wrong”

Are all-nighters something you have grown used to? God no. I have those SO rarely. I don't know how I used to do it. Do you usually wear sunglasses when you’re driving? I don't have sunglasses, and my driving permit has long since expired. Is there ever a time that you enjoy cold showers? COLD, no. A tad chilly, very rarely. I have to be burning the hell up. What clothes are you most comfortable in? Men's pj pants and tank tops. Is there anybody you’re not ashamed to tell anything to? No, not anything. Have you ever unbuttoned someone else's pants? Yes. Are you good at painting nails? Nooooo. My hands are way too shaky. If it’s late at night and you’re hungry, what do you reach for? Usually a granola bar or piece of bread, lol. What word should you really probably remove from your vocabulary? I don't know. I don't really use any words I find wrong/offensive. Will you eat something if it falls on the ground? NOOOOOOOO SIR. Ignoring nutrition, could you live off veggies for the rest of your life? God no. I'm not a vegetable fan. Do you see the value in education? Of course I do. Are you more physically flexible or situationally flexible? bitch neither lmao Does anybody know about your sex life other than your partners? I don't have one now, but my mom knows of some things from the past. Do you make an effort to eat healthy? Yeah. I could try harder, but I do try. Have you ever lived with a girlfriend/boyfriend? Pretty much. I wasn't an official resident, but I was essentially always there and just counted as a guest, I guess. Would you ever be a stripper? No way in hell. Can you honestly say that you love yourself? No. Do you think that you’ve ever actually been IN love with someone? I don't just "think" it, I know very goddamn well that I was. Have you ever done a psychedelic drug? If not, would you ever consider it? No and no. Did you ever see the movie Good Burger when it came out? Not when it came out, but I've seen it and love it. How often do you clear your browser history? Never. Honestly, have you ever eaten raw cookie dough? Yeah man, gourmet shit. Do you consider yourself a burden to anyone? Why do you feel this way? I absolutely do. I'm just a leech at home. A financial burden to my parents since I'm unemployed. I have a lot wrong with me that my mom has to deal with. Who was the last person to carry you? Why were they carrying you? Probably Jason, realistically. I'm probably too heavy for anyone in my life to carry me now, and there hasn't ever really been a reason to besides him just being cute many years ago. Are you a clingy kind of person? If so, how has this affected your past relationships? I know I am. I'm lucky that I don't think it really affected any. I'm not OBSESSIVELY clingy at least, just moderately so. Have you ever witnessed someone drowning? Did you help in any way? Jesus, no. Have you ever felt like you just weren’t enough for someone? Who in your life has made you feel that way? I absolutely have. No one like... intentionally made me feel like that, I just felt it due to my own self-doubt. The times I've felt that that I remember have been in my only two serious relationships, but not endlessly. I'd just do something stupid and feel like it for a while. Have you ever been at a party where the cops came due to complaints?No. What were you doing the last time you spent a night away from home (or wherever you regularly reside)? I was having a sleep study to determine whether or not I had sleep apnea. Where do you like to sit when you’re on the computer? In my bed. Do you feel as though you’re good at understanding/communicating with animals? Absolutely. Are photographs important to you? Do you like to take a lot of pictures? Not incredibly important, because nothing is quite like actually experiencing that moment, but I definitely like to have some of major events. I honestly don't take a lot of pictures documenting my own life, but rather like nature and stuff. And when people pay me to take family/couple/child photos for them. Would you rather hike through the desert, the prairies, the forest, or the tundra? The forest, for sure. So long as I had my camera. If you could reconnect with someone from your past, who would it be and why? Guess. -_- What was the last game you played? Was anyone else playing with you? Do you prefer to play games alone or with others? World of Warcraft. And well, it's an MMO, so you're playing with what, thousands of other people? I mostly do solo content though, but I do usually chat with guildies when I'm on because I'm close and comfortable with them. What is the longest distance you’ve walked in a day? Idk, but definitely far. Do you prefer homemade food or restaurant food? Restaurant, sadly. What was the last new food you tried? Ummm... I want to say sweet potatoes, back at Thanksgiving. I didn't hate them, but they were okay. What is your most recent regret? I dunno, probably something really minor like eating/drinking something unhealthy. What was the last unexpected thing to happen to you? How did you react? I guess that would be the sleep apnea diagnosis. At least, that was the last big one. I can't think of anything in-between. I was very shocked, even doubtful that the results were reliable. But given how my APAP mask has almost completely solved my nightmare issue, I think it's safe to say it's correct. Name your three closest friends. Sara, Girt, and uhhh... Sam. Do you get excited or annoyed when the phone rings? Annoyed, honestly, lol. Do you prefer writing poems or stories? I prefer writing RP, which is pretty much just gradually writing stories. What pisses you off more than anything? Probably rapists, specifically when children are the victims. It's just... so, so repulsive and unforgivable to me. Like I don't understand how a human being could possibly be so diabolical as to scar someone like that. What’s the appropriate age to have sex? I think you should be adults, honestly, given the risk of pregnancy. Not that I followed that, so I can't really talk, and I know most people don't either. When you're really in love with someone and have a sexual side, it's kinda... hard to avoid 'til you're 21. Is there anybody you’re really jealous of? It's so stupid, I'll probably always be so jealous of the girl Jason dated after me. Even though I know they're not even together anymore (well, last I heard a few years ago). Is pornography evil or are you neutral about it? Meh. I'm not into it, but I don't think it's necessarily evil. I personally don't get sex without emotional commitment, but you do you, so long as you are both consenting adults being safe about it. Do you prefer to be monogamous, or are you more a casual dater or swinger? I'm strictly monogamous. I'd be way too jealous to share a partner with someone, and then there's the heightened risk of STDs, too. Have you ever had a crush on more than one person at once? Do you now? Yes, but I don't now. Who is your favorite relative? Excluding my immediate family, Uncle Rob. He is so damn funny. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? I know I would, realistically. Do you think you will be in a relationship three months from now? No. What’s the greatest thing that happened to you today? It SUCKED while actually doing it, but I'm very satisfied having done around 20 minutes of cardio today at the gym. Cardio is something I 110% need in my life. Have you had any beer this week? I've never had beer. I hate the smell of it, and it's associated with memories of my dad as an alcoholic anyway. Could you cry right now? Nah, I'm in a good mood. If you could see one person right now, who would it be? I'd honestly love to hang with Sara again. Do you wear contacts? No, but I wish I did versus glasses, contacts are just WAY too tedious. What color shirt are you wearing? It's a dark teal. Song playing right now? Ha, I am STILL obsessed with Powerwolf's (but with Alissa White-Gluz's vocals) "Demons Are a Girl's Best Friend." Do you wear the seat belt in the car? Absolutely always. Please, please, wear your seat belt. Has anyone ever mistaken you for someone else? Yes. There was a kid at dance who, from behind, thought I was his mother and he just ran up and hugged me from behind and I nearly had a heart attack. Do you like the color orange? Yeah; it reminds me of Halloween. Sometimes, do you wish you were someone else? Not really entirely someone else, but a much better version of myself. What is the weather like today? It's hot as shit and pretty hazy. Do you want any piercings? UGH like you have no idea. Have you given anything up for Lent? No. You do what you want, but I honestly think it's a dumb concept. Would you rather go to a rock concert or a rap concert? Rock, for certain. Have you ever dated someone that was a different race than you? Yeah; Juan was Hispanic. How old is your best friend? She's 23. What does your favorite necklace look like? It's a spiked choker with some dangling chains. It's fuckin' hot. Are you keeping a secret from anyone? I don't like the wording here. I don't have anything I'm hiding from someone in particular, and nothing they need to know at all. I just have a few inconsequential secrets I just don't share with anyone. Would you take a million dollars if it meant you had to die a month later? Uh, no thank you. Do you keep any type of diary or journal? You could say surveys are like snippets of a diary of sorts for me. I share a lot and use them to vent and just jabber on about my thoughts and feelings without exactly burdening anyone with them. What was the last thing that made you really happy? I'VE LOST A POUND SO FAR AT THE GYM!!!! :') It's been just one week, I know, big whoop, but it means A LOT to me. Prior to this, the numbers had just been gradually creeping up and up... but not anymore! :D Can you remember what you dreamed about last night? Very vaguely? Or maybe that was the night before's dream... Have you ever gotten kicked out of a class for being disruptive? Definitely not. I was a well-behaved, quiet student. Have you ever injected a drug? Noooo. Do you think the whole day is better if you smoke pot? I've never smoked. Last time you killed a bug? A while back when an ant walked over my laptop. Are you wearing perfume? What kind? No. The last male you spoke to… is he attractive? That would be my personal trainer, and yeah, he's very handsome.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''fuck up'' by shane dawson

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smoljamswrites · 5 years

Text

all is fair in love & war | bts x reader | chapter two

pairing: bts x female reader

genre: mafia!au, series fic, angst, fluff, (eventual) smut

warnings for this chapter: stalker-ish kinda? y/n is uncomfortable, mentions of abuse, my bad writing!!

a/n: hey, I’m trying my best to make the chapters longer than the previous and including more things, so please stay tuned!!

the fic playlist is here, if you wanted to hear it x

He flew down the stairs, eager to find the two at the bar and fulfill his ‘mission’. Well, if there’s anything Taehyung is good at, it’s distracting people. He was regularly sent out to divert people’s attention, and boy was he quite the distraction. With his boxy grin and beautifully sculpted face, it was hard to leave him. He couldn’t wait to see you properly! With all these years of staring at old photographs of you, he couldn’t believe this was his chance to finally talk to you. This, of course, only made him run faster. And it was at this great speed that Taehyung could barely see what was ahead of him and bounded straight into Jungkook.

“Watch where you’re going-“Jungkook started, “What? Why are you looking at me like that for?”

“Did you let her leave?” Tae deadpanned.

“…yeah, but I got her number!” he smirked, walking up the stairs smugly.

---------------------

Your last 3 days have consisted of three things; sleeping, eating, and texting the bartender. He keeps asking when he’ll see you next and you want to see him too, you really do, but it’s too risky to leave again.

The lights behind you are blaring, good at hiding the blush forming on your cheeks. He leans in, mouth by your ear. He smells quite musky, with a touch of vanilla. It’s so sweet and hypnotizing and God do you love it! With his lips ghosting over your ear, he whispers “do you want me to take you back to your home later? Saves you paying for a taxi, I can drive you?”

You begin to fidget in your seat, squirming at the idea of him taking you home. Not because its him that would take you home - actually you find yourself trusting the bartender more as you continue to speak to him - but rather because what would happen if he did. Would he expect to come into your house? What if they notice he’s there? Would they hurt him? You can’t even get caught coming back in, let alone sneaking in another person! God how long have you been out for?

A small cough interrupts your inner dread, and you notice Jungkook beginning to stand up straight. After you quickly realise that he must have thought you had rejected him, you subconsciously reach out and grab his arm.

“um I’m sorry but I live in a dorm and you see the, um, university is very strict on having strangers on campus and so it’s not-“

“Hey, don’t worry about it, I completely understand!” he says, rather gently “but can I at least have your number?”

----------------------

Your mind wanders back into reality as you hear footsteps heading towards the kitchen. Immediately your hands move to play with your bracelet, your eyes darting to the door of the kitchen, fingers twisting the metal on your wrist. 3 of the main members of Sin Syndicate enter the kitchen as an uneasy feeling sets in your stomach. You look up expectantly at the men, and they look down back at you. The one member, who’s name you know to be Ju-Won, walks around the table and stands directly behind you; as for the other two, one stands in front of you, on the opposite side of the table, and the other stands at the door. A tingly sensation creeps up over you, as you feel Ju-Won touching and twisting strands of your hair through his fingers. You hide the urge to cringe, as you think about the things those hands have done – the lives they have taken.

“So sweetheart, Yunseo says that you can’t keep scrounging off us anymore. You’re a big girl now, and we can’t keep paying for you, can we? You have to start working for your life now. Ju-Won suggested you could work in one of our brothels, but we don’t want you too tired for us when you come back home, so we have decided you’re going to be working at ‘Angels’. You start tomorrow!” the greasy smile in front of you makes you want to throw up.

As Ju-Won lets go of your hair, and you nod politely at the 3 members (much to your resentment) you head back into your room. It seems really out of place in this big mansion of the Syndicates. The room has a cream colour scheme and is filled by a single-bed and a small chest of drawers. Reaching around your socks in your drawer, you search for the one that hides your phone. The phone springs to life, with the brand logo flashing on the screen when you turn it on. Sitting down on your bed, notifications begin to come through.

Jungkook: Hey, how are you today? [11:34✓✓]

Butterflies arise in your stomach as you lie back onto your bed, smiling to yourself. Your fingers move faster than your brain, and before you know it you have already replied.

You: Hey, I’m alright thank you, I’m actually starting a new job tomorrow! I’m a little nervous about it to be honest, but I’m so glad to be getting out the house more! [13:26✓]

You reread the message you sent and panic. It definitely sounds like you’re being held captive, you think.

You: Yknow, getting out the house more than usual because of college and everything haha! [13:27✓]

You put your phone away in your drawer, feeling calm now that you had saved your little mistake.

-----------------------------

“Um Joon?”

Jungkook, adorned in a complete black outfit, enters the living room, phone in hand. His eyes search the 6 other pairs in the room, until he lands on Namjoon’s. He nervously walks over to the couch and sits on the arm of it before continuing,

“as you know, I’ve been texting Y/N for the past few days, and well...she says she has a job?”

“A job?”

“Yeah. She said she starts tomorrow and she’s nervous. You don’t think-“

A shorter man, but equal in fierceness and determination, interrupts Jungkook’s fretting, ”Well they aren’t going to let her go and work for a legitimate place, that’d be stupid. And as the Syndicates only run drug chains, strip clubs and brothels, then she’s obviously working in one of them.”

Jungkook’s face morphs into one of outrage; almost disgust,” A fucking brothel!? They better not be sending her to work there Yoongi, I swear to God, I’ll fucking torch the lot of them”

Taehyung can’t stop himself for giggling at his younger’s outburst, “Why do you even care!? You hardly know her, and be realistic yeah? She’s probably working for one of their strip clubs to get her started, because it’s not like they’re gonna let her run riot on a drug chain. And sending her straight into a brothel? Unlikely.”

“Tae’s got a point. I’ll try and work out which one they have likely sent her too.” Their leader places his hand on Jungkook’s shoulder comfortingly, and then continues to head to his office.

--------------------------------

A bright purple neon sign, declaring the title ‘Angels’ flickers above the bar. The ‘A’ has devil horns above it, completely ridding the name of its suggested innocence. Most of the place looks like it is following an open plan design. Yellow leather chairs meet black shiny counters; tacky turquoise poles stand tall on top of the surface. You are pretty sure, that just in the 2 minutes you have spent here, you have seen every colour existing.

It’s quite busy in here already to say it is only the late afternoon, you think. Men dressed in suits occupy most of the room, but you are surprised to see female clients lurking around. From all the movies you watched, you always gathered it was only men that visited these types of places. Clearly, you were wrong. Your eyes continue to search the place, whilst you are waiting for further instructions from Yunseo. On the opposite side of the room you see a raised platform, with black, leather seats and small, red, circular tables surrounding it. You quickly conclude that this must be the stage where main performances are given. Focusing on that area, you see the a few silver poles coming out of the stage. You gulp, wondering if they are expecting you to be able to pole dance. You could never do that, you muse, you can barely walk in a straight line half the time! As for the employees, they are absolutely stunning. Long hair swaying in sync with their hips, their golden skin hypnotizing every person to watch their every move. You really don’t know how you’re going to fit in here.

As you take a sip of your water, a gentleman joins you at the bar. You can’t help but to take notice of him as he orders himself a drink, engaging in conversation with the Syndicate Bartender.

“You’re new ‘round here, right? I haven’t ever seen you here before?”

“Yeah, a friend recommended me the club, said I should check it out, so here I am” the dark black hair of the gentleman is parted, allowing any lurking eyes a better scope of his handsome face.

Just as you begin to listen to the rest of their conversation, Yunseo taps your shoulder.

“Okay Y/N, you’re going to have to get practicing because I’ve booked you a performance slot ready for Saturday, and you better not disappoint us!”

“Wait? For Saturday? That’s just 3 days away! How am I supposed-“

“You’d watch your mouth if you know what’s good for you sweetheart”

And just like that your head tilts down, hands in lap. Yunseo has always scared you, and has always took advantage of this whenever he has a chance.

“Good girl,” he hums, hand moving to cup your face, “Come with me and I’ll show you where you can practice”

As you get out of your seat to follow Yunseo, through the pungent scent of sweat and arousal, the gentleman at the bar catches your eye once more. It’s the way he is looking at you that you notice the most. With a prominent frown filling his features, he seems to be thinking about something. But you don’t have time to ask him about it or continue to ponder, so you turn back around and walk after Yunseo.

The rest of the evening is filled by your frustration. Yunseo had left you in this room, filled with only a stripper pole, a speaker and leather sofa, and these 4 walls are now driving you insane. It’s not like you’re the worst dancer in the world, it’s just you don’t have enough confidence. Just when you were about to hit play on the music, someone bursts into the room.

“That’s enough for today! Yunseo told me to get you home” a member you recall being named ‘Seojun’ says.

That’s right, you smile to yourself, if Yunseo told him to fetch he’d do it – he’s like a little puppy dog, a follower, and he always has been.

As you exit the room with him, Seojun’s phone starts to ring in his back pocket. As he picks up the call, you can’t help but to watch and listen,

“Hello?......How long did he stay here for?.....I don’t think it’s too strange no…….He could have been telling the truth I guess……bring it up with Yunseo, he’ll know what to do.”

You wonder for a moment who ‘he’ was. But then you remember where you are, and that it literally could have been anyone. Seojun closes the door behind you and leads you out the back entrance to the car.

next chapter update: Saturday 1st February 2020 8pm gmt

tagging: @dearlydreadful @honeydewseoks @whimsicalwoodlands @toddsgirl27 @wendyiiwl @asifetch7 @barbyisafangirl @miraculyfe @btsxdoll @laluzdirectioner @slutkoo @bubbletae7 @h5naaa

let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

Thank you so so much for reading!

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

❉ 139 Dreams (Renjun Huang) Art

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Friendship, Angst, Fluff, School AU ☁

Word Count: 1,362 ☁

Pairing: Reader x Renjun ☁

World: Kpop, NCT ☁

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

Art had never been your best subject, falling second only to math. It frustrated you because you loved art so much, having grown up with a father who could paint masterpieces with no effort at all. Meanwhile, you spent hours working only to produce a crudely drawn stickman whose lines weren’t even straight. You had followed so many blogs on Timblr, reading tutorials on how to improve your drawings, but none of it stuck. Your dream had always been to follow in your father’s footsteps, which only grew stronger when he died a few years back.

How could you possibly achieve your dream when you couldn’t even draw a proper stick figure?

After a while, you found yourself growing more and more envious of those with talent. You wanted so bad what they thought nothing of. You started to loathe those that could create masterpieces. In particular, you hated the art prodigy in your class, Renjun. He was one of the most popular boys in school, loved by all of the students and staff. He was kind and gentle but wasn’t a pushover by no means. His grades were excellent, he could sing and dance, and most importantly, he could draw realistic landscapes and portraits without even thinking about it. His photographic memory was nuts. He was the perfect kid, which only made you hate him more.

“Okay, class, settle down.” The teacher clapped her hands, smiling at her students excitedly. “The arts festival is right around the corner, and our class has been chosen to create the fliers! I’ll be dividing you into pairs, and it’ll be your job to work together to create a beautiful piece of art to represent this class and this school. Keep it clean!” she sent a sharp look to a couple of giggling girls in the corner, both of whom were known for drawing erotic comics. “No extreme violence or gore, either.” This time she glared at Haechan, who had already begun sketching out Godzilla eating a student. “You have two weeks to present your piece. The class will then choose their favorite three to represent us. And no, girls, you are not choosing your own partner.”

At the comment, most of the females in the class protested, all staring longingly at Jaemin.

You scoffed, folding your arms behind your head. “I don’t see what’s so great about him,”

Jaemin looked at you, annoyed. “I can hear you,”

“I know you can.” You spared your seatmate a bored look. “Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t get it. You’re just a guy, why do they worship you?”

He hummed, twirling his pencil absentmindedly.

“If only they saw you in the morning, they wouldn’t think you were so hot. Maybe I should show them.”

“Don’t you dare,” he glared at you. “Don’t forget that I have just as many embarrassing pictures of you as you do of me.”

“Che,” looking away, you knew he had you beat. What was the point of the popular kid being your childhood friend if you couldn’t show off his embarrassing pics?

“Who do you want to partner with?”

“Anyone but you.”

“That’s rich considering I carried you last project.”

“You only carried me because you felt guilty that your rabid fangirls threatened to hex me if I ruined your grade.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That very much is the point.”

“Ahem,” the teacher cleared her throat, raising a brow at the two of you. “Are you both done? Good. Y/N, choose from the jar, dear.”

With a sigh, you reluctantly stuck your hand into the ceramic jar and pulled out a folded slip of paper. Uninterested, you passed it to Jaemin, who opened it without a word.

“Renjun,”

Your body tensed and you whipped your head to look at him. Surely he was joking! He turned the paper around and, sure enough, there was his name written in the teacher’s beautiful script. “Fuck my life,”

“Language, Y/N!” The teacher scolded, but you just groaned, sliding down in your seat.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

Renjun approached you a week later, a determined but worried look on his face. “Y/N, hello.”

You glanced up at him before packing your things into your bag. He grabbed your arm before you could walk around him. “Let go,”

“Not until you tell me why you’re avoiding me. We have a project due, remember? We only have a week left and we’ve done nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to yank your arm free, but his grip was firm. “You act like you’re incompetent. Just draw something and turn it in.”

“It’s a group project, not a solo one. We need to be working togeth – ”

“God you’re annoying,” you ripped your arm away, making him stumble. “I couldn’t care less if we fail. Do you?” You turned around and headed for the entrance of the library.

“Why do you hate me so much?” His voice was soft, weak. You almost hadn’t heard him.

The words made you freeze in place, hand tightening around the strap of your bag.

“Have I done something to offend you?” His voice rose a bit as he took a step forward. “If I have, please tell me so I can apologize properly.”

You felt anger starting to bubble in your chest.

“I’m not the best at reading people, so I may have done or said something that you took as offensive… but I never meant any harm.”

You scoffed, “Of course not.”

“Eh?”

You whipped around, eyes burning. “Perfect little Renjun never does anything wrong.”

“I never said – ”

“Shut up!” You screamed, gripping the front of his shirt. “What makes you so special, huh? You don’t even take art seriously, it’s your fucking hobby! So why… why were you blessed with effortless talent while I have to struggle with the simplest techniques! It’s not fair… I’ve worked so hard since I was a child to live up to everyone’s expectations, but I’m not my father… I’m not you… I let everyone down and they don’t hesitate to let me know. Was he even my real father? I…” Tears were rolling down your cheeks down, your hands shaking as they clenched his shirt. “It’s not fair,”

Renjun felt a tug at his heart. He pulled you into a hug, gently rubbing your head as you cried into his shoulder. The librarian sent him a look at the noise you were making, but seeing your state made her keep her tongue. Renjun sent her an apologetic look before slowly directing you towards the exit, not once loosening his grip. He brought you to one of the stone benches outside before digging into his pocket looking for a tissue. Finding none, he tugged the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand before gently wiping away your tears. You tried to push him away, but you didn’t have the will to.

“I never knew you were struggling so much.” He murmured softly. “I’m sorry,”

“I don’t want your pity.” You spat, rubbing at your eyes furiously.

“It’s not pity, Y/N.”

His tone made you look up. It wasn’t pity lurking in those brown depths, it was concern and care. He was genuinely concerned about you.

“I’ve treated you like shit for years, shouldn’t you hate me?”

“No,” he looked up at the sky, leaning back on his hands. “It’s strange, but the more you pushed me away, the more I wanted to get close to you.”

“You’re weird,”

He chuckled, sending you a bright smile. “I am~ but so are you.”

You scoffed, looking away from him so he wouldn’t see the pink dusting your cheeks. You both remained silent for a moment. “If… if I help you with the project, it won’t get chosen.”

“I don’t care if it gets chosen or not. I just want to create art with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, ears turning red. His hand found yours, resting gently on top of it as his head found your shoulder.

“Your heart is too heavy, Y/N. Let me help you take some of that pressure off you.”

You didn’t answer, letting your fingers twist around his own.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

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kitkatwinchester · 4 years

Note

Happy Fanfic Writer Friday (#FFWF)! Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

OMG THIS IS SUCH A GREAT ASK!!!

Okay okay, because you basically gave me permission to ramble, this is gonna be so freaking long, but I’m doing it anyways, because I want to do every story that has it because I try to do stuff like this a ton, especially in multi-chapter stories!!

Okay, I’m gonna focus on only AO3 stories this time, since those ones are the ones that really have a lot of this, and I’ll talk about them in order of most recently published/updated (though not all are included in this list because some are simpler than others lol). That said, spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t read these stories.

AO3:

Who Knew Birthdays Could Be So Complicated

My favorite thing about this story is that it’s based entirely on poking fun at the fact that so many MCU villains are only villains because Tony made them mad somehow, because I think it’s hilarious and I’m proud of how I was able to poke fun at it while still properly representing the beautiful relationship between Tony and Peter and their individual characterizations.

This has a very subtle incorporation of Spideychelle, because it takes place after Endgame, but assumes Far From Home never happened, so Peter and MJ aren’t really a thing yet, but you can kind of tell they’re going to be if you take notice of the way they react both around each other and about each other in this fic.

There’s also a very subtle incorporation of Happy/May for the same reason--Far From Home hasn’t happened (yet), so their relationship is only just starting to come to pass. It’s referenced through Tony and Peter’s suspicious/surprised reactions when Happy suddenly wants to be with May all the time.

I love the way I made time pass in this fic. At once point, I transition between scene using a watch, and throughout the fic, the passing of time and the number of minutes are constantly mentioned to serve as a sort of countdown as events transpire, and it’s subtle, but I feel like it really helps follow the passage of time and make it all even more realistic.

It was hard to figure out how to express this, so I’m not sure how many people actually caught this, but I loved how I subtly showed that Bruce wound up finding a way to reverse what he did before Endgame and bring himself back to his normal self in order to help the city better.

There’s a really subtle reference to Peter’s sensory overload when Perceptivo starts talking about how he was able to grab Peter in the first place. He never finishes his sentence, but the reader and Tony get a sense of what he’s getting at.

Everytime I write in adorable Peter and Morgan moments, I get excited about it, and this fic is no different. That said, I love the way their relationship is portrayed, even if it is brief.

Lastly, I love what I did with the chapter titles for this story. The titles match up, outside to in. The first and last chapter parallel each other as general titles (”The Unexpected Surprise” and “The Real Surprise”). The second and seventh title both reference a phrase said/implied in the chapter (”Forty-Three Minutes” and “Unconditional Love”). The third and sixth titles chapter titles that summarize the chapter, with the sixth one being a Star Wars reference, because of course ;) (”Lost Sleep, Long Night” and “It’s a Trap”). And lastly, the fourth and fifth chapters are lines quoted by the Peter and Tony in their respective POV chapters (”I Need to Handle This on My Own” and “Dammit Kid”). I worked hard on those, and I’m so proud of how they lined up.

Always and Forever

I love love love how the sibling relationship between Peter, Harley, and Morgan develops in this one. I love that Harley and Morgan have an established relationship through video, but there’s still a sense of distance there, and I love how Peter and Morgan have a pre-determined relationship because of the stories Tony used to tell Morgan about Peter, but he doesn’t want to overstep, so it creates distance. I love Harley and Peter knowing about and already respecting each other and then being able to actually get to know each other for real and everything that comes with that. I just love how these three slowly get to know each other, but in a way, they already knew each other so well that they’re basically already family. It’s exactly what I was shooting for, and I’m glad that it seemed to come out that way for readers and for my own self-analysis.

I am also particularly proud of Morgan’s voice in this story. Peter and Harley, both being teenagers, were a little more natural, but Morgan, as a four-year-old, took some tweaking to perfect, but in the end, I really felt like I could hear the four-year-old innocence and hope and love and I felt like it lined up so well with everything else in the story as she comes to terms with everything that happened and works through it in the only way she can--with help.

Most of the references/callbacks in this one are super obvious, but there are a couple that are more subtle. There’s a small reference to that “you’re a mechanic, why don’t you just build something?” scene in IM3 where Harley gets Tony out of a panic attack, and to Harley’s dad leaving him. There’s also a reference to Peter’s uncle dying when he mentions that he’s “been through it before”. I also included a little bit of subtlety in reference to the fact that Pepper never actually changed her name to Stark, canonically, and added the emotional element of it in the epilogue.

Each of the objects/memories that the three kids hold close has a lot of symbolism and intent behind them, and they fit in with the chapter titles. In “Every Picture Tells a Story”, Peter’s memories are in pictures because of the picture of him and Tony in Endgame that made Tony invent time travel (it totally made him invent time travel don’t even try to fight me on it). It represents that timeline of events where Tony really truly had a kid with him that he could love and cherish and who loved and cherished him back, but in a way that never needed words--just actions and photographs. In “Reminders of How it Used to Be”, Harley’s memories are in his phone through text messages, because he and Tony always connected technologically, even from a distance. They initially bonded over fixing the Iron Man suit, and the idea that Tony continued to upgrade Harley’s tech into his later years fits really well into their relationship. Even though they were far away, they learned how to express how much they cared for each other through words and objects. Lastly, in “No Hugs are as Warm as Yours” Morgan’s memories are in a recording of her Dad, because Morgan was the one that Tony truly got his time with--the one that was truly his to cherish and hold that he would never let go of. After Peter, and with Harley’s distance, Morgan was the one that Tony was determined to love with everything he had, and in doing this, he gave her a piece of him every day, and she could always hold him close to her heart and have him do all the special things with her that only he could do. The recording of him, that’s small enough to clutch to her, but big enough emotionally to represent everything her father did for her, and shows a tiny part of something that only her dad does--a lullaby her mom doesn’t sing, and a lullaby he’s never sung to anyone else--is a great representation of the piece of his soul that Tony gave to his daughter, just by being her dad. Maybe I tried to read too much into all of that, but I thought those subtle little representations were really crucial to this story.

Another thing I love that I tried to break down is that everyone had a different name for Morgan. As the precious little one who just lost her dad, she’s kind of the center of this story, in a sense. Harley and Peter bond over helping her through her nightmare, and that brings the three of them closer. Morgan makes Peter and Harley smile in the dark times, and they do the same for her. Morgan had the most to lose from this, because Tony was, theoretically, the only one she had, but the message of the story winds up being that he wasn’t, because she has all of these other people in her family too. Because of that, there’s a nice subtlety that I had where everyone has a different nickname for her, because everyone contributes to her story and her life in a different way. Pepper’s nicknames/terms of endearment for her are sweetheart and little miss; however, “little miss” is one that Tony used to use, so Pepper only started using it after Tony died (so...in this story). Tony’s other nickname for her, canonically, is Morguna. Then, Peter’s nickname for her is Morgs, and Harley’s nickname for her is Mo. Most of those only really appear once, but it’s a cute little characterization thing that I worked hard to include.

Lastly, another method of symbolism in the chapter titles is their lengths and, again, parallelism. I already talked about the second, third, and fourth chapter titles, all of which are a little shorter and represent the different object symbols for the kids and their connection to Tony, but I also added some symbolism and parallelism with the first and last chapter titles. Both of those titles, because those chapters have the perspectives of all three children, are longer and include parenthetical statements. Additionally, the first chapter title represents a lot more distance: “It’s Hard to Say Goodbye (To What You Want Forever”. This ties in not only to the fact that Tony’s gone, but also to the fact that, in the first chapter, while all three kids’ perspectives are included, they’re separate and apart. But then the last chapter title, “I Can’t Solve All Your Problems (But I Promise You Won’t Face Them Alone), represents togetherness, which is exactly how that chapter winds up playing out--all three perspsecitves collide, and they wind up helping each other through the grief. Symbolic titles are always fun.

To An Amazing Big Brother

This one is filled with subtle references. Sam leaves ScoobyDoo on for Dean, referenced as a favorite of his several times canonically. Sam also mentions how Dean checks under the bed every night, which was supposed to connect to the scene where Sam tells Dean that his dad said the monsters under the bed weren’t real and Dean told him it’s because he already checked there. Dean’s grumpiness over the lack of bacon is based off of two scenes: the one where Dean’s mad that Sam won’t let him get bacon, and the one where Sam’s mad that Dean won’t buy veggie bacon. The fact that Dean keeps the journal close for the next twenty-eight years is a reference to that photo of Mary that he’s had since he was a kid that he brings with them everywhere. Dean mentioning that Sam had grown up so much in three years is supposed to reference the many times in the show that Dean mentions that he wished Sam could’ve been a kid longer. The candy bars and the Hot Wheel car as his birthday gifts represent how Sam gives him “fuel” for Dean and Baby as gifts in the Christmas episode, and the fact that Sam mentions that Uncle Bobby helped him with it is a reference to Bobby giving Sam the Samulet to give to John in the Christmas episode, which he eventually gives to Dean. Lastly, the birthday pie represents the many, many times Dean says he loves pie. So I guess that all ties into symbolism, references, and callbacks/clues for future scenes, but in any case, there are a lot of them.

The other thing that comes into this is the symbolism of the photo album. The fact that it’s something Bobby put together shows how Bobby was always a true father for them (at least, in my opinion, but, I mean, come on, he was), and the fact that it takes place over several years and very rarely actually has Bobby in the photo just represents how much he got to watch them grow and how much he was there for them. On top of that, it represents Sam and Dean’s brotherly relationship for two reasons: first of all, it shows how they grew up together and basically never left each other’s side; second of all, the message Sam writes, “Thanks for always being there for me. I know I can always count on you.”, is a huge representation of everything Supernatural is and stands for when it comes to Sam and Dean’s relationship--they can always count on each other, no matter what.

The Meaning of Christmas

There isn’t really that much in this one, but I did want to mention that I put a lot of research into making the locations as realistic as possible, so Ellen’s Stardust Diner and 7th Avenue are both real streets in NY popular for Christmas shows and Christmas lights, respectively. I don’t live in NY, so I don’t know how accurate any of that was, but I tried my best, and I feel like it worked.

Training Session

This one doesn’t have anything too deep overall, but it does include a couple of Endgame references and one from Ant-Man. Morgan and Nat’s training with practicing punching was meant to loosely reference the Ant-Man training session between Hope and Scott--with the failed attempt, but slowly getting better. Harley and Clint training--with Clint adjusting Harley’s footing, Harley making it dead center, and Clint high-fiving him--were all references to Clint and his daughter shooting arrows in Endgame. Lastly, while this is pretty obviously an Endgame reference, Morgan does say “I (still) love you 3000”, and Tony says it back, so there is that. XD

Wow! This was honestly kind of hard to break down, but also really fun! I’ve definitely gotten better at symbolism and references in recent months--most of these were a lot more recent, especially the ones with loads of commentary XD--but in general, I think my character development in pretty good, and I still try to incorporate as many things as I can, subtle or otherwise.

I hope this answered your question, and I’m sorry it’s so long, but this was really fun! Thank you so much for asking! <3

#ffwf #fan fiction #writing #symbolism #meta #character development #callbacks #references #personal #asks #late ffwf

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honestandsincere · 5 years

Text

reputation part three

It’s a frosty morning in New York City. The air feels crisp and fresh, in a way that burns your cheeks as blood rushes to their surfaces in an attempt to warm you up. Each windscreen of stagnant cars is opaque with a thin layer of ice, hiding empty coffee cups or opened notebooks on backseats from the night before. Despite the chill, New York couldn’t be more awake. The city moves at its relentless pace; taxi cabs weave through streets, commuters pace the sidewalks with phones pressed to their ears, dog-walkers are out in their force at the early hour. The energy is ceaseless.

Y/n grips her cup of tea tighter in her hand, willing the warmth to seep through the cardboard and into her numbed fingertips. Her nose tingles and with her free hand, she pulls her beanie over her ears. The park bench beneath her is cold so she begins bouncing her thighs up and down to try and generate some warmth. She takes her time to people-watch, observing the clusters of people that pass her and taking in the scenes around her. Even in the heart of Central Park, everyone has a determined sense of direction, only tourists seem to dawdle and take their time immersing themselves in the early light of the day.

It must be about eight thirty by now, rush hour slowly coming to its close. Yet the park is still bustling with life as artists set up their canvases along the perimeters of the footpaths, displaying their oil pastel masterpieces for the public to gawp at. Y/n sips her tea and flicks her wrist so she can check her watch.

“Early bird catches the worm, y/l/n,” she looks up at the sound of his voice. There he stands, a few feet from her, smirking despite being red-faced and breathing heavily. “Nice of you to join me, Mr Dolan,” y/n rakes her eyes up and down his figure, taking in his grey sweatpants and maroon Harvard hoodie. “Figured I’d get a run in before our meeting,” he takes a few steps forward and then flops onto the bench beside her, “please call me Ethan, this isn’t formal.” “Any meeting with you is formal, Mr Dolan.”

Ethan laughs at her persistence, blowing air out of his lips and running a hand through his disheveled hair. He couldn’t deny that he was excited about their little rendezvous, deciding to go for a run to work off his almost nervous energy. It makes him hate y/n y/l/n. She does look pretty though. She always looks pretty. Her coat looks warm and her adorable beanie made sure he noticed her as soon as he turned the corner towards the park’s center. Y/n turns to face him, cradling the mug in both her hands. “We need to talk,” the way she looks at him makes him feel soft, he pushes this feeling aside with a lighthearted roll of his eyes. “We do, y/l/n.” “That little stunt you pulled, with The Daily Mail, that was smart,” she chuckles, “I can’t pretend I’m not impressed.” Ethan Dolan shrugs his shoulders, basking in her begrudged compliment, “I do try.” “Is there much point in me asking why?” He purses his lips, watching her watch him intently with a furrowed brow, “Hate to spoil the magic for you, but it helps with my image. I also wanted to make the first move.” Y/n scoffs, “You made a move alright, Dolan.” “You can’t deny the chemistry between us,” he wiggles his eyebrows at her. “I can and I will,” she narrows her eyes, as if she’s scanning his every detail, “I don’t think you understand how transparent you are. This was never about our ‘chemistry’, this is you trying to save your own skin.” Ethan wishes she was right.Y/n is, to an extent. If the public saw that he was in a relationship with the woman that wrote a stellar article about him, they’d go wild. The world is a huge sucker for romance, the cheesier and least realistic the scenario the better. Their photograph at Delevigne’s was too good an opportunity to pass up. LIFE Magazine sales are only increasing, people desperate to try and read between y/n’s lines in an attempt to decipher the compelling private life of Ethan Dolan. It also makes sense that they’re in a relationship; he’s successful and attractive, she’s successful and attractive. Of course, Ethan’s reputation would be saved too. Having the world think that y/n was committed to him meant that any article she published ‘exposing’ his antics would be seen as a fluke or perhaps some kind of magazine hack. Ethan could also release a statement claiming he and y/l/n have separated and the only reason she wrote the article was to spite him. He has to admit, it’s clever. But he can’t ignore the fact that it stretches beyond that. It’s not entirely a stunt to save himself. He’s grown to like y/n, he can see aspects of himself in her persistence. She doesn’t throw herself at him, he has to work to spend time with her. It’s all very old fashioned, the whole putting in the effort. Ethan Dolan is not accustomed to trying his hardest to woo a woman. Through making this statement that they are exclusive, it gives him more time with her, a chance to prove himself and change her mind. Y/n monopolizes on his silence, “I’ll compromise, if you don’t change your little business tactics, I’ll publish draft one. If you do decide to reevaluate your principles, consider the article binned.” She looks away from him, her cheeks burning with repressed anger. Y/n doesn’t like getting annoyed, she also doesn’t like Ethan Dolan knowing he has an effect on her. Ethan ponders her words, they make sense. Frankly, since he’d read her first draft he had been thinking about Dolan & Dolan’s principles as a company. He’s always seen himself as a philanthropist, even when he and Grayson were knocking down office blocks to make room for their skyscrapers, he’d offered redundant employees jobs. Granted, they were higher paid jobs with better working conditions and the paternity leave scheme is one of the greatest the city has ever seen. All he’s done wrong is lie. If Ethan Dolan was to tell the world that he makes his money through crippling businesses until they have no choice but to sell themselves to him, it doesn’t sound too great. But, if he lets everyone know that he’s rebuilding derelict communities and providing better employment for the people of New York, it’s a different matter. Y/n’s first draft is scathing, to say the least. She writes from an overt point of distaste and Ethan has to remind himself she’d planned out her writing before actually meeting him. He likes to think that maybe she was taken aback by personable he is, but he stops himself from being too arrogant. Y/n y/l/n can write, which is his blessing and his curse. She’s his own double-edged sword, a grenade that could explode any second, his secret weapon and his own downfall. Her ambivalence is brilliant. “I’m not expecting you to change, Mr Dolan. I know that it’s not in your nature to change your mind, but don’t think that this little game of mommies and daddies is gonna stop me.” “You drive a hard bargain, y/l/n,” he finally speaks, folding his arms across his chest and keeping his eyes on her side profile. “This isn’t a deal, it’s never been a deal. It’s about you doing the right thing,” y/n exhales heavily, sipping her tea. She’s tired of Ethan Dolan ignoring the truth. “I’ll think about it,” Ethan says, smiling at the way her eyes widen in shock, “but I’m gonna need you to do something for me in return.” It’s hard not to laugh when she’s brought back to reality, a scowl gracing her features. “The Robin Hood Foundation is throwing a charity gala this Friday, come as my date and I’ll talk to Grayson.” Y/n laughs, a full-bellied laugh that causes her shoulders to shake, but it’s tainted with a sense of bitterness, “I should’ve known it wasn’t going to be easy.” “New York City is convinced we’re in love, let’s give them something to talk about.” “Even if I do come with you to this charity party, which is incredibly ironic by the way, there’s no way you’ll do anything to change Dolan & Dolan.” “Never say never, y/l/n.”

----------------

The sporadic flashes are blinding, each being triggered by a shout of their names or an exaggerated compliment. Y/n bears her teeth in a forced smile, trying her hardest not to blink at inconvenient moments. “Miss y/l/n! Turn your head to the right please!” She complies, closing her mouth and placing a hand on her hip. “Who are you wearing tonight, y/n?” She’d been told not to answer questions, so she glances towards her Louboutin heels quickly to compose herself. “Is it true wedding bells are ringing?” Y/n’s eyes flicker towards the incessant flashes, she laughs. She poses again, crossing her legs like the girls Vogue rave about. Since the overwhelming success of her article, y/n has become no stranger to photographs. The paparazzi have been following her every move since Ethan Dolan declared that they were ‘exclusive’. Y/n has been greeted by ominous flashes on her way into the office, swarmed at the local grocery store and bombarded by absurd questions while clambering out of the cab. She’s learned to keep her head down, to not give anything away, not so much for her own sake but to avoid inflating Dolan’s ego. Her face being on gossip sites and social media feeds is all too familiar. Y/n's taught herself how to pose. "Have I mentioned that you look ravishing this evening, y/l/n?" a warm palm comes to rest between her shoulder blades as his hot breath graces her cheek. The shouts of the photographers become louder as y/n slides her arm around his suit-clad waist. "Too many times," she grimaces. Ethan's hand grazes down her back to rest on her hip, pulling her into his side and kissing her cheek. He enjoys the charade, milking every moment for what it's worth. Y/n wants to scold him for almost smudging her painstakingly flawless makeup, but she's remained composed for too long to ruin the facade now. He looks good, that cannot be denied. Ethan Dolan always looks unspoiled, it's genetic, but tonight he looks better. His blazer and bright crimson dress pants make him look younger than the regular black suit he wears for business, reminding y/n that he's just as juvenile as she is. He's taken the liberty of shaving, she wonders how soft his jaw is now it's devoid of stubble but catches her mind wandering. Y/n cannot afford to get enraptured in Ethan Dolan's minor details. "They love us," he mumbles, as he waves to a pap that seems familiar. "I should hope so," y/n speaks through her teeth as she smiles, her cheeks are beginning to hurt. "The world can't resist an attractive couple." "Too bad it's all an act then." She cranes her neck to kiss his cheek, slinking away from his familiar grasp and following an assistant dressed in black along the carpet. Y/n feels like she can breathe now that the cameras are far behind her. She's lead through the huge doors of Guastavino's, lifting the floating skirt of her dress in order to step into the building. The lobby is bustling with waiters and chaperones, guiding New York's elite into the reception area of the gala. Beside the huge glass reception desk, two large display boards present the smiling face of Ethan Dolan, along with other seemingly legitimate philanthropists as they are thanked for their generosity. If y/n did not know any better she'd be proud. She's researched the foundation and Ethan does, in fact, donate an unfathomable amount of money to the cause on an annual basis. It's impressive, commendable. She just wishes everything was like this, that Dolan & Dolan were as praiseworthy as they appear. "If you come this way, Miss y/l/n, I'll take you to your table," the young woman with long auburn hair smiles. Y/n follows her through the huge double doors into the dinner hall, snatching a gasp at the dimly lit room. Its scalloped ceilings are illuminated by golden lights attached to the stunning pillars dotted around the room. Tables are draped with velvet cloths and huge centerpieces are decorated with gold-tipped lilies. It's stunning, to say the least. Y/n and her chaperone weave through the partially filled tables until they reach one towards the venue's stage. She spots Grayson sat with his back to the screen playing a slideshow of the charity's patrons, his hands moving animatedly as he converses with a middle-aged man. The young girl gestures to an empty seat and y/n sits, thanking her before watching her march away. "Y/n!" Grayson cheers, his attention drifting from his discussion to her, "So glad you could make it tonight. Isn't this amazing?" "It's lovely to see you, Mr Dolan," she smiles politely. He scoffs, "Call me Grayson. You're dating my brother, we're on first name bases now." Y/n wonders if Grayson knows. He and Ethan are twin brothers, they're bound to be close, but she knows that Grayson is just about as good as a middle school girl at keeping a secret. Would Ethan risk telling him? If they're 'relationship' is destined for inevitable failure, maybe it's for the best that he believes it too. The younger Dolan shifts in his seat, "Y/n, this is David van Douglas, one of the Foundation's CEOs," he gesticulates to the man beside him. Van Douglas holds out a hand to her, she shakes it with a firm grip, "What an honor it is to meet you, Miss y/l/n. I'm such a big supporter of your work." Y/n grins, "Thank you so much. If anything I should be honored to be in your presence, Mr van Douglas. Your work is truly amazing." "We'd be nothing without the Dolans' donations," he admits, shrugging a little in his Givenchy suit. "Dave, you know it's the least we can do," Grayson pats the older man on the back, "tonight is going to be such a success." "Yes, the venue looks beautiful," y/n adds, glancing around her again. A pair of hands come to rest on her bare shoulders. She can smell Paco Rabanne's Invictus, it's unmistakably him. His thick fingers stroke her soft skin gently, it's affectionate. "I see you've met my other half, David," y/n can hear the smirk in his voice. "I have and she's enchanting," van Douglas rises to his feet and steps towards Ethan, pulling him from y/n and into a hug, "it's good to see you, Ethan." "You too, it's been too long." Y/n turns to watch the men embrace, noting the way Ethan claps van Douglas on the back, the same way Grayson had done earlier. They mumble something that isn't intelligible, so she shifts back towards Grayson. She's taken aback by the way his eyes are boring into her, a smirk plastered on his chiseled face. "I know," he mouths. --------------- "So then I said to her, 'Cecelia, you can't not have caviar at your sixth birthday party, that's simply reprehensible!' and she was completely vexed for the rest of the week!" "Oh Pierre, she sounds delightful!" "A real handful!" "Utterly adorable!" Y/n has not spoken for at least an hour. The socialites around her delve into a conversation she can't quite understand. Their lives do not compare to hers, they're topics of conversation span well beyond her own comprehension. It's a little too intense. She nods politely and forces laughter when the others laugh, her eyes flicking to the Rolex on Ethan's wrist, praying time would move considerably faster. "It's not you, it really is this boring," he whispers in her ear, his arm coming around the back of her seat in order to be closer to her. "I never doubted my judgment," she hisses. "Your mediocre acting says otherwise," Ethan chuckles. "I didn't think Ethan Dolan settled for mediocre." Words are forming on his lips when he's interrupted by a slim woman with high cheekbones, "Ethan! Do tell us how you and Miss y/l/n met!" A medley of hums of agreement spurs y/n to turn towards him, taking in his champagne-flushed cheeks and fixed eyes. Ethan chuckles, running his fingers along y/n's forearm, drawing little patterns into her skin. This is going to be interesting. "I think it was love at first sight," he shrugs, earning a chorus of besotted whines and a fake smile from y/n, "I've never been so enraptured by a human being. When we met for our interview at The Ritz, she blew me away. I was and am in awe." All eyes turn to y/n, urging her to continue their story. She's never been exceptionally good at improvisation, she clears her throat. "He's so fascinating," she begins, glancing at Ethan for approval, "I told myself I wouldn't fall for him because I adhere to my professionalism, but I guess I'll make the exception for love." The table applauds them with gushing compliments and huge grins. Ethan quirks an eyebrow in surprise, he didn't expect her to be so convincing. Y/n's eyes rake over those surrounding her until her gaze meets Grayson. He shakes his head slowly, impressed by her facade, licking his lips in incredulity. Y/n can't help but laugh, leaning into Ethan's side casually. "Tell me that was mediocre," she mumbles into his jaw, placing a kiss there for effect. Ethan is stunned. He keeps underestimating y/n y/l/n. This might be his greatest downfall, his Achilles heel in his otherwise indestructible nature. He's not weak by any means, but she makes him feel significantly less powerful. Ethan Dolan does not question himself, but part of him is beginning to wonder whether or not he's bitten off more than he can chew. Y/n y/l/n is fire and he doesn't enjoy the thrill being burned. The topic of conversation steers away from one of Ethan's lies to another. His business. The gala's guests are all deeply engaged by the Dolans' capability at such a young age, teasing information out of them as the champagne continues to flow. "So, Ethan tell us about your plans for the future." "Honestly Celine, the only way is up. Not that I can go any higher." The cackles are sickening, this is the side of Ethan Dolan that is so detestable. "How do you feel about potential partnerships?" "I don't think there's any company that could offer Grayson and me anything we don't already have. We're becoming too good at what we do." Y/n fights the urge to roll her eyes. "There are plenty of CEOs killing themselves to get some kind of share in Dolan & Dolan." "I know," Ethan takes a sip of his drink, his hand running up and down y/n's arm, "but adding other organizations into our midst seems unnecessary. It's not like we need the business equivalent of Viagra." He triggers sniggers with his crude comment. Y/n thinks she's about to burst, her mouth is working faster than her brain and before she can control herself words are spilling out in front of her. "Of course, we're all too familiar with Viagra, aren't we, honey?" Choked guffaws spring up around them. Celine covers her mouth with her jeweled hand. David van Douglas snorts. Grayson's eyes are as wide as his empty dinner plate. Ethan Dolan clenches his jaw, his fingers tracing on her skin have ceased their movement and he takes a big inhalation of air. Someone called Bart quickly raves about his steak and suddenly the table tries their best to shift the conversation away from y/n's wildly inappropriate remark. Ethan is silent, which isn't unlike him. Y/n's noticed the way he enjoys observing, it allows him to charm his audience. He analyzes before making comments, thinking out his every word. It's what makes him so alluring. Grayson fills silences with trivial small talk, Ethan's approach is always tactical. But now, he's flabbergasted. Words are not coming to mind, he's close to flipping the velvet-covered table and storming out of Guastavino's. He's been licked by y/n's flames. She feels her heart pound with adrenaline. It's a pleasant rush, she feels accomplished. Embarrassing Ethan Dolan is great fun. Y/n sips her champagne, reveling in her success. Ethan retracts his arm from around the back of her seat, she notices the way she suddenly misses his contact, feeling the weight of it on her. He raises himself to his feet. Y/n assumes he's escaping to the smoking area outside to blow off some steam by blowing smoke. The older twin reached for a clean fork on the table and his flute filled with bubbly liquid. Y/n's breath catches in her throat as he begins to tap the metal on the glass. "Speech!" a voice shouts across the room and the hall descends into silence, everyone is in Ethan Dolan's palm. "Thank you," he dips his head in a way that would be considered humble by the audience, "tonight has been truly magical, having everybody here to celebrate a brilliant cause. The Robin Hood Foundation has been doing great work for years, and to be named one of the year's most generous patrons is truly such an honor. Success is nothing without humility and generosity, which is why I can't think of anything better to do with Dolan & Dolan Enterprise's money than donate to such a worthy charity." The rooms erupts into civil applause, embellished with the odd whoop of appreciation. Ethan clears his throat and continues to speak. "As you all know, this year has been a whirlwind for my business and me. I feel as though I have become a new man, rediscovered what it is about business that keeps me so entranced and excited. Charity work is definitely one of my main motivators, but I have found a new one; love." Y/n's palms are damp, she looks to Grayson who sends her a shrug. Ethan is too unpredictable. "Y/n y/l/n is undoubtedly the love of my life. She has given the man who has everything more than he could ever imagine. I'm so so so in love with her. She makes life worth living, I wake up every morning with a new sense of passion and verve about business. I couldn't be more in love with you, y/n," he turns to stroke her cheek dramatically before facing his avid audience, "Who knows, maybe wedding bells will be ringing this time next year?" Y/n is deafened by the clapping. Everyone around her has their eyes fixed on her. Ethan pulls her to her feet and into a hug, she has no choice but to wrap her arms around his built frame. "It takes two to tango, y/l/n. I'm a great dancer." --------- "At least he didn't propose," Grayson pats y/n on the back sympathetically, "I wouldn't have put it past him." Y/n scoffs, slamming the rest of her gin and tonic down her throat and sliding her empty glass along the bar to the waiter serving them. He takes this as a signal to pour her another drink. "He's gone and extended the expiry date of our 'relationship'." "Exactly, it could be a lot worse," Grayson wants to tell her it's her own fault for aggravating his brother, but y/n is not in a state to be told she's wrong. She sends him a sarcastic smile. The number of guests that have approached her congratulating her on her stellar career and stunning boyfriend is enough to make her queasy. Y/n is sick of the words 'thank' and 'you' by now. It's all too much. Having to pretend to be civil with Ethan Dolan is bad enough, having to fake being in love with him is impossible. The devil incarnate swaggers over to the bar, his blazer discarded on the table nearest the bar. He pulls Grayson into a weird bro-hug that y/n will never understand and mumbles something to his brother about giving them some time to talk. The younger Dolan taps y/n's hand and slides off the bar stool, heading outside for some air. Y/n rolls her eyes as Ethan resumes his brother's position, shaking her head. "As I said earlier, they love us," he grins. Y/n doesn't reply, she nods a thank you to the bartender when he hands her the cold glass. She takes a big gulp and places it back down on the bar, running her finger along the rim. "It'd be such a shame if we had to end things, don't you think?" he watches her intently, perceiving the way her bottom lip is slightly pouted and her brow is drawn into a furrow. Y/n doesn't respond, her eyes staring into her drink, scorning the fact the ice to alcohol ratio is bitterly disappointing. "Listen, y/n-" "Your ego never ceases to amaze me," she snaps. Ethan is pleased she's interacting with him, but he jumps at her outburst, he doesn't bother trying to speak again. "You act like you're so much better than everyone here, your 'holier than thou' trope is getting a little repetitive. Honestly, Ethan, your hubris will be your downfall." Her hands move avidly as she talks, she's turned on her stool to face him, her eyes fiercely wide. He stares at her blankly, letting her release her tipsy rant. He thanks God that the bar is empty. Ethan notes this is the first time she's used his name. Just his name. It sounds nice, pretty in her voice. He takes her flailing hands in his, she doesn't wriggle them to release herself from his grip. She likes the way his skin feels against hers, consequently, she hates herself for feeling this way. "Unlike Lear or Faustus or Icarus, my flaw isn't fatal. You know this is a show, this is all fake; my persona, everything. You think you know who I am, y/n. You're wrong." "Don't try and win me over with literary references," she huffs. "Why? Are they working?"

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PART THREE! This has been a long-ish time coming! I took a few days off just to relax and celebrate my exams coming to an end, so a huge thank you for being patient! Once again, I am so overwhelmed by the feedback and love for this series. I’m really immersed in businessman Ethan’s world, so I hope you are too! Let me know what you think! - K xx

T A G L I S T @lukescolours @honeybeeesworld @yslbailey @quickdolan @dolancrew @dolancrew @sunflowerpseudonym @dreamergirl2727 @arrantsnowdrop @ceejay1163 @peruvian-bae @crown-jul @kinkbaby95 @takenbyheartstrings @loveyou3000-tonystarkzine @ergojenn @blackpinkdolan @sara29392 @someonedoingnothing

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inkchantress · 5 years

Text

I wrote another fic!!

Title: The Color Yellow

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug (again... what can I say, I’m obsessed lol)

Word Count: 1,710

Summary: That moment in Collector when Adrien sees his broken childhood drawing on the ground. Flashbacks ensue.

AN: The moment that this fic is based off of is an important moment that’s kind of overlooked. It’s not particularly memorable, in and of itself, but I kept thinking that there was probably a story behind that, and well... here it is. Also I wrote most of this after midnight so it might not be super refined but ideas don’t stop till you write them all out lol.

Keep reading under the cut (or read it on AO3)

He couldn’t move.

He was six years old, gap-toothed and slightly cross-eyed, with more colors of crayon at his disposal than he could ever dream of.

Well. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. Maybe he could move. More like he wasn’t willing to try.

But he’d only needed four colors that day. The classics.

The house was empty. His father was gone, off to who knew where. To the basement, to his room. It didn’t matter where. Adrien could never tell the difference.

Red. Green. Blue. Yellow.

He tried to remind himself what he was doing here--they were trying to stop something horrible from happening. They were searching for Hawkmoth.

He’d had plenty of practice coloring with the classic four. He knew them well, from evenings in restaurants where he always scribbled furiously on the kids’ menu. He never went inside the lines, always drew his own thing. And he’d show his parents his masterpiece every time, once the night was over.

Hawkmoth, who at the moment was still at large, who Ladybug thought she had finally pinned down.

Every time, Gabriel Agreste would dismiss whatever work it was, and every single time, Emilie would smile down at Adrien and compliment it. She’d ask him to describe it and suggest areas for improvement, like adding binoculars so the people in the picture could see better, or putting in another bird so the first one could have a friend.

Hawkmoth, who might be his father.

And then, later, to Gabriel, when she thought Adrien couldn’t hear: “Leave him alone. He’s got a creative spirit, Gabe. He’s got it inside him. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

The whole room was trashed. Mannequins smashed, ceramic vases hurled off of shelves, panes of glass lying shattered on the floor. Photographs in frames that sported spiderweb cracks littered the edges of the room.

Adrien knew artists were hard on themselves. He knew they got in their own heads. He knew they drove themselves crazy from the inside out.

But he had done this.

This would be his biggest masterpiece, his museum debut. ‘Six years old and already making history,’ his mother would say theatrically, grinning and tickling him until his stomach hurt from laughing.

And his father would look at the drawing and smile, a real one, one of those lopsided, carefree grins that he only sported in old photographs. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he’d say.

Adrien had driven his father insane. From the outside in.

He worked quickly, a six-year-old man on a mission, tongue poking through the space where he had recently lost his front tooth. There was still a slightly bloody stump from where his gums hadn’t quite healed, and it made the tip of his tongue taste like salt every time he touched it.

It was all because of that stupid book.

He sketched it out with a pencil first. The mountain peaks in the back. The roundness of his father’s glasses, the twist of his mother’s hair. Adrien came out quite a bit taller than he really was, compared to them, but no matter. It didn’t have to be realistic, not really. It just had to be visible.

Adrien could almost see his father in the room, walking around and smashing things. Picking mannequins up over his head and throwing them down onto their sides so they cracked. Kicking vases. Perhaps ranting to Nathalie.

He had to ask Nathalie to show him his mother’s best dress so he could get the pattern right. It was strange, little swirls and clouds and dots all working together. Nathalie had obliged, holding up the gown for him as he sat with his legs crossed on the floor of his mother’s closet, his small hands weaving the spots and swirls on the page. On the way back to the long dining room table that was doubling as his great workspace, Nathalie had asked about the drawing.

“It’s for Mom and Dad,” Adrien had whispered, looking around as if his parents were going to pop out of a corner at any moment. “But it’s a secret. Don’t tell.”

Nathalie nodded dutifully, and the corner of her mouth twitched up. She’d winked at him.

He’d winked, clumsily, back.

Adrien could see his father. Unleashing a tornado on his office, his face red and his lips pressed tight with anger. Picking Adrien’s drawing up and flinging it across the room with such gusto that it shattered on impact.

Blue for his pants, red for his father’s pants, green for the grass beneath their feet, and little accents all over his mother’s dress...

Adrien’s heart was in his throat. He’d done this.

And layers and layers of yellow, waves of blond hair.

He, Adrien Agreste, had done this. He might as well have just broken all of the things himself.

He’d finished the masterpiece with a dripping yellow sun, a bright misshapen oval hanging above his mother’s head. It shone down on the three of them, all proudly wearing wide grins, holding each other’s hands.

It was because of him and Plagg and that stupid book…

When he finished, he’d first shown it to Nathalie. She rarely ever smiled, but she did that day. A full smile, teeth included, accompanied by a professional nod. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

There was emotion clouded in her voice when she spoke. He didn’t understand it then.

It was all because of him.

They’d eaten dinner together that evening, the three of them and Nathalie. It was Adrien’s favorite, spaghetti and meatballs, the ones that his mother made just right. Emilie told everyone a story of when she and Gabriel were young, and it was the first time Adrien had ever heard Nathalie laugh out loud. Adrien and his mother both laughed so hard they had to stop eating. How Adrien loved his mother’s laugh--when Emilie was laughing, she became the color yellow, sunny and bright and wildly contagious.

And it was working on everybody. They had all caught a case of the Emilies. Adrien could’ve even sworn up and down that he saw his father smile.

God. He wanted to turn back time so badly. He wanted a second chance, a third chance, a million more chances.

After dinner, when all of the dishes were packed away, Nathalie had gathered his parents in the living room and set the stage, and Adrien had emerged brandishing his drawing. He handed it to his mother first, and she was silent for several seconds, taking it in.

“Well?” he’d asked. “Is it okay?”

She’d put a hand to her mouth, which Adrien thought was a bad sign, but then she spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. “Wow. This is… wonderful.”

She put a finger to the page. “That’s me, right? And that’s your father?”

Adrien had nodded, almost like a bobblehead, wild green eyes wide in his face and gap-toothed mouth grinning.

“And there, that’s you… this is beautiful. Look, Gabe.”

She’d handed his father the drawing, and Adrien’s breath caught.

Gabriel Agreste had surveyed the doodle once, twice, taking in every line, every color.

And he must have still been carrying a case of the Emilies, because he nodded in approval, so subtly it could have been an accident.

It was just like that. No critiques, nothing. Quick and painless.

Adrien turned back to Nathalie, and she, too, must still have been afflicted with the Emilies, because she winked at him for the second time that day. He’d winked back, and it filled him with gold.

“This is beautiful,” Emilie had repeated, “but I think it’s missing something, don’t you?”

“What?” Adrien had asked.

She’d reached out an arm to draw him into her lap. “You’re an artist,” she’d said, tapping his nose. “It needs a signature.”

Gabriel produced a pen from his coat, and Emilie handed it to her son, her eyes filled to the brim with a kind of wild excitement. Adrien had taken the pen, but he’d hesitated, hand hovering over the page.

“Go on,” Emilie had encouraged, smiling so wide she was almost glowing. “Sign it.”

So he had, in blocky kindergarten handwriting, in the deep black ink of the pen. He’d marveled at his own name, at the six letters beaming up at him from the page. They claimed the drawing as his own, a declaration that Adrien Agreste made this masterpiece with his own two hands, determination, inspiration, and four different colors of crayon, all sitting loud and proud on the paper.

It told the world that he was here.

Emilie had picked her son up and swung him around until he started to laugh, and then she had brought him into her arms. He had clung to the fabric of her shirt, the satin and cotton and his mother’s skin, a smell that he swore he’d never forget.

“It’s perfect,” she had whispered.

Adrien wanted to pick the drawing up, piece together the shards of glass into one pane again like time had never touched them. He longed to fix it, reverse it, go back. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. He felt like his skin might shatter with the pain of wanting. Something had seized him around the heart, and it was collapsing him.

He was driving himself insane. From the inside out.

Like father, like son.

When Ladybug next spoke, it nearly scared him out of his wits--he could have been standing there seconds or hours or days. She looked at him sideways, coated with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He closed his eyes so his mother and his father and six-year-old self disappeared, and he could see the splash of colors and blocky signature and shattered glass no more. He forced himself away, and the memories all left him alone, one by one--his father’s hidden smile, Nathalie’s laugh, that feeling of wonder that filled him when he signed his name.

The color yellow was the last to go, lingering in his eyelids for a few final seconds. A shock of blond hair and a feeling of warmth and a golden sun, dripping light onto him and his parents like a promise.

He opened his eyes and turned away. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s keep going.”

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #chat noir #adrien agreste #ladybug #gabriel agreste #emilie agreste #nathalie sancoeur #ladybug and chat noir #sorry for the spacing #ik it's weird #fanfic

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rheyninwrites · 5 years

Text

The Photographer’s Assistant Part 2

(I apologize for the length. Right now I’m mobile only and cuts won’t work properly.)

Standing cautiously beside your horse, you huffed out an exasperated breath, blowing a few strands of hair out of your face. Despite the incident with the coyotes, as well as a few interesting run-ins with some pronghorn and deer, Albert was being a complete idiot again. Oh, and there’d been that near miss with the bison, too. This time, he’d tied a giant bag of meat up in a tree, in order to lure out some wolves nearby. You’d told him more than once that it was the dumbest idea since the coyote thing, but all he could do was tell you that this time all of his supplies were safely tucked away in the saddlebags, and that this time there wouldn’t be any trouble- as long as the wind stayed down. So there you were, beside your horse, watching your sweet but apparently insane cousin try to get eaten, and hoping for some kind of divine intervention to keep you both safe.

Something out there must have heard you, because as you watched Albert mumbling to himself, a figure you thought you recognized appeared on the horizon. Your heart skipped a beat. You’d hoped that you’d get to see him again, but knew that, realistically, it was improbable. Yet here he was again, approaching on horseback, sun shining behind him, like a figure from a fairy tale. You smiled broadly as he dismounted, watching him approach your oblivious cousin Albert.

“Hello again!”

“Oh!” Albert jumped away from his camera. “Hello again . . . Mr . . . .”

“Morgan.” You finished for him, walking towards them. You looked to Arthur and extended your hand, which he shook warmly, covering it with his other hand as he did. “It’s very nice to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

“Morgan! Yes, Mr Morgan. How are you sir?” Without waiting for a reply, Albert continued. “My nerves. Oh, I’m afraid I’m not quite the outdoor adventurer that I thought. God’s own country, and I feel as if I’m in purgatory.”

While they chatted, you couldn’t help but notice Arthur’s eyes continued to return to you, drinking you in. He probably thought he was being subtle, facing Albert, flicking his eyes towards you again and again, but the way his eyes lingered, tracing you from top to bottom, was anything but. You let out a soft chuckle and saw him smile in response, proving how closely he was watching you. Suddenly a word of Albert’s caught his ear, pulling his attention back.

“Wolves! You really are trying to get yourself eaten.”

“Well, I hope not. I left the meat over there.” Albert gestured vaguely in the direction of the tree where it was tied. “I thought we’d be safe. Given the wind.”

“Yeah, sure. If you manage to attract the world’s least intelligent wolf.” Arthur looked over to where you were standing, watching you mouth ‘help him’ as you rolled your eyes, and stifled a laugh. “I’ll stay with you a while. If anything comes, I’ll, uh, protect you as needed.” He looked to where you stood, giving you a wink, then kneeled beside Albert.

“You are a gentleman.” Albert’s shoulders relaxed instantly as Arthur settled in beside him.

“You don’t know me very well.”

You sidled over beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Nonsense, Mr Morgan. Only a true gentleman would be so willing to protect a man who seemed as set on getting himself eaten as cousin Albert here!”

Arthur laughed, while Albert offhandedly replied, “Oh, ha ha. You are a riot, dear cousin. Perhaps I should have left you with my aunt, to be married off to some stinking, boorish nitwit twice your age?”

“Albert!” You hissed.

Arthur looked back at you, concern in his eyes, while Albert continued talking, questioning Arthur about his experience in the outdoors. Though he answered every question, his eyes kept returning to you, mouth twisting as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t quite sure how, or if it was okay. Every time you caught sight of his eyes, staring you down, you felt your stomach somersault. A part of you, deep inside, wanted to drag him off to the nearest quiet location, sit at his feet, and get him to tell you everything about himself, no secret left untold. The more realistic part thought that it would just be really nice to be able to spend some time with him without worrying about being eaten.

About that time, Arthur’s body stiffened, hushing you both. “Looks like we got company,” he whispered, nodding towards where the meat hung.

Your eyes followed, noticing first one, then another, until finally three wolves approached the tree. Albert shifted quietly behind his camera, coaxing the wolves out in a soft voice as he began snapping photos. Soon a total of five wolves had gathered beneath the tree. Arthur slowly and silently drew his pistol, readying it, as you moved behind him. With his free arm, he reached back to push you further behind him, elbow pressing against the side of your thigh, while his hand slid down the back of your calf. As the first wolf howled, you found yourself nervously gripping his shoulder. He shifted again, making sure to keep his eyes on the wolves and his body between yours and theirs.

The flash of Albert’s camera popped again and again, each time drawing the attention of another wolf. Though Albert seemed oblivious, your palms were sweating. One wolf broke off from the group, moving around the three of you to the left, while another moved to the right. Arthur was obviously nervous himself now, finger twitching on the trigger as his eyes glanced quickly from wolf to wolf.

The first wolf, the one right in front of the camera, shifted to stare at Albert, a low growl rising in its throat. It stalked towards him, eyes locked, while the two at the sides began pacing greedily back and forth. They began to snarl, while the first had edged forward, separated from the three of you by mere feet now, barking a harsh warning. You were being circled, surrounded.

It suddenly occurred to you that two of the five wolves were nowhere to be seen. While you shifted your head, frantically searching for them, the two from the sides joined the first in front of you, each of them focused on one of you, snarling as the readied themselves to pounce. Arthur wasted no time in firing a shot to the one in the center, the closest, hitting it right between the eyes and dropping it immediately. Then a rustling to the left caught your attention just as one of the final two wolves leapt out.

Arthur pushed you roughly behind him as he turned, firing two quick shots into its side, wounding but not killing it. While he was distracted by that, the fifth wolf jumped from the right, briefly latching onto his still outstretched arm before he downed it with a shot to the chest. He spun around to where the other three stood, firing a shot at each of them.

“They ain’t so very friendly, are they?” He yelled to Albert as he shot down another, the final two surging towards him. One latched onto his pistol arm momentarily, shaking it but not quite making him lose his grip. He kicked it off, a fine spray of blood covering them both as he put in the final shot to its skull.

Only one left, determined, vaulting at him and nearly knocking him over as it bit into his arm hard enough for him to cry out. You saw the dripping of red as he twisted away, firing three rapid shots to its chest. His face was a mask of anger and determination as he watched it fall, then softened as he turned to where you stood over Albert.

“Is that all of ‘em?” You nodded, breathing nearly as heavily as he was, though you hadn’t done nearly the work. He crossed the distance between you quickly before taking your hands and looking you over for injuries. “I think we might’ve kept the wolves from the door.”

Albert panted, grasping at his chest. “My whole futile existence flashed before my eyes! What a way to go . . . literally a dog’s dinner . . . .” He wandered off, mumbling to himself.

“They were just minding their own business before you hung that meat up there! Honestly, Albert, you have got to think a bit more! You could have gotten us all killed!” You screamed, your body still flushed with adrenaline. Arthur grabbed ahold of your shoulder to get your attention, shaking his head as he did.

“He ain’t gone listen.”

“I know. But, still . . . .”

“You hurt anywhere?”

You shook your head. “Thanks to you. I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”

“If I hadn’t you might both be dead right now.”

You had to admit, he was right. Suddenly, you remembered the way he’d been attacked, and your eyes flew wide. You grabbed his arms, making him wince a bit.

“Oh, I haven’t been hurt, but you . . . they grabbed you!”

He tried to push you away, drawing his hands back. “Ain’t nothing, really. I can handle it.”

“Nonsense. You saved our lives, the least I can do is take care of the injuries you got doing so!”

You pulled him gently over to a nearby rock, pressing on his shoulders to make him sit down. Once he had, you tugged as carefully as you could on the jacket he was wearing, pulling it off and rolling up his shirtsleeves. You took one of his large, calloused hands into yours, carefully turning his arm to get a decent look at the wounds, then did the same to the other. They didn’t look too bad, thanks to the jacket he was wearing, but they needed cleaning and bandaging.

“Stay here,” you spoke firmly, giving him no choice but to obey. He watched, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth, while you gathered a canteen, bandages, and a small bottle of whiskey from your horse. When you returned, you gestured for him to lift his hands back up, and he did as you asked.

While you worked a dampened cloth carefully around his arms, his eyes took in your face. It was the first time he’d really had a chance to see you this closely, and he was even more certain than he had been before that you were the most attractive person he’d ever seen. He swallowed hard as he felt the softness of your hands moving against his skin, touching him so tenderly. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with this sort of kindness. He cleared his throat, trying to think of something, anything to say, when you looked up at him.

You’d been about to ask him if you were hurting him, but the question dissolved in your mouth when you noticed how close your face was to his. Eye to eye, your noses were nearly touching, and you could feel each of his soft breaths tickling your lips. Unable to look away from those eyes, you bit your lip, and saw his eyes glance down at your mouth, his breath hitching slightly. Without being fully conscious of it, one of your fingers began tracing along the lines of his palm, while you gently chewed on your bottom lip. His eyes closed while he enjoyed the feel of your hand against his.

“Do you want some whiskey? For the pain?” You breathed out the words quietly, afraid of scaring away this tender moment. He nodded, and you passed the bottle to him, taking a quick sip for yourself first. When he’d taken two large gulps, he passed the bottle back and you sat it down carefully pouring a bit on a fresh cloth to disinfect his wounds. “This may sting a bit.”

He flinched as you pressed the alcohol laden cloth against the broken skin on his arm, though you could tell he was trying to hide it. In response, you stroked carefully along the inside of his forearm, making soft shushing sounds. When both arms had been properly disinfected, you carefully wound bandages where he needed them, going out of your way to brush your skin against his. The way he seemed so needy, so hungry just to be touched woke something inside of you. Maybe a part of you felt the same way, even if you tried to deny it. Maybe it was just him you craved.

As you finished bandaging him, you found your eyes drawn to his lips. Plump, soft, you couldn’t help but wonder what they would feel like pressing against you, anywhere. Everywhere. How would he kiss you? Would he be rough, hard and hungry, like a starving animal? Or would he be tender, kisses falling like petals against your skin, tickling you and leaving you forever wanting more? Would his hands tangle in your hair as you breathed in against his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat in your mouth? Finally, you couldn’t make any more excuses to continue touching him, and you trailed your fingers down his arm before standing and moving away. He stood up, looking at you shyly for a minute before the two of you walked to his horse.

“I just wanted to thank you again, Mr Morgan-“

“Call me Arthur. Please.”

You inhaled, forcing yourself to look into his eyes, despite your shyness. “Arthur, then. Thank you again. For helping us. For saving our lives. If you hadn’t been here . . . .”

“I know.” He reached up and touched the side of your face. “I’m glad I was here too.”

He smiled softly at you before mounting his horse. Just as he was about to ride away, you put your hand on his knee.

“You know, next week we’re going to be staying out near Emerald Ranch. In case you happen to be out that way.”

“You know,” he said, a mischievous smile on his lips, “I think I just might.”

#rdr2 fandom #arthurmorgan #rdr arthur #rdr2 fanfic #rdr #rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan x reader

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mel-ecks07 · 5 years

Text

The Turtle and the Rabbit [Chapter 1]

Our lives are determined by the destiny set for us by the cosmic order.

Each day, we move a step closer towards our unchanging destiny.

One, the supreme order of the universe can neither be changed nor challenged.

One, they who attempt to challenge the order shall be erased.

Chapter 1

Confusion 1.1

Ice cold air pierced his lungs. His knees buckled, shocked by the cold. The thin grey jumper that hung over his skinny frame barely provided any warmth. He crouched down against the cold stone wall, plumes of vapour escaping with his staccato breath.

Ryu looked at his broken, blood stained watch wrapped around his thin, pale wrist.

5:14 PM.

Time was ticking. He needed to move quickly but his body was too weak. At a distance, he could hear voices shouting. Had he been found already?

Cold.

He collapsed onto the frozen forest earth.

~~ X ~~

“Yuhn!”

“Yuhn! Where are you! Get over here already!” Sevin and Pete called out from their car.

The three of them were on their way back to their University dorms from an early morning hike up the nearby mountain. That’s when Yuhn spotted a rabbit by the road side and demanded Sevin to stop the car so he could click photographs.

It had been 15 minutes since the two of them saw Yuhn’s muscular frame chase the rabbit into the forest with his camera. It had now begun to snow.

“Yuhn, it’s snowing. We need to go,” Sevin shouted through his open window. But there was no reply.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this. Let’s go check,” said Pete.

“What? It’s freezing out there!” exclaimed Sevin.

“You know how absent-minded Yuhn can be. It won’t be the first time he got lost,” said Pete, already half outside the car.

Sevin let out a sigh. Pete was right. It was a general policy to not let Yuhn escape into unknown territories alone.

The two boys searched the direction Yuhn had gone off to. But as the sky grew darker, their calls continued to go unanswered. They decided to split up but remain within earshot distance of each other.

“Yuhn, this is not funny anymore. Come out!” shouted Pete, anxiety apparent in his voice. But there was not a sound to be heard except for the soft fall of snow on the trees.

Daylight was almost out when Pete heard Sevin frantically call out his name, “Pete! Can you hear me?”

“Did you find him?”, Pete turned around and ran towards Sevin’s voice.

“Just get over here!”

Sevin was crouched before a giant boulder in a narrow groove in the forest. His jacket was wrapped around Ryu’s tall, slim figure.

“Take off your jacket,” ordered Sevin as Pete approached.

“He’s still breathing. We need to get him to the car,” said Sevin as he flung Pete’s padding jacket over Ryu.

“Yuh-”

Pete’s face grew white as he registered the unconscious face lying in front of him.

It was Yuhn’s brother, Jin.

“Pick him up, come on!” urged Sevin grabbing hold of Ryu’s torso.

It took Pete a moment to recover from the shock. With quivering hands he lifted Ryu’s legs. The two didn’t speak a word as they carried his body through the forest. Their minds were blank as they tried to make sense of who they had just discovered.

“What the hell is happening, Sev? Jin died in the fire 5 years ago! Who is this man?”, Pete cried from the front seat as Sevin wrapped the cold body in their camping blankets.

“You think I know what’s happening?” shouted Sevin slamming the door shut and turning on the ignition.

“What are you doing? Yuhn is still out there!”

“You want this man to die? We need to get him to a hospital!”

Pete glanced at the back seat. This unconscious person had an uncanny resemblance to Yuhn’s elder brother.

“Call the cops,” ordered Sevin as he stepped on the accelerator.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. There is no network here!” cried Pete.

“Okay, calm down!” Sevin took in a deep breath, “The University clinic is 15 minutes away. I’ll drop you there with whoever the hell this guy is and go to the police station, alright?”

“Yuhn!” cried Pete, burying his face in his palm as tears rolled down his cheeks.

---------------

Confusion 1.2

Yuhn fell hard against the black wall. His insides felt as if they had been tied in a knot. He tried to walk but was too dizzy. Instead he fell on his knees and puked on the side of what seemed to be a dumpster.

As his hazy vision cleared, he noticed the smell of cigarettes and urine. He was in a dark, narrow alley at the end of which shone bright neon lights.

What the heck is going on?

Yuhn tried to recollect his memory. The last he remembered was chasing a rabbit through the forest outside the University campus. “Pete? Sevin?” he called out. But he was all alone in the alleyway.

Yuhn got back on his feet and wiped the puke off his lips with his jacket’s sleeve.

Jacket. It was too warm for a jacket. He realised that he was sweating from the heat.

Yuhn struggled to get out of his thick winter wear as he dragged his feet to the edge of the alley where it met the flashing neon lights.

It took a few seconds.

“What the heck?” Yuhn muttered under his breath.

Before him lay a road covered with hundreds of flashy signs and billboards. Numerous drinking holes and restaurants lined on each side of the street. Smoke billowed from the road side grills where people sat with mugs of alcohol. On the pavement, men and women made merry. Some took the liberty to sprawl out, clearly drunk.

“This is a dream. This has to be a dream. A very hyper realistic one,” Yuhn tried to reassure himself as he took hesitant steps down the street.

But his feet came to a sudden halt in front of a small open grill & bar. The television screen near the shop’s entrance caught his eye. Yuhn stood in stunned silence as images of a car accident flashed on the TV screen followed by the faces of his parents.

Blood drained from his face. He reached for his phone in his pocket but it slipped and fell to the ground.

“This is a dream. I need to wake up! This is a dream!” Yuhn trembled bending over the phone’s cracked screen. It wouldn’t turn on.

Ever since the death of his elder brother - Jin, losing his parents had been Yuhn’s greatest fear.

Hot tears rolled down his face now and he pressed harder at the power button, “Wake up! Wake up!” he squealed.

“Why are you crying, man?”, a pair of sneakers emerged in front of Yuhn, “You alright?”.

Yuhn looked up to find a man with flushed dimpled cheeks staring back at him. He held a can of beer in one hand and a lamb skewer in the other.

“I mean *hic* you’re here sitting in the middle of the pavement, crying,” he responded to Yuhn’s silence, slashing his lamb skewer across the air.

Yuhn quickly stood back on his feet, “I- I’m sorry. I-”, he began but was cut off by the man’s loud exclamations.

“Holy mother of baby Einstein! Ttoki! You’re back!” shouted the man as he threw his arms around Yuhn’s shoulders.

“Excuse me?” said Yuhn, trying to get out of the man’s bear hug.

“Ttoki! It’s me! Xin!” the man said, holding Yuhn’s face between his wrists because his palms still held the beer can and the lamb skewer.

“I-I think you’re mistaken, sir,” said Yuhn, trying his hardest to wrap his head around what was happening.

“No! No! No! Ttoki! Don’t you recognise me? I’m Xin! We went to school together *hic*, remember?” cried the dimpled man letting go of Yuhn’s face. He took a step back as if to show himself to Yuhn, a foolish smile plastered on his face.

Yuhn gasped. He did recognise this face. Not from school, but from the television.

“M-Matt Law?” stuttered Yuhn.

“Say what?”

“You’re Matt Law? The famous rapper?”

“I mean, I don’t know about Matt Law *hic* but I sure can rap!” exclaimed the drunk man before he broke into a drunk incoherent rap about peanuts.

Yuhn realised he was still clutching his phone. He had to get home.

Yuhn looked at Xin, “Listen, what place is this? How do I get to-”

Yuhn’s words were cut short by a loud siren that echoed through the air.

The vibrant street suddenly became still. Then all the shops began to empty out almost immediately. The neon lights flickered off one after another and the sound of shutters rolling down filled the street.

“Ah shit!” exclaimed Xin, “Come on, we need to go.”

He took one last swing of the beer and drained the liquid down his throat. Then chucking both the can and the lamb skewer by the roadside, Xin grabbed Yuhn’s wrist and started to pull him down the road.

“Hey! Let go of me!” said Yuhn, trying to wring his hand loose from Xin’s grip. “I said, let go!” Yuhn yanked his arm back and hit Xin on his shoulder.

Xin stopped and turned around. The dimpled smile that had been stuck on his face moments ago had been replaced by a cold sullen look.

“Listen Ttoki, maybe you haven’t heard *hic* but things have not been good since the time you left. We have 30 minutes to get to safety otherwise we’re both dead.”

Xin’s voice was dead serious. Around him, people were still hurriedly walking out of the shops. No one was laughing or smiling anymore. The blinking signs were nearly all switched off, the music no longer blared on the streets and even the drunk man sprawled on the pavement was frantically trying to pick himself up.

“But my parents-”

“Oh, tell about your parents later; we need to get out of here first,” said Xin grabbing Yuhn’s arm again and ushering him through the alley.

Yuhn followed, his jacket and phone still clutched tightly in his hand. Nothing made sense at the moment. If this was a dream, he couldn’t wait to wake up.

-End of Chapter 1-

©mel-ecks07

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ginnyzero · 5 years

Text

Crafting a Believable Setting

World building. The setting, the place where the story takes place can be just as influential for the mood and tone of your story as the conflict, characters and plot. There are a lot of other blogs with advice and tips and lists and questions enough to make your eyes glaze over. I'm covering the very tip of the iceberg here.

Becca and I have been doing a lot of world building lately for a project we're working on together. In fact, we're so excited about it, we're talking about creating a blog just give newsy/chatty updates about said project. And a huge part of that blog is going to be about the setting of our imaginary world. It means I've been thinking about it a little bit.

The first thing when you're discussing building a world is to decide your genre of story. The type of story is going to set the framework for how the world works (to a certain extent.) A historical romance, a fantasy, a dystopian speculative fiction and science fiction are all going to play with different rules. The genre is going to partially influence the technology of your story, the government, and the visual appearance.

For example, in the Lone Prospect, I decided that I wanted my story to be a science fantasy. The fantasy aspect of my story is the inclusion of werewolves. I use "science" to determine how werewolves change using the ever popular "it's a virus" trope. (Actually, the first werewolf movie was a science gone wrong movie and not a magical curse. The more you know.) And it's partially post apocalyptic, because it is set in the future after there was a huge war and the entire landscape of the world has changed. And it's has science fiction style technology, floating cars and transports that don't rely on propeller engine. There are 'tractor' beams and anti-gravity fields and computers that fit in your ear and project holographically from a pair of glasses in front of you. All of this was determined by the genre, science fantasy.

Whereas, in the Dawn Warrior, I chose to make it a pure fantasy story. The world is a medieval type world with dragons, fairies, and magic and lots of forests. So when it came to trying to define the setting, it wasn't nearly as complicated as the Lone Prospect's world.

The second thing I try to do is only define enough of the setting as the story needs. I love a complicated world as much as the next person. (See Star Wars and Lord of the Rings.) However, I'm writing a book. I'm not making a movie! (Though I'd love a movie of Heathens, that would be hysterical.) There comes a point where I know I'm writing soft science fantasy (or in the Dawn Warrior's case, low fantasy) and I don't have the room or the words for pages and pages of scenery porn. I don't need to know the complicated levels of government or the entire map or what everything looks like because it's not important to the story. I'm not going to be using that information right this minute. There comes a point where you have to stop poking at the world and write the book. If you know what the setting looks like for what you're working on at that moment, stop and get writing.

(Though for the Heathens universe, I'll admit I do know a lot about the setting, because I'm using a teaspoon to empty out a lake in the amount of stories I want to write for it. Let us hope I don't burn out on werewolves making explosions.)

In some cases, the next thing I try to do is define the visual aesthetic of the story. In the Lone Prospect, I knew that I wanted Jasper to bring back memories of the old wild west/small town turn of the 20th century America. Brick buildings that aren't more than four stories high, covered sidewalks, lots of trees and statues in the town square. Little mom and pop shops and restaurants, chain boutiques hidden with hokey wooden signs. I wanted it to feel familiar to readers now and to feel safe. That Jasper is a haven from the craziness of the post apocalyptic world. It's even set in a valley surrounded by 'hills.' But because of this, Jasper is also as much of a cage and prison as it is a place to be safe. It's easy to get comfortable there and ignore the troubles of the outside world. It's not easy to escape and can be put under siege.

Jasper also contrasts with Rapid City, a place with steel and glass skyscrapers and the City, which as even larger buildings and multiple levels of traffic. I wanted to merge the idea of the Core Words on Firefly, the cities in Dredd and to some extent Coruscant from Star Wars.

The visual look of your world and the way you describe it, whether it's clean or dingy or rusted or gleaming can give the reader in a few short words how they should feel about this place you're dropping them into. Should they feel comfortable or edgy or uneasy.

I am not afraid of using real places to base my settings on. We've got a huge world and there are so many beautiful places in it. By using real places with photographs and visits for reference, you can make the setting of your world feel that more tangible and realistic to your reader. And if your setting is in modern or contemporary times, or even to some extent the past, you can use details of the city and it's history, reputation, interesting facts to add spice to your story.

I chose South Dakota for the setting of the Lone Prospect because I've been there. I've seen lightning walking over the golden plains that are dotted with herds of buffalo. I've been to the badlands. I've seen the Black Hills. I have pictures of it. I have emotional memories associated with the area. I know a bit of the history. I try to use that to make my story better.

Then I try to define my tech. Is it science fiction and may I have lasers and tractor beams and guns that set to stun? Or is it fantasy and I have cross bows and ballista and swords for weapons. If it's a historical setting, what era is it in? When did they get gas in that area or electric? What types of things would they use to wash clothes or bake bread? Did they ride horses or where there the bicycles and automobiles? These will add more interesting details to your story. And depending on how 'hard' your science fiction is, (are you Star Wars/Star Trek or are you Asimov?) will determine how much you have to go into how your faster than light or warp drive engine works. (There is a reason I write soft science fiction.)

When I wrote the Lone Prospect, I borrowed from everywhere I could think of to create my world. Taking things that I hoped were coming in the near future and mixing it with things I'd seen in movies and read in other books to try and make a level of technology that felt simultaneously futuristic and realistic to my post apocalyptic setting. My biggest sticking point with making my technology was say, if I got a television show or a movie, could it be done on a lower budget scale.

With the Dawn Warrior on the other hand, it was a pure low fantasy novel without any major battle scenes that would require me to trot out the big medieval weapons. And since Roxana buys her bread already baked, I didn't really need to think too much about technology. (Though I know a bit about medieval technology.)

Lastly, at least for this world building post, I tend to think about the government. Granted, I don't write dystopian stories. If you write dystopian fiction then the government and how it affects the culture will probably be the first thing you think about, see the Hunger Games, Divergent, or the Handmaiden's Tale for examples. However, I don't write that type of fiction and I need to know what type of government I have in a general sense to know how it's going to affect my characters. Is it a monarchy? Is there a king? Is it a republic or a democracy? Will there be voting? Who can vote? What types of laws are there that my characters may or may not be breaking?

Another instance where knowing about the government is handy is if the story revolves around the government and politics itself. (This is where the prequels of Star Wars went wrong. The story was about politics and the fall of the Republic and we were off watching pod races.) Who are the movers and shakers in the system? What are the political alliances and how are they shown? There are a lot of both political power maneuvering and personal stories and conflicts that can be written if the story revolves around the people in power and the government. Honor Harrington is a good example of how a story can be written around politics.

This is a good general start to building a setting for your story. After this it is thinking about culture and putting in characters. (Culture is probably a post to itself!) I think the most important thing to remember is to only flesh out as much of the setting as you need to write the book. The book isn't going to write itself!

#wrtblr #writblr #writing tips #writing advice #writing settings #settings #world building #writing world building

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totallyrhettro · 5 years

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Ravenvale, Chapter 14

Word Count: 3100 Rating: This chapter: PG; overall story: explicit Warnings: None Summary: On their way home from another case, Agent Seaborne and Agent Roach find themselves in the strange, fog-covered town of Ravenvale. Notes: Seaborne and Roach AU where, years after the events seen in the YouTube series, they manage to become FBI agents.

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Seaborne shielded his eyes from the blinding light as they emerged from the darkness of the library. In the light of day the nightmares didn’t seem so bad, the illusions didn’t seem so real. It had been nothing more than a trick of them mind played on them by someone as of yet unknown. The fear that had burrowed deep inside faded away as he took a deep, (albeit moist) breath. He felt as if he had just woken up from a bad dream, though this whole town felt like a dream he couldn’t wake up from. A dream that started yesterday when they walked into this odd place.

Seaborne shook his head. Yesterday. It seemed like years since he and Roach had to abandon their car and walk to this insane town. How could it have been only yesterday? He looked up at the sky, at the fog that lay, unmoved, like a thick blanket over everything. Even with the sun at high noon, the two of them could barely see farther than twenty feet in front of them. Pulling on Seaborne’s hand, Roach began walking very quickly back towards the gas station.

“Hey!” Seaborne exclaimed as he felt himself being dragged along. “Where are we going?” Not that he wanted to wait anywhere near the library, in case any of the horrors contained within came out to get them, but his mind was still reeling from what he had seen inside. He was also a bit taken aback at how his crush was still holding his hand; Roach never held his hand. Ever.

“To get our car,” Roach explained, not slowing down. He was determined to escape Ravenvale no matter what. He had seen things that he never wanted to see again, things that could only be explained as the crazed delusions of one drugged or insane. It could have been in the food that he’d eaten with glee. It could have been in the coffee that kept him going in the morning. No, Roach didn’t think it was either of those, but something more obvious: the fog itself. This fog wasn’t natural, it couldn’t be. Therefore there was something in the fog making them see things, hear things, a drug or toxin that could cause such realistic hallucinations. Obviously they couldn’t hide in the buildings; they had to get out of town. It was the only way.

“And if our car is still broken?” Seaborne posed the obvious question but Roach was unhindered, possibly unhinged after what he’d seen in the library. What the aliens truly wanted he had no idea, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know anymore. His need to keep Seaborne safe was overriding his need for the truth.

“Then we’ll take the mechanic’s truck; we’re leaving this damned town.” Seaborne couldn’t agree more, but he was still surprised by Roach’s actions. No matter what they investigated, no matter how swept up in the mysteries he got, or how scared, Roach had never broken the law before. Not like this. Grand theft auto? That would definitely be a new one for the North Carolinian duo. Their footfalls were dampened by the fog, ever-present, almost choking them as they ran. Water condensed on their skin as they made their way; dew formed on Roach’s glasses but he ignored it. The lights on the Texaco station were out, and nothing seemed lit inside. Roach finally let go of Seaborne’s hand to get a better look through the store’s window. No sign of anyone in there.

“They’re closed,” Roach concluded, wiping some dirt from the window and looking again. Seaborne was looking somewhere else, his palm resting on the front of his jacket, just above his breast pocket. The photograph. He’d almost forgotten in the chaos of the library.

“I have to show you something,” he whispered, thinking back to what he had seen on that small piece of paper. After all that he’d seen, maybe the photo wasn’t a fake. Maybe Roach had seen it too. Seaborne had to know.

“It’s too early to be closed,” Roach was muttering, trying the door. Locked. “Maybe we can get in through the garage. Come on.” With that, he grabbed Seaborne’s hand once again and together they headed around the corner to the garage entrance. Luck was finally with them for the large rolling door was indeed open. Roach let out a soft ‘yes’ as he dashed inside.

“Roach...” But Roach wasn’t listening. He came to an abrupt stop in front of the mechanic’s bay. There, in the center of the room, where their tan, rental car should be, was nothing. The car was gone.

“What the hell?” Roach demanded, rubbing the back of his head in frustration. Were the people in charge of this conspiracy so eager to torment them that they’d trap them in this town? Glancing around, Roach didn’t see the mechanic’s truck parked anywhere either. Wherever Doug and Darrel were now, they must have taken the cars with them.

“Where’s the car?” Seaborne wondered, his wish to share the photograph to Roach momentarily replaced by a fear that they may never leave this awful place.

“It’s not real.” An assertion said to himself as much as for his partner. After what he’d seen, how could be sure what was real? “It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

“They must have moved it.” Trying to settle back into the voice of reason, Seaborne spoke softly to calm his friend, if not reassure him that they had escaped the world of nightmares and were back in reality. He had to believe it, if only for his own sanity. “It didn’t just up and disappear.”

“To where, though?” That was the question. It could be anywhere in this town and they had no idea how big Ravenvale even was, having only seen a small part of it thanks to the fog. It wouldn’t be that hard to hide one or two cars. “Okay,” he mused, walking over to a nearby table. Doug and Darrel must have used this table while they worked on cars; it was covered in tools and random rags, among other things. In one fluid motion, Roach used his long arm to sweep across the table, knocking everything onto the floor with a loud crash. Seaborne flinched at the noise.

“Roach?” he asked, moving to stand across from his friend. The line from where the fake Seaborne had cut across his face was still there, thin and red. Seaborne had said nothing about it earlier, but it concerned him all the same. What had happened to this man while the two of them were separated? Roach looked a bit wild but there was also concentration on his face, a look of determination and focus.

“What do we know,” he stated, leaning over and placing his hands on the table. This was the pose he always used when he was interrogating someone, or when he was about to go over the details of a case. Seaborne knew it well. He knew how to play along with this.

“Are car broke down.” Fact one. A fact they could be sure of.

“We headed into town,” Roach added, remembering. “We went to the motel.”

“Mrs. Marble was there,” Seaborne continued, laying out the facts with his partner. “She told us about the festival.”

“But there was no festival,” Roach noted.

“Because of the fog.” At that, Roach raised his head to look into his partner’s eyes.

“They said it was the fog,” he corrected. It was true; there had been no sign that the town had been getting ready for any event, festival or otherwise. Why would they lie about that?”

“You’re saying there is no festival?” Seaborne guessed. Roach shook his head.

“I’m saying that this-” he flicked a hand, gesturing all around them- “This is the festival.”

“A prank?” Seemed odd that anyone would go to so much trouble to prank two FBI agents this way, but the other explanations were few and far between.

“We’re still missing something,” Roach grumbled, looking back at the table. He didn’t see the table, of course. He saw events, moments, people and places, all lined out in an elaborate tapestry in his head, coalescing and entangling in a conspiracy that he had yet to understand. “What happened next?”

“Doug took me to check on the car.” A strange trip to be sure. “He was terrified of the fog.” Roach nodded at that.

“Something in the fog,” he seemed to write down in his head. “A drug? Hallucinogen?”

“He seemed more afraid of leaving the borders of the town,” Seaborne added.

“Maybe it’s denser out there.” Impossible to be sure. “What’s next?”

“You saw the fairy.” Now Seaborne had to say this without judgment, but there was a lilt in his voice he couldn't hide. Luckily, Roach didn’t notice.

“Dancing in the fog,” he remembered. “Real or not real?”

“Fairies aren’t real,” Seaborne stressed. “I’m going to say ‘not real’.” Roach flinched. He had seen it, he had believed it, but now he had to question his own eyes.

“Fine. Next.”

“You went to talk to the librarian,” Seaborne recalled. “I went to take a nap.” ‘Had that dream…’

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Roach pressed, looking up again. Seaborne hesitated and his partner didn’t like it. “Seaborne?”

“I had a weird dream,” he admitted, hoping Roach wouldn’t ask more. Of course, he did.

“About what?” At the sound of the question, Seaborne’s eyes unconsciously looked at Rhett’s hands. He looked back up at Rhett’s face quickly, but Roach had already noticed. “Well?”

“Uh, hands,” he murmured, embarrassed. “Just hands.” Roach looked down at his hands. Seaborne had been looking at them, but why?

“My hands?” he guessed. Seaborne really hoped he wasn’t blushing just now.

“N-no,” he lied. “Just hands. It was a stupid dream, just drop it.” Roach stared at him for a few seconds, trying to figure something out, before finally looking back at the table.

“Okay, fine,” he relented. “Dream. Next.”

“We went to the library. The first time,” Seaborne clarified. “It was a normal library.”

“No,” Roach corrected. “Not normal. The books. Only the ones we’ve read had text.”

“Impossible. No one could know what books we have and haven’t read.” Right? “Had to be part of a hallucination.”

“A shared hallucination?” Roach questioned.

“A shared belief,” Seaborne appealed. “Like when you and your friends get high and you all start seeing the same weird shit.” Who knew those wasted evening in college would be good for something? “Hallucinogens combined with the power of suggestion. You said something, my brain believed it and made it real.”

“Possible,” Roach agreed. He paused. “It could also be-”

“Not aliens, Roach!” Seaborne barked. “Stay grounded here.” Roach fumed for a second, then moved on.

“Next,” he grunted. Seaborne though about what happened next, what important events they had to yet rehash, but then he paused. That’s the night they slept in the same bed, and Roach had that dream. Spoke Seaborne's name. He didn’t want to talk about it, neither of them did, but holding back information wasn’t allowed. That’s not how this game was played.

“We went to bed,” he began, speaking quickly and hoping they could get through this part as fast as possible. “I… freaked out. Came over to stay with you. W-we slept-”

“Right, right,” Roach nodded, remembering the night clearly. “Not important. Move on.”

“Wait.” His partner waved a hand, motioning to go back. “Hang on. Your dream-”

“I don’t want to talk about it, man…”

“Just tell me, was it super… intense? Like, hyper-realistic?” At this, Roach looked up into his friend’s eyes, squinting slightly. “Was it the most real dream you’ve ever had?”

‘So real,’ Roach thought, thinking back. ‘But not real enough.’ To Seaborne he said “Yeah. It… it felt very real.” ‘And amazing, and intoxicating… and-’

“Mine, too.” Seaborne looked down at the table, his eyes scanning as if he could see the tapestry of conspiracy that Roach had laid out with his mind, too. “So far we’ve seen two places that have had huge effects on our minds. The library- which I never want to set foot in again, and-”

“The motel,” Roach concluded, turning to look out the window at the motel’s neon sign glowing through the dense mist. “There’s a clue there, I know it.” Seaborne couldn’t argue, he had no idea if Roach was right or not. Nothing in this town had made sense since the morning they arrived, but it was as good a place to start as any. Still...

“Wait, before we go. I need to show you something,” he pressed, palming his pocket again.

“Not now, Seaborne,” Roach replied, leading the way back to the motel that seemed to be the beginning of all this. “We finally have a lead.” He wasn’t holding his partner’s hand this time and Seaborne thought about just taking it, but the moment had passed. He missed the warmth of Roach’s hand and the comfort that it had brought, but he had to remember that he was an FBI agent and he was trained to deal with situations like this.

~ ~ ~

The motel’s neon sign was still glowing through the mist, its ominous red glow humming as they approached the front door. Inside was the familiar, under-furnished lobby with its one fake plant and the clock without hands. There was no sign of Mrs. Marble. The door to her office was open and Roach made a beeline for it. Seaborne meanwhile searched the counter in the lobby. Everything looked the same- No, wait. The key cabinet was empty. All the keys were gone, every last one. Seaborne was taking a closer look when he partner returned.

“Nothing there,” he was muttering. “Anything out here?” Seaborne motioned towards the cabinet.

“The keys are gone,” he pointed out. Roach looked where Seaborne was pointing.

“I haven’t seen any other guests,” he noted. “Have you?”

“I haven’t seen five people since he got here,” Seaborne grumbled, turning away. “We should check upstairs,” he suggested. “I still want to check your room, see if you left your gun somewhere.” Roach made a face, but followed right behind.

“I didn’t leave it anywhere,” he insisted. “Someone took it.” Seaborne let it drop as he headed up the stairs to the second floor. He paused at the landing. The long hallway, with hanging lights and ugly carpet, was flanked by a series of doors. That alone wasn’t unusual, but where the doors had all been closed the last time he passed through here, this time they were all just slightly open. As Roach came up behind him he stopped short as well, his mouth falling open. “Oh,” he uttered.

“Odd, right?” Seaborne agreed, his eyes not leaving the hallway, but Roach couldn’t find any words to answer. Even though the hall was clearly lit, it bore an unsettling resemblance to the one he saw in the library. His heart beat a little bit faster at the memory. “You okay?”

“Let’s not stay here long,” Roach managed, taking the lead. Staying calm, he fumbled for his lighter and held it at the ready. Had this been a week ago, Seaborne would have question his partner’s need to use a lighter in a perfectly lit room, but he understood the reason now. They had escaped the library, but he didn’t trust this motel to be a safe haven from nightmares. He could only hope.

They passed by the small alcove that had once held two vending machines. It was only a few doors away from the rooms they had stayed in last night. Glancing it they saw the alcove was empty, devoid of both pop and candy machines that had been there a few hours ago. Seaborne and Roach exchanged glances; Seaborne raising an eyebrow and Roach nodding in agreement. Like the library, things had changed in this motel, though the changes were definitely more subtle. They continued on, both too scared to open any of the doors enough to see past them. When they reached their own rooms, they paused, sidling up against the wall on either side of Roach’s door. It was slightly ajar, just like the other doors. With a nod from Roach, Seaborne gently pushed open the door. When nothing immediately jumped out at them, they both leaned over to look inside. It was empty.

Not empty, as in there wasn’t a single person inside, but empty, as in it was devoid of people, furniture, and everything else but a window. The bed, the nightstands, the desk and chair, all gone. It was an empty room lit by a single overhead light and a large, sash window with no curtains.

“Well. Your gun ain’t here.” Seaborne joked. Roach didn’t laugh.

“What is going on here?” was all he could say. He spun around with his arms out, as if the missing furniture was somehow invisible and not just… gone. Meanwhile, Seaborne sighed and looked out the window at the foggy town below. After a moment he reached into his breast pocket, but the photo from the library wasn't in there. His shoulder's slumped. Of course it was gone. Everything in that awful place had been an illusion. Why would the photograph be any different? From here he could see a few houses nearby, all cookie-cutter copies of one another in various shades of pastel colors. They had matching driveways, all empty, but without x-ray vision it was impossible to see inside their garages. Seaborne wondered if their missing car could be inside one of those.

As he tried to peer in the houses through the dense fog, he couldn’t see anything quite clearly. What he did see, in the bay window of the nearest house, was a large, dark shape. It wasn’t human, it was much too large, far too wide. Honestly, Seaborne couldn’t tell what it was. It wasn’t moving, so there was every possibility that it wasn’t even alive, but something about it terrified him to the core. The way it’s dark shape pierced the grey fog, it just felt… wrong. Turning to call over Roach, Seaborne’s eyes left the shape for only a moment, but when he looked again, it was gone. A shiver ran up his spine.

“What is it?” Roach asked, coming over. Seaborne couldn't pull his gaze from the spot where the shape had been. Though he hated to say it, he knew where the should go next.

“I think we should investigate the houses.”

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indie-struggle · 5 years

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Emotion

I read a script the other day and it was flat. It hit all those famous plot points you hear about, but it was dull. It had nothing of interest, and I wondered why. The more I thought about it the more I realized that it was void of any authentic feeling, and it only had plot. I unconsciously rejected it based on that - being that I am an emotional animal that has experienced a broad range of emotions - and not just sunshine and farts.

This lead me to a thought: no wonder why I keep returning to those films I love.

One of which is Ordinary People. Since I first watched it some years ago, looking back, I'm unsure of how I came about that... maybe it was Alvin Sargent (the screenwriter), who I admire a lot. Anyhow, I keep coming back to it. I watch it maybe 10-20 times a year along with all this other stuff you wouldn't like. I've read the script, though, who knows what draft it was or what level of production it was in, but it still held the core of the story and its moral.

It really is a fantastic film - and made in 1980 to boot - which puts it in this strange place where I'm not sure how it was made. At that time, the action-adventure blockbuster came storming in with Jaws and Star Wars, and a lot of films flew under the radar due to that. But this wasn't ignored and, ironically, probably couldn't be made today. Who knows, maybe it's because Robert Redford's sexy ass could do whatever he wanted then...

The performances, though in certain areas are lacking (mostly from z-list bit actors), don't keep the story from being solid. There isn't one hole in it. Its - and sorry for spoiling 40 years later - structure isn’t melodramatic. The plot isn't pulling the characters along like movies you're used to, the characters are pulling the plot - extremely important difference. You never know where you're going except for the moment, and yet as we go further down the rabbit hole we become more gripped with this family and don't even realize it. Film wise, this is difficult to make on any level. This is also besides the point I wanted to talk about, which is much greater than just structure and planning, or production values and cinematography... I really need to stop drifting.

(the infamous exploding car)

I want to talk about relatability (is that a word?) of emotion. Because I think that's why I keep coming back to it. First off, this type of film is something you're more inclined to see from outside of the US post '70s. It's a piece of Americana but, almost, almost a slice of life film. Something the French, Italian and Russians specialize in: the inner lives of people and how it effects life around them, ultimately resulting in natural conditions, or an ending that has no place else to go, because that's life. Its only alternative is to have a glimpse of hope. Ordinary People ends with that alternative, because this is fucking America.

(I've written about slice-of-life before: https://indie-struggle.tumblr.com/post/172373896232/so-whats-the-slice-of-life-genre-anyway - but since tumblr blocks this blog from being found outside of tumblr, you probably never saw it.)

This family is nothing like what my family was: they're well off, they're complete, they have things I couldn't fathom or even dream of in terms of benefits in life. This isn't a poor family with gritty living conditions making due and living pay-check to pay-check, which I would immediately identify. So, try to understand the bias here. This family is the polar opposite of all that. So, why in the hell can I relate with it so much? The answer, in the end, is the same damn reason I relate with Sean Nelson's character in Fresh.

Emotion.

The interactions that the family go through are relatable and realistic enough that they transcend any sort of status symbol, race or class. They're universal to those who've had the same emotions, even if it's just coping. You have a father who is simple and confused, but he’s caring and present. You have a son with PTSD, unwelcome in his own skin, his old haunts, at school, at home, and with authority. And then, you have the mother: a torn, stand-offish, determined battle axe, who at every turn is trying to unhear or trying to change the subject to keep herself in balance - the egoshell™. She, strangely enough, is the most unstable of the three. Not only to the characters, but to the audience. I have to be honest, I didn't get this until about my 5th viewing. I was so busy hating her, I didn't realize that she in fact is the one torn inside the most. She doesn't know what to do, and of course loses it all by trying to keep it all. Ultimately, the story is about a father though, trying to hold this family together, as shown through the son.

(moments before the great Uzi on the bus scene)

Now, the biggest complaint I've ever heard about this story is about the psychologist. I understand that. The reason is due to a perception of over compensation. At that time, and even today, it's seen as being detestable to see a shrink, or something to be looked down upon by some people - mostly cowards. So, the film paints it in a bright light, not a savior but a brighter light than most can accept. I, myself, who have been to many psychologists (you can tell), can say that the light isn't that bright. It's more of a case of: "Look, psychology is a story in itself, and we don't have 6 years to spend on the son getting help for this story. So, let's round out the edges." And that in turn creates quicker results and this idea of painting the shrink as a saint. But, his character is true to psychology - take my word for it - that's how they are. Granted, they're not all nice, but when you get a good one, they really hit the mark on what that’s like. And the film isn't about him anyhow, he's just the handle along the steps the son is climbing - something I felt Good Will Hunting borrowed heavily from.

So we have a traumatized, coping family. The reason they're traumatized really isn't important. Though it's shown with brevity, you soon start to realize that this family is being pulled apart by strings that were on a bad foundation beforehand (which, in my opinion, is the reason the story merely shows glimpses of the tragedy throughout - which was a good decision). It has zero sentimentality. There's no guy playing a harmonica in the corner while an old man runs off about the troubles of life. There's no music cue as two buddies realize their futility while sitting on a dock, boozing.

Everything is shown, it's right there, naked, bald, shivering, and with no place to go.

Every character's behavior is perfect for the story. They're realistic, they're believable. All their choices and actions are accurate to how people react to trauma. No two people act the same in reality, and how they do in the film is something you should focus on. Their behavior and actions are what reveals their emotions. The believability of the emotions they're having and the actions they take are what transfers the emotions to me. If you think in terms of action-reaction, it's accurate. And that’s a good thing to note. No doubt an external conflict has created a personal conflict story here, but it didn't need the external conflict to work. It didn’t need to be shown. Why? Because this cloud every character is in is the aftermath of it. It’s a rippling wave through each of them, and that’s what’s interesting, not the tragic event itself.

I'm rambling now... fuck. But what I want you to take away from this, besides that it will make you cry unless you have no goddamn soul, is that you don't need a hook. You don't need explosions. You don't need a good planet vs. bad aliens all the time, or a talking fucking animal... you don't need any of that, it isn't what matters. All you need is emotion out of something interesting and you've got something.

No matter the class, the race, or any social or political beliefs you hold close to your chest, emotion matters the most. And it has to be from some place genuine. It's what editors cut for. Emotions triumph, and this film is a good example of the proper writing and execution of them. Behavior and action are always a side effect of an emotion, whether they're holding on too tight, don't know what it even is, or know what it is and are trying hard not to lose it. Realistic emotions are paramount. They are what's relatable. In stories, it's what you have to tap into, it's what holds you, even more so than spectacle.

(killers photograph their victims prior to dragging them into the murder basement)

Now, if you've never lived and done things to experience a broad range of emotions, how are you going to hold someone's interest who has? You're not, and your story is going to be flat. It doesn't matter if you hit every plot device out there. Unless you're Chris Nolan and can get away with just plot and sentimentality, your script will drown. As Tom DiCillo once said: "If it ain't got heart, it ain't worth shit." I don't know if he coined that, I just remember him saying it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard my grandfather say that once thirty years ago, but you get the point. I hope.

If I had the chance to talk to that writer, I’d tell him to go live. Go get rejected by a woman, try to survive on nothing, get beat up, go get dirty and come back. Do something to get life experience. And if you can’t for some reason, at least read about those who have and try to fully understand it. And for the love of John-Boy, be interesting and make me feel something beside a bit of thrill or fright. It's tired. There are many more powerful colors of emotion out there besides pink and gamboge... so find ‘em.

#emotion #screenwriting

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stedes-black-bonnet · 6 years

Text

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 26

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: masterlist, dudes

Warnings: goodness none; Deacy just isn’t that kind of guy.

Abstract: No more questions just you and I...

----------------------------

John Deacon walked through the garden path back to his green Mercedes-Benz. He gripped the handle, key in hand, lost in thought. It was always bittersweet, this car. It always made him think of her. Technically, her’s had been the blue one, though. Very much like her eyes, exactly like her eyes; they had joked, at the time, that their cars matched their eye colors, and perhaps they should switch models, so they could always see each other. It had been one of those romantic, foolish things people say when they’re in love and happy. Coming from anyone else, it would have made you cringe, but when it came from John and Veronica, well, people couldn’t help but see how sharply authentic their love was, and how unfairly happy they were.

God, they had been happy together. It was the kind of happiness that made other people unduly jealous and grossly resentful, and this only made them more devoted to each other. They fed off the attention from others and the passion from each other and used that to create the perfect marital balance. So much so that when John had suggested they switch cars, Veronica had loved the purity of the notion as much as she had the opportunity to make people sigh at their too real love. Freddie frequently said if he and Jim had tried half of the casually romantic things she and John had done, it would have come off as trying too hard or disingenuous; Jim had called them the real McCoy. Deacy knew better, though, and often reminded Freddie and Jim their own romance was a glorious sight to behold. Freddie called them a pair of old married couples, which Deacy had loved.

She had loved the idea. Simply loved it.

So, they had planned to switch cars, but Deacy had been held back during a recording session for Jazz, and had missed their scheduled rendezvous, so before they could switch cars, she had died.

Just like that. Happened everyday.

Is that what they call the ultimate sacrifice? Or a twist of fate?

If they had switched cars a handful of hours earlier, a measly three or four hours, Deacy could easily be the one who was dead now; the break-line had failed, and she couldn’t stop. In a weird way, he’d always blame himself for her death; he should have met her. He should have kept his promise. She should have been his priority. He’d have gladly died for her. If he could go back, he’d choose to switch cars in time instead of plucking his bass for some record he’d never be able to listen to again, let alone perform, without thinking of her. He’d choose her every damn time. Ultimate sacrifice is such a hollow way of putting it, he thought.

The fact was, Veronica was dead, and he was alive, and he could just as easily have died instead. This fact was the hardest one with which to live, even three years after the fact. It gnawed at him upon waking, and pulled his hair as he fell to sleep every night. It visited him on tour, and picked out his costume for each performance. It whispered to him from the audience, and played around his mind like a melody as catchy as anything Freddie had ever written.

She’s dead, she’s dead; and you’re alive, quite alive.

That is, until last night.

Last night, the immutable fact, which taunted Deacy relentlessly, softened. It hadn’t vanished, might never slip into a splendid quietude, but it had miraculously assuaged itself into a barely perceptible background noise. It had been unexpected, fantastic, and guilt-rendering. It wasn’t only having feelings for someone else that created this crippling guilt, but it was how good it felt to feel something other than a cleverly concealed nothingness. What caused him the most guilt wasn’t you; no, you were a gift. What caused him the most guilt was how good it felt to forget her.

How good it felt to forget her. What a terrible thing to think.

The guilt he could and would learn to deal with, to even escape, and to conquer. Forgetting her, though. He wasn’t so sure he could do that. He didn’t think he wanted to forget her. He wasn’t sure he had a choice; what if he didn’t have a choice? He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he’d just merely forget things about her given enough time. He had photographs, so he’d never forget what she looked like, or the color her eyes. What about things that couldn’t be captured? What about how she kissed? How it felt when she said his name? Or the way she put on her lipstick? The tunes she’d hum to herself--what if he forgot those? What if it just happened and he couldn’t stop it?

What if memories of you replaced his memories of her? This seemed like a preposterous notion. That wasn’t how memories worked. Veronica couldn’t be replaced like batteries in a remote. She couldn’t be thrown away. She would never be unnecessary or expendable. Though, neither were you. You had crashed into his line of sight, by chance, and had changed his entire life. With one glance, he felt it. Roots took hold of him, then, in that moment when he saw you, and they clawed, fighting for a foundation in the desert that his heart had become. You had whipped something up in him, as if suspired by divine breath, you had effortlessly coaxed something in him to awaken, something he thought had been long dead: Desire. Not even a desire for another person, though that had surely happened; rather, it had been a simpler desire altogether. A desire to live. And now that he was awake, he wasn’t sure he could go back to before.

But the guilt.

Well, he had put his heart away once. Leading up to the funeral, Deacy had stayed with Roger. Roger had catered to Deacy’s every demand--at least every demand he could realistically fulfill; his repeated request for him to bring Veronica back, to switch their cars, hadn’t been possible; though if anyone could have found a way, it would have been Roger. His realistic demands had been few, though. Deacy wanted to not move from a sofa, and watch films. Roger had gone to Deacy’s home and brought with him every VHS his friend had asked for with great speed and relief at being given a task to do. Deacy and Veronica had collected a vast film collection. They both loved everything about film. Would debate it for hours, would see everything in the theaters, even the bad ones, just for the sheer joy of experiencing it together. So, when Deacy’s one request had been to watch movies, well that had been easy to manage. Off to the Deacon residence Roger had gone to collect every film on Deacy’s list.

Though, what he had anticipated hadn’t been the bizarre film torture Deacy had insisted he put himself through. He had morbidly called it their “Greatest Hits.” It had started innocently enough with their top 10 favorite films, then gradually turned into their favorite twenty, thirty, fifty films. Deacy was determined to not move from Roger’s ultra modern lime green sofa and big screen TV until he had finished them all. He was dead-set on watching film after film with a rotating cast of his band mates and Jim, while crying silently, mouthing along with the lines in the films they had so cherished. This torture persisted for three days straight before Deacy succumbed to an uneasy sleep, his first sleep since her death, mostly due to pure exhaustion and outright fear.

They’d all take shifts sitting with him, watching films from every genre; it hadn’t mattered what was on, high period romance, crime noir, or precise comedy: he sobbed, more or less, inconsolably. He’d tell stories of her, of them, what they had liked about Taxi Driver; how overrated and inaccurate to real love that Love Story had been; how The Way We Were would always make them cry; how Katharine Hepburn could do no wrong, and how Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall would always be the sexist husband and wife on screen--they’d debate if you could literally watch them falling in love on screen, and how romantic that was to have it captured on film forever; how The Godfather: Part II was superior to The Godfather; she had loved Robert De Niro, and he had loved Al Pacino; or how Sleuth was one of the funniest movies ever made that no one ever talked about.

And as each film had progressed, as each celluloid memory flickered in front of his eyes, he had packed away a portion of his heart. Sealing it away forever behind a wall of layered film strips and light projectors, behind a wall of celebrity and fame. Well, he had certainly successfully put his heart to the side for a hefty chunk of time, so why not also put aside the guilt? Why not the guilt, indeed? Why couldn’t he push aside the guilt for you? Like he had his heart for her? Maybe it could even be like a trade? He could take his heart back, embrace feeling once more, as he had embraced you, in exchange for the self-flagellating guilt. Trading guilt for a heart seemed like a much better deal, especially since it was a guilt so perverse Veronica would never have wanted him to feel it.

Well, the other fact of the matter was he knew you were worth it. You hadn’t known each other for a long time, but he had known love before; he knew what it felt like, sounded like, looked like; you could be that. Sure, it wouldn't be the same as with Veronica, but it shouldn’t be; you were both very different people; he was different now, too. He could never love like he had before, without fear and realism. Love for him now would be pragmatic; not to say it wouldn’t be romantic, because he was a ride or die romantic. However, he would never again believe that love was forever, undying, and could survive anything. Because, the fact of the matter was, it couldn’t.

Deacy pulled the handle, and entered his green Mercedes-Benz. His grey-green eyes flashed in the light before he hid them behind a pair of black aviators. He drove in the direction of his home, tapping out tunes only he could hear on his steering wheel. He had this series of notes stuck in his head; it was a little funky, a little spicy; it was going to be a hard sell. He had the distinct feeling the entire record was going to be a hard sell. Tonight would settle the path for the record once and for all. At least he’d have you there to strengthen his resolve. It helped Freddie was on his side, too.

Although, it wasn’t good there were sides at all. He hated Roger wasn’t on his side. Absolutely detested his hot hotheadedness and his viper sting when he thought you were wrong; it would be nothing short of a battle. He needed armor, then. He need to prepare his own stinger and cutting lines.

Shying away from an actual townhouse (pretentious) and an apartment (too many people and zero privacy) Deacy owned a detached Victorian house in St. John’s Wood. It had a fading yellow brick exterior Deacy greatly treasured; it was happily gated and had a large lawn obscured from view. Six bedrooms, as he and Veronica had wanted children, but hadn’t gotten around to it. He thought about selling the house, but as his grief abated, he knew he couldn’t just get rid of it. It would be like getting rid of his left arm; moving on didn’t need to be literal, usually it was a shifting state of mind more than anything else.

Besides, like the others, they had named their home. As he pulled up, the plaque reading Manderley greeted him. Manderley was the name of house in the film Rebecca, which they had loved. He parked his car, and made his way up the entrance and into his home. He sighed. Sometimes, he had to stop himself from calling her name when he returned home. Today wasn’t one of those days, however; it was a day where he remembered her fondly and without harm.

He started unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way past the first living room (completely shelved in with films) and kitchen (slender and accented in coppers and vibrant teals) and up to the third floor bedroom, his bedroom. He threw his clothes in the hamper, mostly undressed by the time he reached his room. The walls were the darkest blue, like the sky at night, and the ceiling glinted like the pacific ocean. He passed quickly into the master bathroom, bypassing the tub of honey-colored marble, and danced into the glass door shower. Upon finishing, he wrapped a couple large blood red towels around himself and proceed to the kitchen for his first meal of the day. He started some water boiling, threw in some salt.

He went into the first living room, picked out Saturday Night Fever and started that playing. He went back to the kitchen, threw some pasta into the boiling water, and chopped some carrots, sat some peas aside, and began to lightly sear some prosciutto. He sat that to the side, and added some butter to another pan and water and began to cook the vegetables. He readied some heavy whipping cream, garlic butter, and Parmesan. Eventually, given time and enough heat, all was ready; he tossed it together, and made his way to the first living room.

Sitting on the massively proportioned C-shaped sofa, Deacy sank into his meal and Saturday Night Fever. He’d have to pick you up eventually, and he’d have to tell you about Veronica eventually, too, but for now he enjoyed the dancing, the music, and the fever.

------------------

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#john deacon x reader #John Deacon #Joe Mazzello #bohemian rhapsody #queen #queen x reader

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flowersaretheshit · 6 years

Text

The artist and Tom, part two.

It’d been a week since the series of paintings, sketches and photographs. Tom looking back on this found a warm delight in himself that he was sat in her apartment. On her balcony. He turned around to see her organising her works, there was a refreshing sense to being here. “Are you alright?” He caught her staring at the works, fingers to her lips brows furrowed. “It’s missing something.” she let her arms drop, then, Indecisive she placed her hand to her forehead. “Damn it Tom, I’ve got twelve pieces here and I still think somethings missing.” standing up he came to look at the works himself. “How do you want them presented?” He queried placing his own hand to his jaw in thought.

Gliding about she laid out her works, dressing gown billowing around her.

He watched her move. She was swift and strong in her movements, goddess like. He’d said to her she had a commanding presence once while being sketched, to which she’d told him ‘well, listen to me and stop moving.’ He’d very quickly obliged. Her pieces were laid out, they were truly magnificent portraits. All the subjects were male, yet she’d given them all a feminine sense of beauty. Tom gazed at them, trying not to get lost in their elegance. ”They really, are magnificent Y/n... “ He glanced at her, she was biting her thumb. “That doesn��t mean they’re ready. I’d paint another one but I don’t have a model. Or the time.” Tom looked at her, “I’ll model for you.” he stated simply. She looked at him and smiled. “That would be wonderful but...I cant paint another piece, they get presented in a week. I don’t have time.” he was about to say something but she caught him “A photograph?” He smiled but shrugged. “maybe.”

Y/N opened up all the curtains, light shining through the windows. “I’ll put it as the final piece.” She called marching over to him, sketches in hand. “You can be my, Apollo.” She smiled as they flipped through the sketches, each one had a mixture of whites and golds. An elegant frame almost seductive, hands draped elegantly around a statue. “Apollo was a romantic, adoring. He became infatuated easily. I’d thought it’d be too much.” He hummed going over the sketches again while she began carrying a statue of a young Greek man to the balcony. He studied her, light spattering over her skin while she tried out a couple of photos. “There’s a poetic tragedy to his tendency.” He said gazing at her she smiled still organising the statue with white silk “Is there.” she smirked. “I think you already know, by the way you’ve positioned the statue. He’s turned away. The sun provides warmth, life and allows us to see everything about our world, including ourselves.” He stopped, she was gazing at him. “Continue.” She smiled taking a long train of gold fabric and laying it out on the sofa. He coughed continuing as she made her way over.

“But, no one can look directly at the sun for long enough. He’s beautiful but he wants to be in love.” She hummed in agreement, walking over to him. delicate hands reaching to his top button. Tom stopped as she continued to unbutton his shirt, taken aback he simply gazed at her as she slid his shirt off his shoulders. He leaned into her touch, almost helpless. “And have someone love him in return.” She finished for him taking his shirt and replacing it with the gold fabric. He lost himself then, completely entranced and surrendered to her. “Please finish, I love the way you explain my genius ideas.” she looked over her shoulder. grabbing some gold paint. “When he does find a recipient of his love, he looses him.” she stopped, using her thumb to drag lines of gold paint across his jaw. Collar bone and nose. Down his cheek bones placing a light swipe across his his bottom lip.

“You’re talking about Hyacinthus.” she hummed waiting for his reply, eyes boring into his. “I am.” he smiled looking down at her. She smoothed out the fabric. “You know, many male models I’ve known and critics have been so obsessed with this idea of masculinity. All brooding faces and jagged lines, I always found it so typical to fall into. It’s sad, many of my teachers... they never understood what I was trying to say.” She seemed lost for a moment, lost in her work. In him. They, for a brief second lost in each other. “And, what is it your saying.” He asked happy with being lost in her. “It’s more of a question, what makes a man? Why do we limit men to dominance and women to submission, why can’t men be feminine and still be seen as desirable? Why do we associate femininity with weakness?” She truly was a strange and wonderful being. “Well, Apollo. Pose for me.” They smiled at each other, as she guided him to the balcony.

The following four hours were a mixture of poses, philosophical discussion and photos, all until the sun began to sink. “Thomas, you are wonderful. I think I’ve got it.” He sat next to her looking at the photos. “You’re the artist, y/n. This is all your making.” he handed her the sketches. She smiled, looking at her work. “This is what I wanted, you know. I always dreamed of putting my work on display. having people see the meaning in my work.” He looked at her then, her voice was cracking but she was still smiling. “I’ve worked so fucking hard.” She laughed eyes teary. He chuckled and pulled her in to his chest. “So many people told me I wouldn’t get anywhere with my work, that I had to aim for something more realistic. More popular.” she pushed back wiping her eyes. “Oh god Thomas, I-I just.” She sighed shoulders slumping, smile wide, her jaw tilted back. He felt like he had to take everything in. “I’ve wanted this for a while.” she laughed.

“And you’ve got it.” He pushed some of the hair behind her ear and gently picked up his shirt. “I’ll see you soon, if you need a hand with any of the moving stuff down or whatever I’ll be glad to help.” Moving to the door she stood up arms folded over her chest. “You’re too good to me, but thank you.” he chuckled looking back at her. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she was holding it down. Just as he turned back to the door she called out to him “Thomas..” he looked back at her, it was the first time he’d seen her look almost nervous. “You... you’re coming to the exhibition, right?” he smiled. “Of course.” She smiled into her knuckles. “good, we... we should celebrate after.” he felt a warm sensation in his stomach at her words. “Definitely.” he began to walk down the steps only to go back up to where she was now stood above him at the door way. “You, you should come back to my apartment. for dinner?” she nodded leaning on the door frame. “I’d love to.”

The Exhibition was the only thing distracting y/n from Thomas. Though he had a funny way of popping into her head, and he was unavoidable with the photo needing to be printed as soon as possible. It didn’t help that on top of all that she was having an argument with the organisers about her artist statement. She was at the gallery with organisers, six middle aged men. The first thing she noticed about them was their stature, they had the kind of lift in their chins that made them appear as though they were constantly trying to place themselves above you. like they were walking around on the tips of their toes. “You must be Mr, Williams, Anderson, Notts, Kennick, Earls, Richards and Smith.” she went to shake their hands but none of them obliged. “I’m afraid, this is a formal meeting miss L/N.” she bit her tong, they’re paying you. she kept telling herself.

“I’m sorry, what’s this about my statement.” she asked as one of the gentlemen stepped forward handing her the paper. “We have no need of it. Your work is merely a temporary exhibition. We doubt any possibility of it being popular, so we don’t wish to draw attention to the work.” she let her jaw drop. “You’re holding a gala for it, surely my statement is essential to future clients.” she kept calm but she could feel the anger in her. Mr Williams stuck his nose at her, “Yes, but being as it’s not lasting all we need is the title. The meaning of your work hardly matters.” “You organise an art gallery. Meaning has never not mattered before.” she was shouting now. “This isn’t negotiable.” Before she could retaliate they’d stormed back into the gallery. furious y/n stormed away herself paper in hand.

Tom had his door open again, but was shocked when he saw y/n stood in the door. He went to smile only to see her face red and tear stained. “God are you alright.” He walked over and gently lead her inside, sitting down she explained everything to him. Tom just sat there for a moment stunned. “a-and I can’t even demand it, they’ll cancel my exhibition.” He leaned forward, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I wish I could help you, that’s outrageous. They can’t make predictions like that, it doesn’t make sense. You’re one of the up comers, it’s stupid of them not to address you.” She calmed her self down, looking at her he kept tying to think of ways he could help. “I don’t care, if my work flops. No artist gets amazing reviews for every exhibition, but it’s the way they spoke to me. They aren’t even attending on the evening.”

Tom paused deep in thought, an idea suddenly springing to mind. “Present it verbally. They wont be there, it should be fine.” She paused for a minute looking at him, “You’re wonderful.” She smiled letting out a laugh. She paused for a moment lingering before standing up. “I should get going back.” she stood walking to the door. “You really are too good to me Tom.” she sighed a hand lingering on the door frame. “I only want them to see you y/n.” She looked back at him, he was looking her straight in the eyes. “You work so damn hard, you deserve the full opportunity.” He sat there his eyes so determined, they really did care about each other. She took a step forward, thinking. What if I ran into his arms right now. What if I just ended it all.

instead she simply said “I know.” and they both smiled as she closed the door.

“Good night Thomas.”

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Okay! That’s part two! Firstly I’m just gonna say I’m really sorry I’m dragging this out but I love writing it so much, and that down to this sudden stream of love and support. So part three will be coming shortly! Also after I’ve finished this please let me know who else you’d like me to write about, feel free to drop in suggestions for other actors and characters and I will do my best to write them! I was thinking about writing something Armie Hammer themed next, so let me know if that peaks your interest.

with love, Nina.

@drakesfiance

@nwmtagsb @hajjummah @angelofasgard16 @caticorndancingonpainbows @haru-ririchiyo @sweet-hot-latte @ouranyaoi

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddelston imagine #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x you #loki laufeyson #loki #loki fanfic #loki imagine #loki x reader #loki x you #loki (marvel)#marvel imagine #romance

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