#we use it in such cool and interesting and mundane ways now!

[famewolf]

after I finished every story mission in ESO I thought to myself 'I think I'm going to replay Skyrim and use my old game guide and do every single quest in Skyrim'. and then Baldur's Gate 3 came out

[mrspiastri]

✩ lights, camera, action! 📸

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, annoying reporters, austria 2024

wc: 4.9k words

an: thanks for the req anon, hope u like it! pls excuse any spelling errors i could not be arsed enough to proofread this more than twice :p

“So, they’re just going to be in our house… recording us the entire day?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

“And this is happening for a month?”

“Maybe two, depending on how much footage they need.”

A beat of silence.

Lando turned to his girlfriend, watching as she set her Kindle down and looked at him with a sharp glare. All she had wanted was a quiet night in, some light reading before bed, not this conversation.

“So, what do you think?” he asked carefully.

“I think you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

Lando stifled a chuckle, scooting closer despite the warning in her eyes. “It’s not that bad, I promise. They’ll get all your good angles. And if there’s anything you don’t want in, I’ll make sure they cut it out.”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. The idea of letting a camera crew into their home, her safe space, the one place where she could collapse onto the couch after work without a second thought, was unsettling.

“Look, I’m not going to force you,” Lando said, his voice softer now. “Just think about it. It’s like… our moments together being immortalized.”

She arched her brow, still unconvinced.

“We could even look back on them years later,” he continued, ever the optimist. “Show them to our kids!”

Y/N gave him a long, unimpressed stare.

“Just give me a day or two,” she muttered at last.

“Of course, love.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before letting the subject drop.

Three days later, Y/N found herself reluctantly agreeing, under strict conditions:

1. No cameras before 9 AM or after 10 PM.

2. No filming arguments or fights (if they happened).

3. No recording private conversations.

The production team had no issue following her rules, and soon enough, cameras and microphones became a regular sight in their living room and kitchen.

To her surprise, it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The Drive To Survive crew was respectful, and off-camera, they were actually lovely to talk to.

Not that she’d ever admit it to Lando. She had no interest in hearing an “ I told you so.”

Still, she had to admit, there was something oddly enjoyable about it. The cameras felt natural, capturing the effortless way she and Lando fit together. Their banter. Their energy.

Even the crew enjoyed filming them. Because if there was one thing about Y/N and Lando, it was that they were effortlessly entertaining.

The couple had an air of domesticity around them, which was visible during certain moments, like when Y/N announced she was going grocery shopping.

🪻🪻

She didn’t question it at first.

Lando had followed her around their apartment, slipping on his hoodie and sneakers, acting as if they were about to embark on some thrilling adventure rather than… well, a simple trip to the grocery store. But when he practically rushed out the door behind her, stuffing his hands into his pockets like he was trying to play it cool, she finally turned to him with a raised brow.

"Alright, what’s going on?"

Lando blinked at her, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"

"You insisted on coming with me," she pointed out as she slid into the passenger seat of her car. "Since when are you so eager to go grocery shopping?"

Lando smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a soft laugh. "It’s just shopping, Lando."

"Yes… and?"

She shot him a look, but he only grinned, reaching over to intertwine his fingers with hers as he started the car. She glanced down at their joined hands, warmth flickering in her chest.

Maybe it was just shopping. But to him, time with her, no matter how mundane, was worth tagging along for.

The grocery store was as uneventful as ever, aisles filled with tired parents, students grabbing last-minute essentials, and employees stacking shelves. Y/N navigated the space with practiced ease, mentally ticking off the list in her head.

Lando, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained by everything.

"You know, people are going to think I’m useless because you’re the one actually shopping," Lando mused, walking beside you with a basket dangling from his arm. A small mic was clipped to his hoodie, and a camera trailed at a respectful distance, catching every moment.

"You are useless," you teased, grabbing a carton of eggs and placing them into the basket.

Lando let out a scandalized gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse me? I am an excellent grocery shopper. Watch this."

Before you could stop him, he darted toward a display of snacks, dramatically grabbing a family-sized bag of chips and tossing it into the basket. The camera crew caught it all, no doubt enjoying his antics.

"Wow," you said dryly, watching him grin. "Such a valuable contribution."

"You’re welcome." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple before whispering, "At least pretend I’m helpful, love. My reputation is at stake."

She shook her head, amused. He stayed close beside her, fingers occasionally brushing hers when he pointed out random things, a ridiculous cereal box, a weirdly shaped vegetable, an overpriced snack that made him nearly collapse in shock.

Then, as they rounded the next aisle, something caught her eye.

"No way," Y/N gasped, halting so suddenly that Lando bumped into her.

"What? What happened? Are we in danger?" he asked dramatically, clutching her arm.

She ignored him, grabbing a brightly colored package from the meat fridge. “It’s the spicy chorizo I was looking for! It’s been out of stock for months! Lando, do you know what this means?"

"Uh," he blinked, glancing at the box in her hands. "That some company is trying to get people to buy their products again?"

She huffed. "No, dummy. This means I can finally make those chorizo tapas you love so much."

Lando stared at her, as if processing her words. "Wait. You mean—?"

"Yeah," she said, waving the package at him. "You always say it’s one of your favorites, right? So I’ll make it the way it’s meant to be made, not with those other lame brands.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. And then, unexpectedly, he reached for her hand and squeezed it, his thumb running over her knuckles.

"You remembered that?" His voice was quieter now, softer.

She scoffed. "Of course, I did. You never shut up about it."

Lando let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head, but there was something fond in his eyes, something almost touched.

"You’re the best," he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. Right there in the middle of the grocery aisle, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with an old woman giving them a knowing smile as she passed.

Y/N felt warmth creep up her neck, but she just rolled her eyes. "I know."

Lando grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder as they continued walking. "See? And you thought I was weird for wanting to tag along."

"You are weird."

"Yeah, but I’m your kind of weird."

She laughed, leaning into his side as they made their way to checkout.

Maybe it was just shopping.

But with Lando, even the ordinary felt like something special.

🪻🪻🪻

The morning sun cast a golden glow over their Monaco apartment, filling the space with soft warmth. The neatly packed bags by the door were a reminder of the plans they’d made, plans Y/N had initially thought were just a fleeting idea when Lando suggested them. But here they were, two years into their relationship, and he was still finding ways to make things special.

Lando stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

She smiled, tilting her head slightly to press a kiss to his forehead. “Happy anniversary, Lando.”

He hummed in contentment, pulling her closer. “Can we just stay in bed all day instead?”

Y/N laughed softly, tracing lazy patterns along his back. “As tempting as that sounds, weren’t you the one who planned this whole day trip?”

Lando groaned dramatically, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Who let me make decisions?”

“You did.”

Another groan.

A small chuckle from the corner of the room made her glance over, where one of the film crew members was adjusting a camera, capturing the intimate yet domestic moment. Lando peeked an eye open and groaned even louder when he saw them.

“Great,” he mumbled. “Now the world gets to see me beg to stay in bed.”

Y/N grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his nose before slipping out from under the covers. “Come on, sleepyhead. We have a road trip to go on.”

By mid-morning, they were driving along the winding coastal roads of the French Riviera, two crew members filming them from the back seat, capturing snippets of their journey. Lando’s hand rested on Y/N’s thigh as he effortlessly steered with the other, the soft hum of music filling the space between them.

She glanced over at him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “So, are you ever going to tell me why you picked Èze?”

Lando smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to impress you with my impeccable taste?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her fondness.

The moment they arrived in Èze, Lando reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers as they wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets. The medieval village, perched high above the Côte d’Azur, was breathtaking, its stone walls adorned with climbing vines, small boutiques tucked into hidden corners, and the salty sea breeze carrying the scent of fresh flowers.

The crew trailed them subtly, capturing the way Lando would lean in every few minutes just to steal a quick kiss, or how his fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against her skin as they stopped to admire the view.

“You do realize people are going to say you’re way too clingy, right?” Y/N teased, nodding toward one of the cameras.

Lando shrugged, unbothered. “Let them.” He turned to the nearest cameraman, grinning. “I am clingy. Make sure you put that in the episode.”

The crew chuckled, but Y/N just shook her head, laughing as Lando pulled her into the nearest café.

Lunch was slow and easy, filled with stolen bites of food, quiet laughter, and the occasional “Look at him being soft” comment from Y/N to the film crew. Lando didn’t seem to care, not when she was there, looking at him like he was her favorite thing in the world.

When dessert arrived, two chocolate soufflés, Lando picked up a spoonful and held it out for her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re going to feed me while they’re filming?”

He smirked. “It’s romantic.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway, letting him feed her. Lando grinned triumphantly, stealing a bite for himself.

“Put that in the episode, too,” he quipped.

As the afternoon stretched on, they hiked up to the Jardin Exotique, a stunning garden perched at the very top of Èze. The panoramic view of the coastline was nothing short of magical, the kind of scene that made everything else feel small in comparison.

Lando wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“This might be my favorite anniversary so far,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, tilting her head to rest against his. “We’ve only had two.”

“Still. It’s hard to beat.”

A breeze drifted through, ruffling his curls as he held her, their hands fitting together so effortlessly.

Y/N turned in his arms, her gaze soft. “I love you, you know.”

Lando’s eyes searched hers for a moment before he cupped her face, pressing a slow, tender kiss to her lips, one that felt like a promise, like forever.

When they pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, exhaling deeply. “I know,” he whispered. “And I love you more.”

A cough from behind them broke the moment, and one of the crew members hesitated before speaking.

“Uh… that was beautiful,” they admitted. “Can you do it again for a better angle?”

Lando groaned as Y/N burst into laughter.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically, pulling her closer with a mischievous grin. “Guess we have to keep kissing.”

🪻🪻🪻

The second Y/N stepped into the apartment, she knew something was different. It wasn’t just the warmth of the space or the soft glow of the kitchen lights, there was something familiar in the air. A rich, buttery scent, layered with warm spices, the kind that immediately sent a comforting feeling straight to her soul.

She froze mid-step.

That was butter chicken.

Her favorite food.

And there was only one person in this house who would make that for her.

Her heart raced as she set her bag down and rounded the corner into the kitchen, where she found exactly what she hoped to see Lando, standing at the stove, stirring a pot with the kind of focus he usually reserved for a race car. His curls were still damp from a recent shower, his sleeves pushed up as he leaned against the counter, tasting the sauce with an expression of concentration.

He looked up just as she entered, and the slow smile that spread across his face made her stomach flip.

“Hey, love.”

She blinked, still processing. “You’re… home?”

He smirked. “Surprise.”

Her mouth fell open. “But… you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow night?”

“Got an earlier flight.” He turned back to the stove, giving the pot one last stir before lowering the heat. “Figured I’d come back and make your favorite.”

She couldn’t believe it. She had been fully prepared to spend the evening alone, eating something mediocre while scrolling through her phone, missing him. But instead, he was here. Cooking for her.

Y/N didn’t think, she just launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his hoodie as she breathed him in.

Lando laughed as he caught her, arms circling her shoulders as he held her close. “I take it you missed me?”

“Obviously,” she mumbled against his chest. “You were gone for so long.”

“Babe, it was five days.”

“Exactly. Too long.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. “Missed you too, love.”

A throat cleared from the corner of the kitchen, and Y/N stiffened slightly before peeking over Lando’s shoulder, only to find one of the crew members, clearly amused.

She groaned, burying her face back into Lando’s chest. “You let them film this?”

“I didn’t let them,” he said, amused. “They just… didn’t leave. Wanted to see you surprised and all.”

One of the crew members laughed. “In our defense, this is adorable.”

Lando grinned, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “Come on, love. You don’t want the world to see how obsessed you are with me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I will shove your face into that butter chicken.”

His smirk widened. “Joke’s on you, I made extra.”

She rolled her eyes but let him pull her closer, letting herself bask in the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of home.

Later, as they sat at the dining table, Lando watched her take her first bite, waiting for her reaction like a nervous contestant on a cooking show.

Y/N hummed in delight, eyes closing briefly as the flavors hit her tongue. “Oh my God.”

His lips twitched. “Good?”

She opened her eyes, pointing her spoon at him. “Suspiciously good. Since when can you cook like this?”

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “What, you think I can’t learn things?”

“I just… didn’t know you wanted to.”

He shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe I just wanted to impress my girlfriend.”

Y/N softened, her heart swelling. “You have impressed me. This is amazing.”

“Damn right it is.”

She giggled, shaking her head before taking another bite. “Okay, tell me about Shanghai. How was the race?”

Lando exhaled dramatically, shifting in his seat. “Ugh. Where do I even start? First of all, the strategy was so weird, like, I don’t know what they were thinking. And then, I had this fight with Max for like a hundred laps, and I swear, I thought we were gonna crash at least three times—”

As he continued, his hands animatedly reenacting the on-track battles, Y/N just sat there, watching him, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

She loved seeing him like this, completely in his element, passionate, excited. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about racing, the way his hands moved as if he were still behind the wheel.

“You’re staring,” Lando suddenly noted, smirking.

She blinked, cheeks warming. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” He leaned in, resting his chin in his hand as he grinned. “You’re in love with me.”

She scoffed, trying (and failing) to hide her smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Norris.”

“I mean, I did just fly home early and make your favorite food…” He reached across the table, running his fingers gently over her wrist. “Pretty sure that earns me some extra love points.”

Y/N laughed softly, flipping her hand to intertwine their fingers. “You already have all my love points, you idiot.”

He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Good. I plan on keeping them.”

She shook her head, taking another bite of the butter chicken. “Okay, but seriously, I want to hear the rest. So, you and Max—”

“Shh.” Lando reached over and gently placed a spoonful of rice on her plate, then another, before looking at her expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just—”

“Just shh and eat,” he said, his voice playfully firm. “I know you. If I let you talk too much, you’ll forget to eat, and then you’ll be grumpy later.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the corners of her lips twitched. “You’re so annoying.”

Lando laughed, leaning over the table to steal a quick kiss. “Yeah, yeah. Now eat up.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but obeyed, feeling impossibly warm inside.

There was something so simple about moments like this, the quiet, easy rhythm of their lives together. The way Lando cared for her in ways that weren’t always grand gestures but in the little things. The way he listened, the way he noticed, the way he just knew her.

Even with cameras in the background, even with the world watching, this was theirs.

And Y/N wouldn’t trade it for anything.

🪻🪻🪻

Las Vegas was supposed to be his night.

Lando sat in the dimly lit hospitality suite, still in his race suit, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. The weight of the evening pressed down on him, Max had clinched the title, and he had been so close. The points gap wasn’t enormous. If things had gone just slightly differently, if the strategy had been sharper, if he had just pushed a little harder—

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor.

The suite was silent, except for the muffled sounds of celebration echoing from outside. His team was still proud, of course. McLaren had fought hard all season. He had fought hard. But second place wasn’t the dream. First was the dream.

And he had lost it.

The quiet creak of the door barely registered in his mind, but the soft footsteps that followed were unmistakable.

Y/N.

She didn’t say anything at first. She simply walked over, standing beside him for a moment, watching him.

Then, she crouched down in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “Lando.”

His eyes flickered up to hers. He knew the cameras were still rolling somewhere in the room, capturing all of this, his frustration, his exhaustion, the moment where his season had slipped away.

But right now, he didn’t care.

Y/N’s gaze was steady, her touch grounding. Slowly, she reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his jaw.

“Talk to me,” she murmured.

Lando exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it against his skin as if he needed the contact to anchor him.

“I should’ve done more,” he finally muttered.

She frowned. “Lando—”

“No, really,” he cut in, shaking his head. “It was so close. We had the pace. We had the car. I just—” He exhaled roughly, eyes darting away. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Her heart ached at the way he said it, at the way his voice dipped into something raw and self-deprecating.

“Lando,” she said softly but firmly, tilting his face back toward her. “You were more than good enough.”

He let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you expect perfection from yourself. But look at what you did this season. Look at how hard you fought. You challenged Max. You took it down to the wire when no one thought you could. You made them believe.”

His gaze softened, but she wasn’t finished.

“You think second place makes you less?” she whispered. “It doesn’t. You’re still you, Lando. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

His throat bobbed, his grip on her hand tightening.

“You’re just saying that,” he mumbled.

Y/N shook her head. “I never just say things. You know that.”

He let out a slow breath, his eyes searching hers like he was trying to hold onto her words, trying to let them sink in.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a small sigh, he pulled her into his lap, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

She smiled faintly, running her fingers through his curls. He never did well with failure, not because he wasn’t used to it, but because he always carried it too much.

But he wasn’t alone in this.

And as she held him, rocking him slightly, she could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease.

The crew was still there, capturing every second.

But all Lando cared about was her.

And somehow, for the first time all night, losing didn’t feel quite so devastating.

The press pen after the race was always exhausting, but tonight, it was unbearable.

Lando had lost the championship. He had done every interview with his usual composure, polite, measured, controlled. He had smiled when necessary, congratulated Max, and answered the same four questions in slightly different ways.

But this one?

This one was pushing it.

"Lando, do you think this was your only real shot at a title? Or do you worry you might just not have what it takes?"

The question landed like a slap.

Lando barely blinked. His PR training kicked in immediately, forcing a neutral expression as he nodded, exhaling through his nose.

"Look, we had a great season, and I’m proud of what we achieved. Obviously, it didn’t end the way we wanted, but I know we’ll come back stronger."

It was the kind of answer that was designed to deflect, to keep things from escalating.

The interviewer, however, seemed satisfied with their little dig, moving on to the next driver.

Lando barely had time to process it before he heard a very familiar voice from just beyond the camera crew.

"Are you actually kidding me right now?"

He turned just in time to see Y/N standing off to the side, arms crossed, glaring absolute murder at the interviewer’s back.

The Drive to Survive crew, who had been filming his interview, immediately turned their cameras to her.

"What kind of stupid question was that?" she ranted, clearly not caring that she was being recorded. "‘Do you think you don’t have what it takes?’ Seriously? What kind of journalism school did this guy go to? All he knows is how to rile people up!”

Lando pressed his lips together, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

She was fuming.

"He should be embarrassed," she continued, still glaring. "Lando literally fought for this title until the last possible second, and that’s the best he could come up with? I should go over there right now—"

Lando immediately stepped in, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her into his chest before she could march into the press pen and make headlines. "Alright, alright," he murmured against her hair, biting back a grin. "That’s enough murder threats for one night."

"I wasn’t threatening murder," she huffed, but she didn’t resist when he turned her to face him. "I was just saying that guy deserves to step on fifty Legos barefoot."

"That’s fair," Lando admitted, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "But I promise, I’m okay."

She searched his face, still frowning slightly. "You shouldn’t have to deal with that."

"I know." He smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I’d rather deal with bad interviews than have to bail my girlfriend out for punching a reporter."

"No promises," she muttered, but her lips twitched, betraying her frustration.

Lando chuckled, then, because he simply couldn’t help himself, tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and soft, like he had all the time in the world.

He felt the presence of what seemed to be a thousand cameras on them, but he didn’t care.

Because right now, nothing else mattered.

🪻🪻🪻

The studio setup was familiar by now, the sleek black backdrop, the dramatic lighting, the Drive to Survive crew hovering around with their cameras and microphones. It was the same place where all the serious, intense driver interviews had been filmed throughout the season.

Except today, it wasn’t serious.

Because today, it was Lando and Y/N sitting on the interview couch together, and nothing about them being in the same room was ever serious.

Lando leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the back of the couch behind Y/N, while she sat cross-legged beside him, her fingers lazily toying with the hem of her dress. The crew had barely started rolling when he shot the camera a mischievous grin.

“So,” he said, adjusting his mic, “are we finally getting our own spin-off? Because I think the world deserves to see the behind-the-scenes of my life with this one.” He nudged Y/N playfully.

She snorted. “Your life? Excuse me? I’m the normal one in this relationship.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Lando, would you agree with that?”

Lando turned to her, looking absolutely scandalized. “Absolutely not. This woman started a verbal fight with a group of fans and nearly went after a reporter on my behalf. The only reason she’s not banned from the paddock is because she’s cute.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “The only reason you weren’t banned from my apartment after losing the title was because you’re cute.”

Lando grinned, nudging her shoulder. “So you admit it? I am cute?”

The crew laughed as Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Fine. You’re alright.”

“Alright?” He turned to the camera. “You see how she treats me?”

The interviewer, still chuckling, moved on. “Alright, let’s go back to the start of the season. You’ve had a whirlwind year Lando, you were a title contender, and Y/N, you were very vocal throughout. What’s been your favorite moment we’ve captured?”

Y/N hummed, tapping her chin. “Ooh, good question. Probably when Lando lost his mind after that crash with Max.”

The crew laughed knowingly.

Lando groaned, but he was smiling. “Of course that’s your favorite. Not like, I don’t know, any of my actual racing?”

“Oh, right,” she said, grinning. “The whole driving really fast thing. You’re decent at that.”

The interviewer raised a brow. “Just decent?”

Lando turned to Y/N, smirking. “I was in a title fight, you know.”

“Okay, okay, you were great,” she admitted, patting his knee. “There. Happy?”

Lando nodded smugly. “Very.”

The interviewer smiled. “And Lando, what about you? Favorite moment we’ve captured?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Her reaction after my first win in Miami.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Wait, really?”

Lando looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “Yeah, I mean I’d never seen you that happy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I like making you happy.”

Y/N bit her lip, warmth spreading in her chest. “Okay, that was kinda sweet.”

“I have my moments,” Lando said, leaning in closer. “You should kiss me now.”

The crew laughed, but Y/N just pushed his face away with a laugh. “We’re literally being filmed right now, Norris.”

“Yeah, and?”

The interviewer, still amused, decided to wrap things up. “Alright, last question. If you had to describe this season in one word, what would it be?”

Lando thought for a second, then smirked. “Chaotic.”

Y/N groaned. “Please don’t say—”

“Because of you,” Lando finished, grinning as he dodged the pillow she threw at him.

She sighed, shaking her head with a smile. “Fine. Then my word is entertaining, because watching Lando suffer through PR answers all season has been hilarious.”

Lando turned to the camera, deadpan. “She’s so lucky I love her.”

The crew laughed as Y/N leaned into him, stealing a quick peck on his cheek. “And you’re so lucky I put up with you.”

He smiled, lacing their fingers together. “Best kind of luck, isn’t it?”

And just like that, the season wrapped.

not so sure about this one, but then again when am i ever sure about anything! <3 also i am accepting requests, so feel free to send your prompts or ideas with any of the drivers xoxo

[beatingdrumspouringwine]

Advice for beginner Hellenists

This isn't necessarily a post where I include a list of Gods, epithets, resources, and offerings for said Gods, but rather, hopefully soothing the worries of those of us who are starting the journey into the religion. As someone who was once in a religion that made other religions sound like something absolutely terrifying, my journey into Hellenism was once which was also... pretty terrifying, and this fear was mostly just from my own mind.

Anyways, my list of Advice:

You can literally just start praying. If you want to get more formal, you can absolutely get more formal, but you very much don't have to. I've definitely had my first prayers to some Gods be "hello, [God or Goddess's name], I want to worship You! Please lead me in my journey. Thanks!" I can promise you, the Gods are much kinder and more understanding than any of us fully know.

You can also just start worshiping in general. I feel like I've seen on occasion people worried about the Gods not "calling" to them. This is definitely not something that needs to happen pre-worship. If you find them interesting enough to pray to, then that in and of itself is enough.

In a similar vein, I wouldn't be too concerned about the idea of "signs". I feel like there's a tendency for folks to be incredibly worried about everything when first starting out - the behavior of a candle, the sighting of an animal, a strange dream, all can suddenly seem to take on jarring significance. But I can promise you, the Gods don't constantly give out signs, and frequently, these strange occurrences can be attributed to the mundane. When something comes from the Gods, you will know, trust me!

You don't have to worry too much about the idea of cleanliness, be it spiritual or physical. Khernips are cool, and I'd definitely recommend integrating them into your practice sooner or later. Hygiene is cool too! But if I'm being honest, we in the modern day are far more physically clean, and a lot less likely to regularly encounter the type of pollution that would have been encountered in ancient Greece.

The Gods will be at varying distances over the course of your worship. Sometimes, They will feel close, joyfully, burningly so. And sometimes, They will feel far, and prayers may even feel a bit futile. Both of those are perfectly okay, and neither of those will be permanent.

And, once again in a similar vein, you will likely not find yourself having constant, close mystical experiences with the Gods (i.e., conversations, visions, etc.). These experiences are rare and far between, and I would advise that you not make them a central part of your worship. They will come when the Gods deem you're ready for them, and you definitely won't be expecting it. Focus on the little things!

My final thing (for now) is that you also shouldn't put undue pressure on yourself to be doing some sort of big offering to the Gods. If that's what you can afford, that's great! But if not, fresh water, a small wildflower that you came across and picked*, or a small bit of a meal also count as a good offering!

And with that, my (much longer than I was previously planning on) list of things for beginners to keep in mind! A lot of this list is made up of things which I picked up along the way, and a lot of it is also made from my own personal hindsight being 20/20. I hope this is helpful to someone, and that it maybe soothes some of the (incredibly common) worries which so often accompany those who are venturing into the world of Hellenic polytheism!

[spuffybot]

Hey hi! I saw your post about Buffy being your favorite show and what do you mean "you know what’s happening with certain characters based on the colors they are wearing"? That's SO cool and something I've never noticed despite being such a tv nerd, do you have examples?

Ohhhh my gosh I love this question!!! There are a few characters who come to mind (Buffy & Willow) but I’m gonna talk about Spike because I love to talk about Spike.

So Spike is a character who very much has a uniform and this uniform is linked to his identity. It’s important to note that this is an identity he crafted. Because as we know Spike started out as William, a man who was sensitive and kind and who was unappreciated by his peers. When he became a vampire he wanted to shed that weakness and he uses his hair, accent, and clothing to reinforce the idea that he is a strong, tough, and evil being.

Spikes official uniform is perfectly slicked back bleach blonde hair, a red shirt, dirty black jeans, combat boots and his signature leather duster. This is Spikes armor. It’s how he embodies Spike and leaves William behind. The red shirt is also quite critically linked to his “evil era” as I’ll call it.

Throughout the show there are key moments where Spike deviates from this uniform and it’s always linked to a crises of identity.

The first moment I want to talk about is Spike in the Hawaiian shirt. He’s just been chipped, he’s relying on the Scoobies for survival, the core tenants of his identity (predator, killer, lover of Drusilla, leader of a vampire gang) have all been stripped from him against his will. He looks ridiculous wearing Xanders clothes because we know it’s ridiculous (at this point) for him to just be one of the Scoobies.

This is not unlike Tabula Rasa (which has a deliciously layered theme of loss of identity both literal with memory loss and metaphoric with each of the characters personal lives) where we see Spike once again out of uniform completely and lacking his identity. Now like I said on the surface he has truly lost his identity he has no memory of who he is. But it’s no surprise that he draws the (incorrect) conclusion that he’s a vampire with a soul on a mission of redemption because for the past few months he’s been playacting that role. After Buffy died Spikes entire identity was usurped by the need to live up to her memory. He babysits Dawn. He patrols with the Scoobies. He lives a mundane and neutered life because he thinks it’s what she would have wanted. Except now she’s back. And she’s opening up to him in ways she never has before. And she’s kissed him. And this is simultaneously the most incredible and terrifying thing to ever happen to Spike because it’s all he wants but he knows deep down, it’s not who he is. He has no soul. He has no remorse. He is not good.

Now let’s talk about some less overt examples. Because the wardrobe team does an incredible job of making subtle shifts to Spikes uniform that communicate his emotional arc.

In Crush, we see Spike swap the red shirt for a light blue shirt (blue is going to be a theme!) and lighter pants. By doing this he communicates to Buffy that he’s different than before. He’s lighter and softer. A man she could be interested in. But of course, just like the uniform of Spike is a performance, this too is a performance and one Buffy sees through quickly.

Blue comes back again in Smashed, an episode where once again Spike’s identity comes into play. He has been play acting at being a Scooby but we know that’s not who he really is. Now, suddenly he finds that he can hurt Buffy without activating his chip. All of a sudden he gets a glimpse of his old self and it infuses him with confidence and purpose. The blue shirt in this episode is deep and rich, verging on purple. By wearing this shirt it shows us how deeply conflicted Spike is. The war between his selfish love for Buffy and his feelings of being trapped and controlled by his chip (and his feelings for her) is coming to a head. And of course, by showing his teeth he gives Buffy the push she needs to sleep with him.

Ok so now we get to talk about my FAVORITE season when it comes to Spikes loss of identity and the use of his uniform to depict that: season 7.

When we first see Spike in season 7 something very important is happening: his hair is completely disheveled and curly, with his natural brown roots showing. This is the closest we have ever seen Spikes hair resemble Williams hair and this is important because as we know, Spike now has a soul and so he is closer now to William than he has been in over 100 years.

When Spike finally leaves the basement he is in a bright blue shirt and lacking his signature leather duster. The duster becomes a key plot point in season 7 with the introduction of Robin Wood (considering it was his mother’s jacket and Spike killed her.) Now, Wood is a controversial character but I personally think having Spike have to reckon with the consequences of his past all tied up in the metaphor of identity that is his leather jacket is chefs kiss.

Speaking of the leather jacket, in episode 15, Get It Done we see Spike put the jacket back on for the first time since Seeing Red. This is a moment of reclamation of identity. Souled Spike is listless and guilt ridden. And as the potentials point out, even a demon can kick his ass. When he puts that jacket back on he takes back a piece of who he is and starts on the journey of self discovery that we will see him continue in Angel season 5. Because ultimately it’s not Spike or William but the fusion of the two that make Spike who he is. AND TO BRING IT BACK FULL CIRCLE while Spike reclaims the jacket, he does not bring back the red shirt.

One other interesting thing about season 7 is that Spike is no longer as wiry and muscular as he was in season 6. Now, James Marsters has said that this was deliberate on his part because he was tired of being naked on the show and figured if he stopped working out (he has also said that he created his season 6 body deliberately upon being told he would be naked all the time) then they would stop making him take his shirt off. And while this is obviously not a deliberate choice on the part of the show, I do think it’s interesting that Spike becomes less angular and sharp after he gets his soul. He releases some of the hardness that defined him emotionally and physically. Which ties in nicely to this overarching theme of identity crises. It also hints at a certain level of toxicity on set if one of your lead actors feels the need to take drastic measures to protect themselves but that’s a whole different essay.

I hope this answers the question and I would loooove to hear what other people think about this. I know I didn’t touch on every Spike moment but I wanted to highlight ones I feel are critical parts of his narrative.

[alexanderlightweight]

Amazing to see you better and back writing again! I've been pretty much off tumblr for a while because on RL stuff so quite a shock (but a wonderful surprise) to see I'd missed a Writing Wednesday, but great fun to read through the recent prompts and answers - you still write as beautifully as ever! If you are in the mood for it, I'd love to see something with Alec changing from 'In Command' to 'Melting/Falling Apart' as he walks to Magnus - any verse is good :)

hi!!! it's been a while yes but its amazing to be back and good to hear from you! I get that, RL makes it really hard to be online sometimes, when I wasn't writing I tried to stay somewhat active but tbh writing is why i'm interested in being online so I was kinda bad at it.

i'm actually relieved my writing hasn't gotten too rusty, so i'm thankful to hear that! I hope you enjoy this, it's in the petals vs and is Mirai's POV

<3 lumine

-

in his wake petals fall

Mirai is pleased with her position as Alec Lightwood’s second.  

He’s tough but fair — though he has his own weaknesses — and beyond that, he takes the lives of his hunters seriously.

Which means that when someone from the outside fucks up and puts either lives or the reputation of his Insitutte  in danger, he takes it seriously.

Like now, where he stands half-naked and dripping from his hurried decontamination shower and is dressing down a dirt-smudged, scowling shadowhunter.

“You opened up a manhole to track down a nest of demons and then you just happened to leave it open? Along with the other three hatches and locked areas you went through that allowed two dozen minor demons to flood the streets? I had to send two teams back down to make sure no mundanes fell or were dragged in.”

As he speaks Alec’s volume stays calm and measured and despite being two inches shorter than the hunter he’s scolding, he holds every bit of power in the room with just the tone of his voice. It’s cold, like ice despite the gentle pitch of it and every single hunter in the room can hear the anger and disappointment in it.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to shut it.”

It’s not a question and it’s not even an attempt at an apology and Mirai knows that Idris’ latest and best will be sent back by daybreak.

“Why is he even here?” 

It’s a valid question even if the answer is the same as it always is, politics. 

“His mother just joined the council.” Kaleb has barely looked up from his tablet since Alec was called from his office to deal with the dozens of demons loose in a mundane night market. They’d needed his skill to deal with it quickly and efficiently and even Jace was woken up to direct a city wide communication web despite having only just ended a shift. “We accepted the transfer because his scores were among the top, apparently they no longer test for critical thinking.”

“...”

Mirai has never seen a nephilim move so quickly without active runes before.  Alec’s strength due to his training and use of the bow is legendary but there is still something impressive about watching him lift someone taller and broader than him with the ease of a cat dangling a mouse.

Alec shakes him, as if that will somehow help impart the lesson he wishes to teach him. Considering that half of Alec’s skin is still raw and pink from being regrown after ichor coated it, Mirai imagines the only one truly suffering is her commander. But if this helps relieve his stress after the evening he’s had, she’ll take it.

“Alexander—” 

Salvation comes in the form of Magnus Bane and Mirai will always be grateful for the privilege of having his private phone number.  It means that there is always a quick way to de-escalate the many situations Idris creates.

Her commander drops the offending hunter like an ichor covered stele and moves just as quickly — yet far less angrily — to his husband.

“Magnus.” 

Just as soft but no longer filled with ice, Alec’s tone turns from a cold dagger to a cool, gentle breeze petting against the senses.  The dark furrow of his brow and the angry turn of his lips smoothes too quickly to catch as his eyes soften and he smiles.

If Mirai was any less confident, she’d wonder if he’d ever actually been angry at all.

There’s a quick moment where Alec’s gaze catches her and she relaxes at the pleased acknowledgment there. 

Good.

So far Alec’s never minded that she uses Magnus to reign him in, sometimes she feels almost as if he plays into it, just a bit.

Then something will happen that will remind her that no matter how far he plays into it, Alec Lightwood-Bane truly is just a smitten mess for his husband. No matter how fierce his anger or great his agony, Alec’s attention will always shift to where Magnus Bane is.

Having no need to worry about the success of her mission — the minute Alec heard his husband it was a success — she nods to Kaleb who smirks and taps the tablet in his hands.  

He’ll have the hunter processed and escorted back to Idris before Magnus is done taking her commander out for dinner.  

When she turns, Magnus has already summoned actual clothing beyond damp sweatpants for Alec and a crown of flowers that he’s actually holding away from her commander.  

“Magnus, please?” Alec’s voice is a quiet plea, something so fragile compared to his strength just moments before, as if being denied the flower crown he knows his husband specifically brought just for him will truly break him.

Magnus Bane laughs, winking at her as he shakes his head in mock pity. 

“Duty first, darling.  I can hardly give you the flowers if they might get ruined in a few moments.  You finish handling things here, then you get the crown.”

It’s an opening that in any other situation Alec might take him up on, but Mirai has watched this particular scene replay itself for months and as always, Alec delegates.

“Mirai?”

“Everything here will be handled shortly. I’m sure sending a scathing letter for the council to read publicly will be a much more effective use of your time, sir.”

He definitely agrees, if the way Alec’s immediately turning back to Magnus and dips his head down along with the offering the full effect of wide, glossy hazel eyes peering up pleadingly.

Magnus caves instantly, a crown with flowers Mirai doesn’t know from memory but a scent that tells her is honeysuckle, placed on Alec’s brow.

[tootoomanycats]

The Plan

Chapter One: Best Laid Plans...

Pairing:

Gil-Galad x Human Reader Fem

Word Count: 6,415 words

If you prefer to read on AO3 its HERE

Summary: (SET IN THE RINGS OF POWER TV SERIES) (Takes place years before the first episode) As time settles the world’s chaos, Gil-Galad begins to feel an unusual boredom. After centuries of war, his days are now filled with mundane paperwork, the ink on the parchment mocking him with its monotony. When he receives a letter from Master Boat Builder Cirdan, asking for aid for a small group of humans whose ship has sunk, Gil-Galad agrees, recognizing his duty to help. Upon meeting the High King, you are caught off guard by an unexpected attraction. With your ship at the bottom of the bay, you aim to use your charm to secure a new vessel for yourself and your crew. However, as days go by, Gil-Galad's genuine compassion and kindness complicate things. The initial plan to flirt and deceive begins to clash with the genuine emotions that develop. You find yourself torn between the charming facade and emerging feelings for the High King. As the truth looms closer, the question remains—how will Gil-Galad react when he learns the real reason behind your visit?

Warnings:

Mentions of fire

Descriptions of injuries

Descriptions of partial nudity

Reader is not a holy good person.

Two ideots pining and refusing to acknowledge it.

Not Beta Read

(smut stuff will be in chapter two, promise)

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone!

It’s finally here! Thank you for being so patient while I finally got this done and posted. In my overeagerness, I was hoping to get this finished on New Year’s Day, but sadly, life and depression got a hold of me. I have entirely rewritten this chapter and how it plays out over four times. This time, I finally had to reel my worry that this wasn't good enough and just be okay with where it was. Please note that I'm writing this without sitting to very strict guidelines of what elves are commonly like in the book. I am writing Gil-Galad and Elves with the idea that history books and lore always paint figureheads and royalty as if they lived by strict morals and values. And I think it's much more interesting if we see what Gil-Galad would have experienced if he had fallen in love, and it, in the end, was kept secret from history. You'll notice that Elrond isn't going to be in this; that is because at the same time this story is going on- I have a one-shot of what Elrond is doing elsewhere. I am working on it, but I have no set date for finishing it as of right now. As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks. Have you fed your starving artist today?

Tea.

Every night since his arrival in Grey Havens, the Master Boat Builder has made a point to enjoy a cup of tea before heading off to bed. Be it rain, snow, or shine, that cup of tea will always be had.

The weather was sublime this evening: cool temperatures, clear skies, and a calm breeze. Weather being what it is, he opened the workshop’s doors to watch as the sun’s last glow gave way to darkness.

Once the last sip was finished, he reached for the large doors to close them for the night. But as he pulled the last one, a shimmer of light in the water caught his attention; its reflection was unusually bright.

Leaning out the side, hand gripping the door handle for balance, he gasped in shock at finding the source. Just a few leagues away was a double-masted ship- inflamed.

Its bow was raised dramatically into the cool night air, exposing an accumulation of maritime fauna. The vessels aft dragged along the sea bed, echoing whenever it hit high points of rocks. What wood was visible was already ashes or becoming the next fuel source for the inferno. Screams and bodies jumping into the river could be heard above all else.

Running out of the boat house, Cirdan reached the town’s warning bell. Its massive size was stuck from disuse and rust. He kicked hard and kept kicking until his ankle and foot burned in protest, until finally, it groaned in movement. The piercing sound of the tocsin woke and alerted those who lived nearby as he shouted, “FIRE!”

It became chaos as orders were given, supplies packed, and horses mounted. The few elves who could, followed the older one, sprinting to offer aid to the tragedy’s survivors.

——

Wet, freezing, and homeless.

The strength it had taken to carry your first mate from the ship’s bowls to the deck had caused more than one muscle to pull. Short as he is, the man is surprisingly heavy.

Unfortunately, jumping from a burning ship was more manageable than carrying him to shore. As the line of buoyancy and gravity met, a new struggle began as you started to stand halfway out of the water.

Heavy, wet clothes worked against frozen, numb limbs with each soaking step to dry land and out of its icy grip. Ankles almost twisting with each slippery step on the shore rocks before finally collapsing onto soft sand.

A small blessing was the man you had carried came too with only a few short chest compressions. You joined him on the sand once he could fully sit up and catch his breath.

What was left of the crew watched as the top of the crow’s nest disappeared, the bay groaning and gurgling in its consumption. The ship you and many others once called home had been swallowed into the water’s depths.

A hand gently pressed into your left shoulder, its callouses felt through the singed holes of your shirt—the contact causing you to look at the much shorter man. “I’m sorry, Captain. You did your best.”

The words meant well, but instead of commiserating, they reminded you that this was your failure. When the sensation of your throat tightening and eyes misting began, you shook your head. There would be no grieving until a new home was acquired.

Looking back at the shorter man, face composed and emotions pushed to the side. “Do we know where we’ve landed, Sal? I didn’t have time to look at the map; when I saw the opening, I thought it would be the only chance for our escape.”

Sal’s singular green eye widened before looking around the visible area, knowing he would be the only one of you to see in such darkness. “Not sure, we’ve never been this far north before.”

Not good.

Standing up, you internally shivered as the sensation of wet, sandy, cloth peeled from your damp, chilled skin. The only possessions left were on everyone’s backs, holes and all.

A strike of panic set in at that realization. Taking inventory, a hand reached up to count the baubles that adorned your earnings, relieved to feel all was accounted for. Looking down at the blistered and burned fingers, you grimaced at the thought of how bad the pain would be when removing the various roughly smithed rings. One of the bands looked almost embedded past the first few layers of skin, potentially touching bone.

Sal had followed in checking his personage for anything of value, even lifting his eye patch and ensuring that the smooth, unpolished diamond he kept was still hidden in the empty socket.

“We’re going to be stuck on land until a new home can be procured.” Turning, you saw the group huddled together for warmth, teeth chattering as they shivered.

“From here on out, it’s dry land rules and roles. We’re starting from nothing, so best behaviors until that changes.” At the nods given in response, you turned to your first mate. “We need to start a fire; we don’t need anyone dying of hypothermia-“ Everyone froze at a distinct sound.

Hoof-beats.

The sound rumbled further up into the tree line, accompanied by voices that called out, echoing into the fjord. Lanterns swayed and grew brighter with each moment the owners grew closer.

Head snapping back to the others, you whispered, “Remember the rules. No one speaks until I say so.” A groan caught your attention just before Sal almost lost his balance. “What's wrong? Why-“ Pulling your hand away from the back of his head, you felt the warmth just as you smelt its metallic scent.

Your hand was entirely coated in bright red blood from just that moment of contact; a quick glance back at the sand where he had first laid showed a small puddle where the ground's compression had helped to pause the bleeding, only momentarily. “Why didn't you say anything?” you hissed before trying to apply what little pressure your pain-filled hand could tolerate. A gruff whisper was his only response: “Didn't want to worry you.”

“Idiot” was the only word that could be mustered while ideas sprinted in your mind at what to do next. The lanterns were getting closer, the voices becoming more evident each second. It was a gamble, but it was the only possible choice you could see.

“Someone, help us!” Shouting into the night air, voice raising louder with the following sentence. “Pirates have attacked us!” At first, the crew members' confusion read clearly on their faces, until your stern glare made them realize what was happening. One by one, they began clutching various parts of their bodies, crying out and groaning in pain.

Sal chuckled in your arms, shaking his head before he lost consciousness, his full weight now on you to hold up. Once the owners of the lanterns broke through the bushes, they rushed in to help. But it was clear that there was surprise on both parties’ sides when seeing who the other was.

Elves? Just how far north had you drifted?

Cirdan was genuinely shocked at what he and his townspeople stumbled upon. When first spotting the burning ship, the assumption was that the sailors aboard would be his own kind—not humans. As the others rushed to those rolling in agony on the sand, he quickly made his way to where you were struggling to maintain balance while holding a relatively short man.

Finally, you allowed the tears to flow, teeth chattering as the adrenalin began to wear off and what little warmth you had dissipated. “Please, help us.” The older elf’s heart broke at the sight before him, and within the hour, you and your crew had been taken back to town to be tended to.

By midnight, Sal’s head had been stitched and bandaged. Once asleep, the shorter man's snoring rattled the walls of the boat builders' small home. The other members' wounds had been cleaned before special herbs that none of you recognized were placed over them. With no spare rooms, Cirdan was left to care for the ship’s captain on his dining table.

The first rinse to clean the wounds on your palms had not been too painful. But as the elf used various instruments to take out the bits of splintered wood, broken threads of rope, and shattered glass, you began to think that he was torturing you instead of healing.

At another flinch, Cirdan’s focus shifted to take in your exhausted face. The grimacing expression telling how much you were ready to be done with the tedious task before you both. “Almost done. I am pleased to say you will still have full use of your hands.” He whispered.

As everyone else slept, only a few candles lit the small area needed to see as he worked. In search of distraction from the sensitive and tender discomfort, attention shifted to the papers scattered around the table he had you perched on. The first few were just lists and notes, but something caught your eye.

It was beautiful.

Triple-masted, square-cut sales, the hull was designed in such detail that it felt like, with one good shake, it would drop out of the page into the water.

As you became further engrossed with the drawing, you unknowingly leaned further and further. Cirdan looked up, ready to ask you to sit still again. But when he followed where your attention had gone, he smiled softly before gently guiding your palms back into the position needed. Focusing back on digging out a particularly stubborn glass shard, he egged on your curiosity. “If you enjoy that one, you should see the one you are sitting on.”

When a deep blush of embarrassment spread across your face, he chuckled. “Here, let me help.” With the boat master’s aid to lean to the opposite side now, he pulled free the design to lay the now crinkled paper on the table for easier viewing.

Just like the previous design, this, too, was stunning. Were such ships possible to build? Once back to work on your hands, you took the opportunity to shift your attention from the design to begin admiring the unique features of the elf's home.

Intricate hand-carved details were everywhere. Spiraled door handles, doorway arches with such delicate flowers and vines it was a wonder they didn’t break, and the wall next to the dining table was carved from ceiling to floor, detailing a flock of cranes surrounded by tall standing trees.

“Did you design them?” Attention back to the page that had previously been sat on. An idea began to form in your mind at his nod and smile. “They’re beautiful; building something as grand as those must take a lifetime.”

“They are, though I am not sure if they will ever be brought into existence.” The tone of his voice tells of the pride in his creations and the enjoyment of such praise.

Allowing your voice to soften, your head tilting, and your lips turning up at the corners as you spoke, “They’re unique. It's so clear in everything you touch that this is what you were meant to do.”

As you continued, the tips of pointed ears peeking out from silver hair tinged in a faint blush. “Every detail thought through so clearly,” Cirdan gulped as he nervously tried to focus on the task before him.

But the poor boat builder struggled even more when you teasingly smiled while praising his work. “Even your door handles and chairs adorn your touches.” Your eyes locked for a moment, just long enough to see the faint tinge of a flustered blush topping the apples of his cheeks. A single fluter of your lashes and you glanced at his lips for a moment before returning to the pages laid out.

“Um, Y-yes. Yes, I feel such joy and fulfillment in what I do and what it means for my people.” He placed the metal instruments down on the woven cloth that held other items, ones that looked sharper and more intimidating the longer you looked. The response was a murmured thank you as he began placing crushed herbs over the now clean wounds. As the gauze was wrapped around each finger delicately, it was Cirdan’s turn to ask a question.

“I am curious about your ship; it saddens me that I did not have a chance to see its beauty.” The fingers he still wrapped tensed in his hands; at looking up, he saw how the color left your face, eyes turned down; it was clear you weren't there with him at that moment. “Oh, I am sorry,” turning, he brought a warm cup of tea to your lips, your hands still unable to hold anything. “In my curiosity, I did not think of your pain and loss.”

The elves' eyes watched subtly as your lips curled and then relaxed to part, observing how your throat swallowed the warm liquid he had provided. Patiently waiting until you had your fill before putting the cup down and turning back to finish bandaging up to your wrists.

Cirdan finished the bandaging with the last wrap around your wrist. In the time it took to stand, gather the instruments, and look between you and his designs on the table, an idea began to form at the front of his mind. “Is it difficult to ascertain a new vessel in your homelands?” His back faced you as he cleaned the blood from the metal objects in the sink.

His shoulders dropped as your voice broke. “My home is very far from here.” For the second time in the night, the boat master felt his heartbreak at such sadness.

That settles it, then. He had to do something. There was only so long and so little room that Grey Haven’s harbor could offer hospitality, not to mention there being no clear path ahead for you. “What I say next, you must know, is not meant to push you out.” He watches the way you curl into yourself, preparing in resignation already.

“My home is small, not suited to provide the proper healing your crew needs. I will send a message to my king-,” Your eyes widen, shaking your head as you tell him no. But he will hear none of it. Raising a hand to stop your protests, the elf continues, “I will write to my king and ask that he finds it in his heart to show compassion, especially to those that deserve it.”

You tell him you don't know how to repay his kindness; he scoffs and drinks the now-cold tea to hide the blush dusting the apple of his cheeks. The rest of the night is spent playing a few games of chess. It would have just been one, but with your hands being as they are, you kept accidentally bumping multiple pieces around. With each game, the conversation turned back to ships, elven ships.

As the darkness of night began to give way to the first glow of dawn on the horizon, Cirdan excused himself to write the letter that would be sent ahead to Lindon’s Capital. At that same time, you went to Sal. Gently, you slinked into the bedroom so as not to wake the rest of the crew before sitting on the edge of the bed that was so graciously granted to your first mate.

“Sal, Sal!” You voiced louder than planned at the shorter man’s deep sleep, which refused to release him. Finally, the rough shake to his shoulder roused him. “Wha-Whats going on?” With a quick hand over his mouth to quiet him down, you pressed a finger to your lips before whispering. “I have just spent the last few hours speaking with our new friend. He has been very kind.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at the responding wiggling eyebrows, his single eye wide in excitement. “How kind?” You leaned in to reply with a whisper, a wicked smile its companion. “Kind enough to ask if his king would help us.” Sal’s jaw dropped in shock before punching your shoulder. “How in the hell did you pull that off?”

Sitting straight, the back of your hand pressed to your forehead, sighing dramatically before speaking, “Who will take pity on little ole me, a female captain with no ship to call home? My poor crew, so ill, that even elven healers struggle to help them.”

Shaking his head while chuckling, Sal crossed his arms while wiggling more comfortably into the bed’s soft feather pillows. “So what’s the plan?”

Your smirk grew at the question.

———————

With the first rays of morning light, a plan in motion, and rules set in place, you met with Cirdan and the escort outside his home, where a hiccup had already appeared.

You nervously approached the giant beast, flinching back when its large nostrils grunted out a rush of breath. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Can I not just walk behind?” A sympathetic smile graced the boat master’s lips as the other elf mounted their steed. “Walking would take extra days that your crew may not have. If you are unsure of riding alone, ride with the escort; they will ensure your safe arrival.”

Anxiously, you nodded in agreement, unable to see a different path around the logic presented. A few awkward jumps and one petrified yelp later saw you and the expert rider heading up the road to the capital—the poor elf at the mercy of your fearfully white-knuckled grip in their ribs. The pain in your hands be damned.

Lindon’s Palace

My Dear King,

I write to you earnestly, asking that aid be offered to someone deserving of such compassion. A pirate attack has left my new friend without a ship or home, and a crew suffering from ailments beyond my healing capabilities. The ship's Captain will arrive with an escort so that you yourself can make sound judgments of their character.

Gil-Galad re-read the letter. In his years of friendship with the Lord of Grey Haven, only a handful of times had the elder asked for royal assistance, unlike some of the other stewards of his kingdom, who seemed to lack such abstention.

He sighed when sid-eyeing the pile of letters and scrolls stacked high upon the oak desk, still awaiting answers. Fiddling with the paper’s edge, unrolling it further as he sat in thought, a previously unseen line of penmanship caught his attention.

I suggest conversing over a game of chess; you may be pleasantly surprised as I was in their company.

Your Faithful Friend, Cirdan

With a scoff, he flicked the paper back to its place on the desk's clutter. It had been hours, and barely a dent had been made in the mountain of documents that had arrived the day before.

With his kingdom settling into a gentle rhythm after so many years of war, the High King started feeling something unexpected- boredom. Gone were the days of extreme stress, battle planning, and mourning for his people. Now, they were filled with small pleasantries, mastering crafts, and, unfortunately, paperwork.

Leaning back into the hand-carved chair, fingers rubbed along the pulsing ache of his forehead, pain caused by the hours of eyes straining on documents.

A groan left his chest when an unfortunately familiar warmth spread across the top of a kneecap. The morning’s rays had started to inch into his room, their gentle cares on his vestige announcing that another sleepless night had passed.

Muscles ached and throbbed as he stood to stretch before walking to the window to watch the sunrise. His attention to the sunrise over the horizon was shifted down from his room in the tower at the arrival of a horse carrying two persons.

One was an elf, and the other a human woman. It was hard not to chuckle while watching as her arms shakily reached out to the escort to assist in the dismount from their horse, legs wobbling once on solid ground. As the escort walked off with the creature to announce their arrival, she stayed in place, observing the entry area's flora and white-barked trees.

It was rare to see a human in his kingdom. Even in memory, it was a struggle to gleam the last one and when they came. It was not surprising, as curiosity peaked about the mortal creature that had appeared at random.

That is what he told himself, at least, as his eyes fixated on the wild wind-swept hair that glowed from the crepuscular rays of morning. And repeated internally again, when observing the silhouette outlined from the sheer fabrics she wore when bending to smell a vine of jasmine.

The voice was not repeated a third time when his eyes honed in on the gentle slopes of her bust; nipples pebbled hard by the cold morning's dew. Each movement allowed more and more to be revealed by the fabric's owner. The tall elf’s heart rate panicked at admiring rounded hips that harmonized with the tops of plush, strong thighs and a waist--

When a knock raps at the bedroom door, he jumps, placing a wide palm to his chest, letting out a breath he was unaware was being held. With a final glance back at the woman, he shakes his head and asks the attendant to come in.

“High King, a visitor has arrived from Grey Haven to speak with you. Master Cirdan has sent them.” Gil-Galad froze, and his heart rate, still yet to calm down from moments ago, increased.

A quick glance to the desk where Cirdan’s note sat, as its words read out in his mind. Certainly, she was not the captain he spoke of. What in the world was that blasted boatmaker thinking? The shorter elf’s expression made Gil-Galad realize he took longer than usual to respond.

“I will be there in but a moment. Please see that our guest is attended to until then.” Gil-Galad’s eyebrow quirked as his attendant paused awkwardly, a tilt of his head letting the shorter elf know to speak. “Sire, your meeting with the human may need to wait a few days so that-“ Gil-Galad held up his hand as the memory of sheer fabric flashed away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Master Cirdan has informed me that the aid needed for the human stands on the direness of time. I will meet with them first during my morning meal; that should allow a better inclusion of my schedule.”

With a swift nod, the shorter elf leaves to inform the morning staff of the changes. In the reflection across from where he stood, exhausted eyes and a stern expression looked back. In a singular sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when it seems a moment to himself has appeared, the morning maids come in to prepare a bath and lay out the royal robes.

In toe behind them, the royal retainer began listing the days itinerary, explaining how every minute of the hours were filled with meetings, agreements, and document signatures. With a singular sigh and torpid blink, he turns to take the prepared bath and begrudgingly get the day started.

When an attendant had come to gather you and usher the way to an empty grand dining room to wait, it felt like a small gift.

Palpations had been occurring every few minutes since the moment your feet touched the ground after riding for hours. Hopefully, this would give time to help calm them. Chalking the rapid heart rate up to nerves and still feeling so tired, you reminded yourself that rest, food, and sleep would come eventually. But the plan took precedence over everything, no matter the cost.

The first few minutes were spent sitting at the opposite end of the room’s expansive stone table, until those nerves raised back up—skin itching, and not just on the slowly scabbing wounds of your hands. Legs crossed only to un-cross and then cross again. The liquid in the glass of wine on the table rippled from how hard your knee bounced. When all this did nothing to aid in the growing feeling of unease, you resorted to pacing back and forth, back and forth, until the feeling of dizziness came on.

At the sound of your stomach echoing into the quiet room, you side-eyed the table. The temptation was hard to resist at the site of the varying fruits, cheeses, bread, and dishes for breakfast. While subtle, the aromas still had made their way to your nose.

With a head shake, you continued pacing; by now, you were sure that a grove had been worked into the floor. Glancing back to the chair at the opposite end of the table, a small tremor corded its way from where the palpations started to both of your poor, still wobbling legs. One misstep, one accidental insult, and the plan would be over before it could be put into motion.

With a deep breath, you hoped to calm your heart’s racing; nervousness would not be an ally. Another breath, followed by many more in succession. Still, the beating thrummed with such intensity it felt as if the betraying organ was in your throat, determined to expel itself and do a jig at your feet to taunt you.

Distraction.

Distraction would help, you hoped. Turning around, you desperately tried to focus now on the grandiose tapestry that hung twenty feet in the air. Its textured masterpiece taking so much space that the raw threadbare edges touched the flooring and side walls.

Red, look for something red. Rose bushes came into clarity on the lower section. A breath, this one a little easier- but still, your chest held tight. Animals, find the animals. Swans were flying in the open sky of the fibers- was that a unicorn?

Each detail of the textile artwork helped to distract from the sensation that rattled against your ribs. In a further attempt to add comfort, you wrapped your arms around yourself, desperately hoping to soothe the nerves that struggled to dissipate.

____

Even after the warmth of a bath and fresh clothes, Gil-Galad found his heart rate had yet to slow since looking out the window. Surely it was just another sleepless night of work that made it hard to calm such a tempestuous beating? Obviously, this peculiar feeling was not brought on by how his mind's eye sought to wave the memory of curves, backlit in a warm glow—always right when mental clarity was needed.

When reaching the dining hall, Gil-Galad held up a hand to let his attendant know he would be entering the room alone, unannounced. Cirdan had made it clear that he should make a sound and solid judgment of the Captain's character before making any decisions in the offer of aid. A wisdom he would heed. Speaking would also be better without extra eyes watching. However, it would have been better if his mind had been allowed to think of questions to ask before this moment.

Quietly, the private royal entrance opened, its door only opening for him and him alone. Stone that once lay flat and blended into the wall shifted back, then slid just enough for his size to squeeze into the room—unnoticed. The internal expectation from past interactions with mortals was that his guest would be gorging themselves on the food laid before them. But once inside, surprise met that expectation. The only other chair besides his sat empty, the dishes untouched.

There, at the other end of the room, unaware of his presence, you stood. Elven ears picked up the sounds of deep breathing, eyes watching as your heavily bandaged hands rubbed your arms while swaying gently from side to side. Gil-Galad’s eyes trailed once more to the clothes draped on your figure. Cirdan had dressed you in something so sheer?

Perhaps the boat builder had not realized that the gift offered to you had been- No. Cirdan was too bright and observant to have missed something like this. That old perverted- at the memory of this morning, the realization he had no hill to stand on and judge hit him.

Yet, he could not look away. The tension came back to his chest, and just as it began to crawl its way down, inch by inch, to an area of his body that he refused to acknowledge, panic set in and forced the moment to break.

“You have yet to eat.”

With a yelp of shock, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Turning with wide eyes and a hand to your poor, overworked, thumping heart. Finding the voice’s owner standing at the opposite end of the room.

When first trying to picture what an elven king might have looked like, your imagination pulled from what was known of your own kind. Rulers that were repugnant, rotund, and gangrenous from a life of riches and idleness.

What you did not anticipate was to be greeted with the amused expression of a very tall elf, whose attractiveness you pretended not to feel any way about. It took a moment for the shock to pass before finding yourself. “N-no.” A breath. “No, I felt it would be rude to eat before my host arrived.”

It was as if time had frozen for a moment, two statues unmoving as they visually memorized what was in front of them. Sheer fabric clashed with the opulent, almost excessive layers of gold on the opposite side. Warm brown eyes, unblinking in their seriousness, scrutinized the shocked hesitancy in your own.

When you both tried to speak simultaneously, a polite smile graced his lips as he motioned for you to go first. A thanks would be the best choice, grateful that such a renowned, elven king would spare an hour to hear a poor human captain’s woes. Pleasantries to be embellished so prettily in their bestowment.

Sadly, that option would be ruined by a comically loud growl from your stomach, no doubt retaliation at being teased for so long by such appetizing smells. Gil-Galad watched as your eyes shut laggardly before opening again, now refusing to meet his own from embarrassment.

He gave you a gift of mercy in finding the strength to choke back a laugh. “It would appear that, as a host, I have been discourteous to test the patience of such a considerate guest.” Motioning for you to sit, he continued, “Please, eat. I would ask if you are hungry, but I believe that answer has already been given.”

Unlike the High King, you did not find the strength to choke back a laugh from the jest. When your eyes met again, an expression of mirth greeted the faint blush of your cheeks. Gods have mercy; this was going to be a challenge. The elf barely said two sentences, and already, you were struggling.

Gil-Galad gulped as you pulled up your chair to sit more comfortably; he could not understand the reasons for his nerves. His gaze trailed once more to the unexpected guest across the table, unknowingly unaware of the detail being taken in of your personage.

In the earnings that dangled down to the tops of your collar bones, polished beads of sea glass glowed, backlit by the candles behind you. Indigo-dyed whalebone and sea urchin spines brandished with petrified beads of amber hung on uneven lengths of fishing wire.

Rough and raw cut jewels adorned roughly smithed mental bands, assorted in the widths of rings that hung from your neck while your fingers healed. He would admit that such ornaments are much more maximal and eclectic than is commonly seen of his own kind.

His heart rate, which had just calmed, began racing again as he watched your lips part, tongue welcoming a bite of food. His vision tunneled to take in greater detail when your brows knit together in pleasure as the flavors danced across your palate.

Blinking, he pulled himself out of the hyper-focus when reaching forward to grip the golden handle of a wine glass. Trying to calm the returning tension he had felt when watching you from when he first entered the room. This was going to be a problem.

Light filtered off your fork, hand tremoring in hunger as the choices become overwhelming. It felt as if the room was getting darker and hazy around its edges. Cirdan had offered food when playing chess, but between the pain in your hands and the nausea from still coming down from the adrenalin of survival, any thought of eating was quickly turned down.

On top of that, the ship had floated for two days into the fjord without a bite of food or water. To say you were starving was an understatement. It took every ounce of self-control not to gorge like a wild animal after the first bite into a roasted pear with salted honey, its juices bursting in your mouth.

“Lord Cirdan wrote that your ship and crew were attacked by pirates and are in further need of aid.” The question caught you off guard, cheeks chipmunk-ed out at trying to fit as many roasted butter beans into your mouth as physically possible. Peeking up, it was obvious the elf knew exactly what he had done from the smirk that pulled from the edges of his lips.

As desperate as you were to swallow your way out of this, chewing was the only option. Could you simply spit out the beans? Yes, but that would only cause further humiliation for him to watch the act. Quickly grabbing the napkin laid under the other silverware, you covered your lips and cheeks as you chewed quickly, jaw clicking from the strain.

When finally able to get the last bit down to respond, another question was put forth. “What exactly happened to your ship, the- what was its name?”

Cirdan had been correct in knowing his king would hold no punches in the judgment of your character. Gil-Galad knew that his questioning was starting to get under your skin. And what better way to begin seeing someone for who they are than by seeing how they handle their frustration?

As the minutes passed and no response was given, his eyebrow raised expectantly. Were you trying to formulate a lie? At the tilt of his head, his eyes hardened. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled hollowly, feeling a spark of enjoyment in watching Gil-Galad’s expression change to irritation as you spoke. Two could play at that game. “Only waiting to see if there are other questions, Your Majesty. I do not wish to offend such a curious mind by interrupting its thoughts.”

Gil-Galad knew that if he were here, Elrond would snort out his wine. It appears that the High King would also be judged on how his temper would be handled. Raising his palm, he gave the motion to speak.

With a deep sigh, you tried to calm the frustration that had been brought forth. “My crew and I were set upon by pirates three days ago; their cannons tore holes into the hull of my ship. By some miracle, we escaped from being boarded, but in our escape, I had steered us into a waterway that none of us recognized.”

When no interruption came, you continued. “Lord Cirdan had seen my ship just as it began taking on more water than we could bucket out.” It was unnerving being watched so intensely, warm eyes unblinking in their judgment of every word uttered into the air. “He was kind enough to offer aid. But he realized we have no way of getting home, at least not any way that would not take years on foot.”

Still not a blink from the scrutinizing gaze, you gulped to wet your now cotton-dry throat as sweat dripped down your neck. “Asking for help is not something I have any practice in. But for the people that depend on me, I will do anything in my capabilities to see that they survive.”

Silence stretched between you both. Gil-Galad contemplated your tale, sight now set on the wine glass before him. When speaking of your crew and their care, he could sense no lies, but why was his gut tightening, waiting, and expecting? It felt as if something was missing. Perhaps speaking of such a harrowing escape was not something you wished to delve into further detail.

Or -gods forgive him- the tightening that was felt had nothing to do with your words, and more to do with the internal befuddlement trying to be ignored since your arrival.

You watched as golden fibers wrapped around the barrel waist in front of you strained against expanding ribs. A deep, belly-filled breath was exhaled slowly and quietly in contemplation. As his lips parted to speak, the dining room’s doors opened. The shorter elf that first guided you in giving a small bow.

“High King, I apologize for the interruption, but the lords are gathered and waiting for you.” Whatever tension that had been building was broken instantly. Fresh air from the outside corridor wafted in, and both of you took the opportunity to breathe.

The sound of chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood, an air of equanimity held in his stance as he stared down at where you still sat, slouched back into your seat. “Please forgive my sudden departure. I would like to continue this discussion later this evening if you are amenable to the offer.” He continued at the single nod you gave while walking over to his attendant.

“Please see that our guest is given a room and fed.” At the bow of the shorter elf, the two of them slowly walked out into the hall, leaving you to watch as the door closed behind them. Once Gil-Galad was certain that you could not hear, he leaned down to whisper one last order. “And see to it that she has…warmer attire prepared. I would not wish for our guest to take a chill from the temperature tonight.” At the hesitant bow given before the shorter elf left, Gil-Galad realized he was not the only one struggling whenever what you were wearing was seen.

Once alone, he sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. It had only been a singular hour of the morning, and already, it was obvious that the day would be as long as it was stressful.

I have this idea that Gil-Galad is never truly content. War? -Hate it. Calm and tranquil? - Bored out of his mind. So when this Captain comes around he both loves and hates how hes feeling. I'm working on outlining the next chapter but it may take a bit before its edited and posted. So please be patient. Love you all and hope you enjoy and are surviging my friends!

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[reds-fluff-extravaganza]

Saiki x reader

Requested on ao3!

Saiki was never the type to show off or try to impress anyone, as he just wants to be seen as an average person. However, that slightly changed when he met you, and he’s not entirely certain as to why. Since you two started dating, which had surprised both of you for different reasons, he had felt a small urge to impress you, such as clearing away dark rain clouds to avoid getting caught in the rain, making cool fire shows with his pyrokinesis, among other things. While you are impressed by these, you just want him to do whatever makes him feel comfortable around you.

So when Saiki had asked you to go out with him over the weekend, you had planned to just do something a little more mundane than anything. You had met up with him at the park by your house, and you decided to walk around for a while, you just talking about whatever came to mind while he just listened, he occasionally nodded to show that he was still paying attention, but occasionally ‘speaking up’ in your mind.

As you two walked towards your house now, which you had suggested to go back to your house and play games or something, you glanced around as if to make sure no one was around, before you looked back at Saiki.

“Hey, Saiki?” He glanced over at you, giving you a look of ‘go on’ even though he already knows what you want to ask him. He didn’t need his telepathy to figure out what you were about to say next,

“I’m curious… I know how you feel about not standing out and such, so you know you don’t have to impress me, right?”

“Yes, I am aware. Even I don’t really know what is making me feel this way. It’s only when around you that I feel like this.” He shrugged.

“Really?” He only nodded in response, “interesting… but, I know I’ve said this before but… I just want you to do whatever makes you feel comfortable around me.” You told him as you walked up to the door of your house, unlocking and opening up the door before making your way inside, Saiki following behind you.

“There’s a piece of cake in the fridge if you want it.” You told him as you set your things down. You looked over at him, and noticed he had immediately accepted your offer of cake, which made you laugh a bit.

‘It’s like you know when I’m coming over’

“Of course. We always keep something sweet in the house, if not for me, then definitely for you.” You then walked over to the couch, grabbing your controller before sitting down, Saiki sitting beside you now.

A few hours have passed as the two of you played video games, while Saiki was reading manga, though occasionally he would glance over at what you were doing, or give you advice if you needed help with certain bosses or other difficult tasks within the game.

As the two of you sat together, just spending time together doing mundane stuff like this, it only made Saiki like you and appreciate you more than he had before. He doesn’t really get to do mundane stuff like this, as someone usually needed his help, or just wanted to be around him despite just wanting to be alone.

‘Y/n.’

“Hmm?” You glanced over at him as you rest your head on his shoulder.

‘Thank you.’

“For what?”

‘Showing me that it’s okay to do mundane things together with you. It makes me feel… a little normal.’

“Oh! Well, you’re welcome.” You smiled faintly, then glanced over at the window.

“Oh shoot, it’s really that late?”

‘You’re just now noticing?’

“Well, yeah, I’ve been paying more attention to both you and my game.”

‘True. Fortunately it is the weekend, and neither of us have anything else to do, yes?’

“Yeah, you’re right. You can stay over here if you want, I wouldn’t mind.”

‘I’ll have to go grab a few things,’

“That’s fine, I’ll be here. Besides, you know my parents/guardian wouldn’t mind, they like you.”

‘I know.’

“Go get your things, and we can make some sweets or something,” Saiki nodded and the next thing you knew, he was gone. You laughed a bit, going back to your game until he came back. He set his things in your room for the time being.

The two of you then proceeded to make cookies/cake/whatever other sweet you want, making a mess in the process, but it was fun. After cleaning up, you two ended up watching tv/reading manga/playing games until you got tired and ended up going to bed.

[dykedvonte]

The Color of Captain Curly

The color white and Curly are very interesting as we can talk about how white is very bland, neutral and devoid of a lot of connotations in regards to how it is typically used. The function of white is often as a background that makes a lot of more vibrant colors stand out, in and of itself very nothing and easy to stain or impose upon. However, in discussing the function of white as a color or pigment, its subjective use, Curly’s personality and purpose within the crew becomes a lot more critical as does its distinctiveness.

I want to first start off talking about the color white alone. The color white itself is a combination of all the colors on the spectrum, a far cry from the common misconception that white is actually devoid of anything. It is not visible on the color spectrum as it truly is an optical illusion in some way, just like the color pink (but this post isn't about Daisuke). We can make a lot of inferences about something that is not necessarily its own. I think this is a key factor of the function of white as being something that encompasses than is left out, white is simple but faceted. As a color in application it helps tint and lessen tones in a way. This is considered changing the hue of the color creating the ability to make other colors less garish and more cohesive. It is commonly referred to changing the brightness of the color but that is factually incorrect. The brightness does not change but the hue as mentioned before, our perception of it changes but it remains concrete, its own.

When this effect is added to white the color itself with some other color, it can be seen as white being altered by the more vibrant color, however now knowing that white is encompassing rather than devoid, we should rather discuss it as this color brings out what is already there. When white is present, it means all colors of light are being reflected equally, very important for the context of the story.

Keeping in line with all of this and Curly, I want to bring in the board game and how the pieces are being played on a white backdrop. The pieces cannot move on the board without it, it is the path, the guide and what makes those pieces stand out. Even the home bases are not colored with the pieces' own shades but white. White is the most important aspect of the board game and is the constant, win or lose, the path will not change, will not move and shapes the way of play more than anything else. Trying to skirt around it is nearly impossible if you are playing fair. Metaphorically with the pieces being the crew and Curly being the board game path, we know he does not play the game, not actively. We know from flavor text that he is at least present even if not involved just like how the path does not fully affect the way of play but guides, monitors the way the others would strategize and play. It, like Curly, is not something you think of but need to make the whole thing work.

Curly is white (no shit sherlock). The color that is so encompassing that it can feel as though something is being left out. The identity in the crew that tints the others into lighter, more cohesive hues we can see fall apart when they try too hard to impose their colors onto him. In his absence we see the struggle to have their colors be the most present but the issue is they simply cannot exist as they are without white. Subtracting white alters colors completely but it takes much more to completely wash out white by adding something new. There is a consistency we see with Curly in his reactions and way of being both in stressful and mundane environments.

When he is stressed he is typically panicked but forced, very intense rather than completely sputtering as we see his biggest reaction is frustration: He is only gentle with Anya after he is no longer concerned with her or the crews wellbeing with the absence of the gun, he swears, not directly at her, and is focused solely on finding it (not cool dude). Likewise when he goes to stop the crash, he reacts similarly with that calm neutral panic before having a brief moment of lashing out at Jimmy. Here we see him tinted by the others but still wholly encompassed by his own reactions. This is just a small interaction, a minor example really, but is good for understanding the connection of white, Curly and how the color is used to paint his reaction as a character.

Curly is the sum of a lot of the crews parts. You can see a lot of the crew in Curly, not because he absorbs the light of those around him to color him as something distant but because it is already existent and you can see the coat of paint the role of captain covers him in, washed away through his reactions, affects and thoughts. More importantly you can see exactly how he painted the crews personalities in both his presence pre-crash and his absence post crash.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s6 episode 18 "milagro" thoughts

ahhh… it’s been a nice day. i had a very intense workout and then proceeded to read a book for a bit. and that’s about it. 

last night's episode was a bit of a flop. so i’m hoping that tonight will be more interesting.

we already had an episode about a neighbor who is a writer and a murderer, but this time it is MULDER’S neighbor who is a writer and a murderer, and not a fat-sucking vampire. i am interested to see more into the world of mulder’s apartment building, especially after he was the reason the bad guys put LSD in their water supply back at the end of s2. so his neighbors might hate him if they know the truth. 

i want scully time today, too. i always do, but i want it with a deep longing today. 

post-episode thoughts: okay. let's get serious for a moment:

this episode was extremely fucking disturbing. to the point where my analysis is going to be short and the typos might be more prevalent than usual, just because i do not want to spend my typical length of time editing the notes. you’re absolutely welcome to share your thoughts with me on how you felt, theories, reactions, etc, because at least typing it is less horrifying than seeing it, but just… don’t expect the type of analysis you usually get out of me.

this might be one that you enjoy or find great meaning in, and i totally respect that, but i know my limits.

when i said i longed for scully time, i did not mean like this.

now. back to past me. let us begin…

i assume this episode is supposed to have sound, right? okay, it is just starting out quiet? or my laptop isn’t working.

okay, yes, i skipped ahead a little and heard sounds. AFTER i closed the tab and reloaded it. which is good, because i thought i was going to have to deal with a broken laptop. we don’t have time for that.

a dude (later revealed to be named padgett) is sitting in a mostly empty room, cigarettes and typewriter on the table, looking at index cards he taped to the wall. seems they have sentence fragments on them he wants to work into his piece.

and he’s pacing. drinking. looking. listening next door? smoking. not writing, basically. almost everything else but that. 

it’s so quiet. creepily so. is this one going to be scary?

why is he looking in the mirror and touching his chest. IS HE BLEEDING??? ah. there is the sound. as HE PULLS HIS ORGANS OUT.

HEY. NOT COOL. BLEUGHHHH…. HEART??? his HEART??? 

okay. intro time. 

shakes my head to let the audience know i do NOT approve of ripping your heart out of your body (and also that it makes me gag)

SHORTENED INTRO!! you’ve gotten me once again….

the writer who was not writing is tossing something in the fire. possibly his own heart.

HEY. you get away from scully. don’t even share the elevator with her. i’m serious. last time we saw scully in a basement where a fire was roaring, it did not end well. 

DON’T STARE AT HER. oh, that musical flourish…. LONG SHOT ON HER LIPS…. NO SIR. BACK OFF. 

he’s following her. STILL STARING as she knocks on his door. 

RESTRAINING ORDER. NOW.

mulder answers the door brushing his teeth, which is rather intimate in its own way. to know someone well enough to grab the door while still brushing... sigh. i love mundane intimacy.

scully asks if he knows the neighbor, and what he writes, and then immediately jumps into autopsy reports. she has no time for small talk. but i’m sure she was creeped tf out. also, the autopsy photos are pretty nasty. 

next door, he is LISTENING TO THEM?? POSSIBLY WATCHING, TOO??

the victim’s heart was removed with no cuts. no prints, and no DNA.

mulder thinks it’s psychic surgery, which scully says is someone “dipping his hand in a bucket of chicken guts and pretending to remove tumors from the sick and gullible” <- oh! well. that was an incredibly detailed description for a concept i had previously no familiarity with. now i feel i know the phenomenon well.

EUGHHHH, man next door is still listening as they try to come up with a theory. but scully says that no crime is perfect- “you find his motive, and you find the murderer” <- okay, noir detective!!

writer man looks terrified and smokes again, now in bed at night. i mean, i guess you could smoke in apartments back then. i was going to make a snide comment about that not being allowed. but then i remembered this takes place in the 90's, and the whole world was foggy with cigarette smoke. 

cutscene to some kids in a car. she did NOT want kevin to bring her here!! he is thinking lustful thoughts!!

is the writer watching as they kiss??? she’s had enough. she gets up and leaves. DON’T LEAVE, MAGGIE. there’s a guy out there. 

kevin lowkey looks like luigi. 

he’s calling out to her as she wanders the woods??? but she’s not yelling back. only a hooded dude emerges. and he tackles kevin!!! cut to terrible screaming!!! and splatter noises as he rips his still beating heart out.

oh…. okay. 

well, i assume hoodie man and writer guy are the same person. now writer man is back to tapping away at his typewriter. does he kill people for inspiration??

FBI time!!! 7 am!! scully walks into the office and answers the phone. it’s mulder!! reporting the third victim!!

there were no witnesses…. but someone snuck something under the door. 

i think it’s very funny that she tells him someone slipped something into HIS office door, but then immediately opens it. LMAO. 

OH!!! it’s a pendant of a heart. AND THE WRITER STARTS NARRATING HOW HE IMAGINES HER OPENING IT???

we have to get this man in jail NOW. 

bro is writing fanfiction about the woman he just met……. analyzing how sexism affects her role at the FBI.

he described her hair as “titian”, which is wild- and somewhat impressive. he seems to actually have a way with words. buddy. we don’t need to hurt people to make art. 

BRO??? i don’t think she’s thinking about love at the moment… SHE HAS TO CATCH YOUR ASS???

creepy men. capable of thinking of nothing but themselves.

she identifies it as a “milagro”, a spanish lucky charm. someone dropped it off at the reception. 

OH, things are tense here between our agents…. mulder doesn’t think it’s a clue. maybe it’s meant for her, he says. but he made an appointment for her to meet with the medical examiner, and says he’ll investigate.

“thank you for making my schedule, but i think i’m going to have to be late for that appointment” <- oh lord…. the tension is thick… why is he doing this…?

i’m looking around my room nervously as if it will give me any clues

mulder watches her leave and she goes to a cathedral!! and someone is watching her. 

she stares at a painting of jesus holding his heart. AHHH! the writer comes out and looks at it, too!!!! DON’T TALK TO HER, I’M SERIOUS!!! 

girl, she’s catholic as fuck, do not start mansplaining the lore to her… he talks about hearts burning with flames of charity and stuff. i appreciate the exposition as a non-catholic watching, but personally i would have had no patience if i were scully. the lord took margaret mary’s heart. 

OH, she is not having it. she asks why he’s following her, and he says he isn’t- he just imagined it. that’s what writers do. they imagine how people behave. 

OH MY GOD??? he’s talking about noticing her necklace, her car stickers, HER CALVES?? her face… she swallows. 

HE MENTIONED THE GIFT SHE RECEIVED??? nooo, do NOT admit a secret attraction. oh, she does NOT want to deal with this shit.

“yeah, and i don’t know you now, and i don’t care to” <- this is a well-measured response, because i would have whipped my gun out a while ago.

he says he’s taken with her, and that never happens to him. and they’re alike in that way. 

she has tears in her eyes as she leaves. and he watches her. 

good lord. i feel i need a shower just watching that.

she arrives to do the autopsy, where mulder is waiting and makes a joke about having to do the slicing and dicing himself. but she looks so terrified. and she says she owes him an apology- he was right about the insignificance of the charm. 

he says he thinks he was wrong, though. he thinks that practitioners of psychic surgery think they have the holy spirit in them, and it was a way of communicating.

but she tells him where it came from. “he cornered me today, and told me my life story. it was kind of frightening, actually.” “is he our killer?” “no. frightening as in too much information and intimate detail. what kills you is his audacity”

mulder looks very surprised to hear all of this. i hope there’s some sympathy in there. not sure the 6 foot 1 man understands what it’s like to be a woman stalked and cornered. frankly, if it were me, i’d be offering to stay with scully, have a sleepover, keep an eye on her at all times. not that she isn’t capable of defending herself, but who tf knows what this dude has planned?? he clearly has his sights set on her. this is dangerous shit.

mulder goes to his apartment’s mailboxes and cracks the lock for the neighbor, pulling out his mail. addressed to phillip padgett. who comes in right behind him. 

mulder is in the elevator with him, saying nothing as he stares. and says he forgot his name. he asks if he’s written anything he’d know. padgett is staring at him and sweating, saying he doesn’t think so. 

“you’re an FBI agent. working on anything interesting?” “a murder case” “anything i’d know?” “possibly” 

oh dear lord, i would be getting my gun and just sitting by the door if i were him. no sleep. just gun. 

there is something so fucking creepy about a man who feels entitled to explain women to themselves. more so than werewolves or vampires, because we can at least take comfort in knowing those motherfuckers aren’t out there. but this dude- minus the heart removal- could be your neighbor. you could walk by him in the store. and he could corner you. and terrible things could happen. it's far too real.

padgett writes in his room about mulder stealing his mail, knowing he is listening. 

BUT HE GOES ON TO SAY THAT SCULLY IS AROUSED BY HIM??? oh... why is my blood running cold as she holds the charm. why is my heart thumping. why is he imagining them kissing. what. hey guys. i’m so deeply uncomfortable. 

she can’t actually be thinking that, right? i mean, it’s gotta be him imagining their sex scene.

oh my god, this, i realize, is the most deeply uncomfortable this show has ever made me.

i paused at this point and made a post on my blog because i am so deeply horrified.

i just… hope that they don’t go doing anything weird with scully’s character. i really do not want them to be like yeah, she IS attracted to her stalker. what a batshit and stupid thing to put on TV.

okay. um. deep breathing.

man. 

mulder opens his mail, and realizes padgett has placed no calls in a month. he picks up the newspaper and reads it. while scully knocks on his door. but she hears the neighbor typing. writing about her compulsion to knock at his door. and she does. 

she’s returning the charm. saying she can’t. he says she’s curious about him. and she notes he doesn’t have any furniture. and like mulder, she asks if he’s written anything she’d know. 

she says loneliness is a choice. and he asks if she wants a cup of coffee. 

girl, i’m scared….

mulder is picking up more newspapers. and next door, padgett brings her a cup of coffee. 

she says her life isn’t lonely- it's anything but. and asks how he seems to know her so well.

HE SAYS HE’S WRITING ABOUT HER??? he says he used to live in her neighborhood. and HE MOVED HERE BECAUSE OF HER??? because there was no room in HER BUILDING????

she looks at the pages and pages of papers. and asks if she can read them. 

girl, what the FUCK. he wants her to sit and stay, and she says he has nowhere to sit.

so he tries to take her into the bedroom. and she says she is very uncomfortable. “why? you’re armed, aren’t you?” 

he leaves to get a light bulb. scully RUN. RUN!!!!! 

she asks “if you know me so well, then why am i standing here when my instincts tell me to go?” <- oh. ohhhhh. he says motive is never easy. sometimes it occurs only later. and he asks her to sit. girl. i feel SICK. 

and she does. and the bulb flickers out again. 

i can’t explain how viscerally uncomfortable i feel as he stares at her. 

MULDER BURSTS IN THE DOOR WITH HIS GUN!!! and he sees her there with him!! she is MAD when he asks if he’s alright.

mulder arrests his ass after grabbing a piece of his manuscript. 

ALL HIS VICTIMS TOOK OUT PERSONAL ADS???

scully tries to tell him not to ask padgett questions without his lawyer. and mulder throws his book at him, saying every murder is in there, all laid out. padgett simply claims if he thinks about it long enough, it comes to him.

scully is watching them have some sort of exchange as they argue about the meanings of words. or argue over her. indirectly.

he wants to get physical with the man, but scully won’t let him. 

he says he is off to find his accomplice, the brazilian psychic surgeon. but scully already did that. he is now dead. 

scully thinks that maybe he really did imagine it. 

OH SHIT!!!! he says he read the novel and it ends with scully and “the stranger” having sex.  

“i assume that’s a priori, too?” “i think you know me better than that, mulder” she says sadly. and licks her lips, not looking at him. he nods and walks away, saying she should finish reading the novel. 

yes, i paused to read his novel when it shows up on screen. he’s talking about love turning to hate. she reads with a horrified expression.

and then a guard comes in with a statement from the prisoner. 

someone is sitting at a grave, and the hooded man emerges. are his characters coming to life somehow?? or is he slipping out of the jail and killing this random girl at a grave?? and ripping her heart out????

scully gets up immediately, and we cut to mulder in his sunglasses at the cemetery the next day, with scully on the phone. he thinks it’s a set up…. but then he launches on a guy who works at the cemetery. scully is trying to tell him he works here, but he says to check the truck, check the truck. when she won’t do it, he runs there himself, and finds the victim.

oh my god, this is so tense. this whole thing. she’s trying to argue that it makes no sense, how could padgett make this guy do the killing? and he gets so pissed off he switches where they stand- “you’re about to argue my usual side, aren’t you?” and he asks if the things padgett wrote about scully actually happened in her head. which she denies.

and he says this is the only way he can catch him.

mulder opens up padgett's cell, hands him his book, and says he is free to go and finish his writing. 

“in my book, i’d written that agent scully falls in love, but that’s obviously impossible. agent scully is already in love” <-HELLLLLLLOOO???

hey guys. what is going on?

he turns and leaves after that. and goes back to his apartment. he takes off his shoes and opens up his stack of papers. 

but the hoodie guy is here!!! he asks what padgett is doing. it’s the doctor from brazil!!!

OH SHIT!!! HE SAYS HE’S PADGETT'S CHARACTER!!! he asks what he wants. saying he is here to help him finish. but padgett can’t figure out his motive. he figured him out so perfectly he brought him to life, somehow. padgett says he needs a perfect crime.

“she’s a doctor; she’d be horrified by what you do” “i’m horrified. i just want to know why i do it” “so i could meet her” “that’s not a reason. it’s an excuse”

next door, mulder and scully are watching and listening into padgett''s apartment. scully only sees him sitting there, staring. so is the character not real?!?!

well, whether other people see the character or not, he takes the pages from padgett, asking what it is. padgett says it was a big mistake. he misjudged her character, and her interest in him. the character says that’s something.

padgett says she’s only trying to get mulder’s attention, but doesn’t know it.

he wants to know why he wants their hearts. “i want to feel love” “no”

man cannot open his heart and feel the flames of charity.

“but i have love in my heart” “yes, as a thief has riches, a usurer money. you have it. but man’s only power, only true power, is to destroy it…. there can only be one true ending, if it is to be perfect.” “she dies?” “see? it almost writes itself”

hey guys. don’t like it.

scully is asleep on mulder's couch, when he comes in, asking what is going on next door. padgett starts typing again, and then leaves. mulder rushes out to follow him. 

and he goes to throw the papers in the incinerator. but mulder stops him at gunpoint!!!

and when scully gets on her shoes to go join him, the hoodie man grabs her!!!

mulder wants to stop him from throwing the book into the fire, because it’s evidence. and she’s getting attacked. padgett says “he kills her”

mulder is trying to figure out how tf this relates to the killings, when a gunshot goes off. and then again, and again, and again. it's scully, firing right into the brazilian doctor. but it isn’t stopping him.

she’s screaming and screaming and bleeding everywhere, when padgett tossed the pages in. 

mulder finds her alone, bloodied on the floor, bloody around her neck, her chest. she’s either dead or has fainted. 

and she jerks back to life- he holds her. crying. scratching her fingers into his back. staining his shirt.

padgett narrates the end. his book is burning, and his heart is ripped out. he says it is a “chance to give what he could not receive”

hey guys. what. 

i actually don’t think i can analyze this right now because i’m so shocked and uncomfy. 

okay, juni, WHY are you uncomfy? that’s a place to begin, right? because he was stalking her, and it was horrifying!! and she went in there with him, and i was so scared!! i really thought it was going to go in a different direction, and i was so scared the writers were going to make her actually sleep with her stalker, and i was going to be so angry.

uh. okay.

well. padgett seems to think that by ripping his own heart out, he will give scully a chance to share her love. so, as she soaks mulder’s shirt with her blood, maybe there is a wordless exchange there.

i’m just a little baffled by the whole thing. why did she defend him? even if he knew it was impossible for him to rip people’s hearts out, if he was describing every single murder in excruciating detail in his book… 

and mulder had to be the voice of reason, which almost never happens. finding that body in the truck with the flowers… 

well. the concept of an author creating a character so deeply that it is brought to life is fascinating, i’ll give the writers that. i’m just feeling a lot of conflicting things.

because it’s horror show. and i got spooked. yeah. this is actually what they aim for. but i think i got spooked specifically because gendered violence and stalking is a real and horrific thing. and it’s is out there. not aliens. not zombies. men who want to follow you, make you fall in love with them, or kill you. and scully has gone through her fair share of that at this point. but this was the most disturbing. i don’t even think irresistible got me this bad.

i’m hoping that this will be the lowest point of mulder-scully relations. i hope that she was trying to prove him wrong out of some twisted curiosity with padgett. their tension has been rising, the love-hate loving and hating, all season. so maybe this will be the catalyst for resolution.

and yeah, some plot nonsense will happen at the end of the season, but hopefully that won’t have anything to do with their interpersonal relationship. that constant back and forth of loving and hating and trusting and waiting- every time they get close, it gets pulled back. i can see how that would build resentment. trying to swallow feelings can be infuriating. dancing around each other. 

well. yes. that makes sense for their conflict. their territoriality.

i kind of don’t really want to say anything else right now. i kind of want to skip right to the next one and not even proofread this, but alas, i am committed to the cause that is this blog. please insert some defeated jazz hands here.

usually i make my notes, spend a while editing them, and get them uploaded the next day. i like this method. it allows for me to ponder things overnight. but i'm not going to do that today, even though there were many character rich moments i would have normally enjoyed turning around in my head. i'm just going to get it out there.

here are some things i would analyze if i had the stomach for it: scully defending padgett's innocence to mulder. scully going into his room and sitting on his bed instead of turning tail and running when he confessed to stalking her. mulder's protective instinct to arrive when he did. mulder trying to arrange for her to do the autopsy and how angry she became. and how angry she became when he burst in. the sadness and fear in her face in the cathedral, in padgett's room, in the jail. mulder telling her how it ends- that padgett was fantasizing about her. him asking if that really happened. him switching their spots, saying she'll argue his side. him running down to catch padgett and leaving her alone to hoodie man. him finding her, looking dead on the floor. and her jerking back to life, sobbing into his arms, trying to sink her claws into him. did she really go there to make mulder pay attention? or is that the twisted view of an unwell padgett who is so incredibly lonely he thinks that everything is about the love he hasn't experienced?

like i said, a LOT of room to analyze characters and their choices here, but i don't want to. so if you want to do it and share it, please do! but i don't want to dwell on it myself.

well. that's it from me, folks. i'm gonna call it a night. and any palate cleanser fluffy fic recs would be deeply appreciated, because whew!

[inexplicifics]

Hi the fashion designer in training again, you posted my og ask and it got me thinking about it again (as if i ever stop) and I was thinking about how different monsters would be categorized and how that might change the fashion sense of things too. For example, theres humanoids, animal adjacent, insect adjacent (broadly), and plant adjacent.

Humanoids, to me, would be creatures/monsters that have little to no animal, insect, or plant otherness, such as trolls, drowners, bruxa, even sirens (even though they overlap into animal). Witchers obviously have magical uses from their kills but from a fashion/mundane perspective a lot of what these creatures provide would be equivalent to that of what a human might. Now, there is a lot of real world history that is sensitive and triggering about the use of human remains, especially in recent times of widespread slavery that has a lot of themes of cannibalism, farming practices, and lack of humanity even after death, such as leather tanning for clothes, the use of human remains in parchment (as parchment is made from animal remains and not wood or plants, that’s what differentiates it from paper), and more. This is why anything that leans more human than monster (such as a bruxa, vampire, succubus, etc) I don’t think I’ll touch with a ten foot pole unless it is to deal with their unique remains. Creatures that lean more monster such as trolls get thrown through the wringer though.

Trolls specifically have really thick skin, which in a tanning process would take… forever to turn into leather but the results would be potentially amazing. Thick strong leather would last for centuries if treated right, I have no doubt in my mind that troll leather would make fantastic saddles, boots, furniture — awful clothes but the other implications mean a lot to me because it might just make excellent armor.

Sirens, as the middleman between humanoids and animal adjacent, would be excellent to discuss scales. There is a company that currently helps with fish scale waste and uses them to make clothes that are naturally soft and have added benefits of being moisture managing (helps with retaining moisture in skin in dry environments) and also is naturally anti-odor! This is incredibly cool for the fashion world and I could see it being a real thing for the witcher world… if they had the time to do it, as I fear modern technology would need to be replaced with magic and I’m not sure mages, researcher included, would be interested in going out of their way to collect siren scales to create fabric (unless they could imbue it with magic? 🤔 A potential concept to long lasting charmed clothes) So very interesting but not as plausible in a fantasy world.

But! Reptilian scales are highly sought after in fashion designs and are not as wasteful as fish scales. The Witcher basilisk is reptilian in nature, which would make for excellent clothes, anything in fashion you can think of in scales you can bet it exists. Scales are widely loved and used even today, so basilisk skin? Oh yeah, it’s up there for fashion. Even says so in various wikis 😉.

Animal adjacent clothing will look a lot like what we have for animals now, adjusted as needed. Basilisks are large so their hides would be easy to convert to many items, whereas snake skin is small and you would need several to make a significant piece of cloth. This would make it far more valuable. Not to mention the claws, claws which are used in various forms. From clasps on just about everything, to jewelry, to decor, to piercings, I know a basilisk claw would be on a noble’s cloak or belt, I just know it.

This translates to, as mentioned before, wargs and other furred animals. The larger, the better, the more you can take, the better, the more *dangerous* to prove your worth, the better. A bear claw is nothing compared to a warg fang, and so on and so forth. I haven’t even gotten started on the length of griffin feathers and what that would do for fashion. No one understands what length in natural materials means to me except for other people who’s special interests are fashion, fantasy worlds, and survival skills. I cannot explain *length of feathers* in gowns. In cloaks. In *jewelry.* But that’s a post for a little old me who isn’t up at 1am on a school night.

Enjoy my midnight ramblings, I realize that this got out of hand and is uh… not really well connected in terms of thoughts but I hope it made sense to people who aren’t deep in the trenches like me lmao

Please imagine me sitting here with my chin on my hands, staring at you with hearts in my eyes as I listen to your interesting and informative midnight ramblings.

[dufferpuffer]

I have such a pet peeve for wizards smoking cigarettes. Such a long history of tobacco use in England - chewing, sniffing, smoking in all sorts of different formats... wizarding society aesthetic is keeping alive old things that went out of fashion for muggles.

But people shove 1880's Coffin Nails into wizard mouths. Why? Only for muggle reasons: To muggles cigarettes seem like a cheap drink, dirty and casual to scratch an itch - and thus to muggles seem aloof and self-gratifying and cool.

I'm not saying cigarettes can't work with characters... but are we saying tobacco, some mundane foreign plant, has infiltrated Wizarding society in the super modern format of a cigarette - in symbolic ways Fellytones haven't even managed...? Even with their GREATLY expanded botanical knowledge...?

I'm not saying Wizards - especially muggleborns, half-bloods or rebellious Purebloods - can't smoke cigarettes. I just think there are some more interesting options, based on their situation and reason to take up the habit. (Sorta wanna do a bigger post on this lol)

For example - Severus smoking cigs because his dad/entire neighborhood of Muggle factory workers did? Cool. How about Severus smoking a pipe because thats more common for Wizards - and he really despises appearing like a Muggle? He cant kick the tobacco habit though, even though the smell of tobacco in general is Muggle-esque? A potions store of more interesting things to put in his pipe... yet he sticks with tobacco?

A character I can imagine actually smoking honest-to-god cigarettes is Aberforth Dumbledore. He was a rambunctious youth, hanging around bars and getting into fights, right when Coffin Nails were having a boom of popularity in English Muggle society - 1880s/1890s. There's no way that little dirty rebel wasn't smoking and drinking underage (though I doubt there was an 'age' to either activity back then, I'll have to look it up though) I can see him now, in his 100's, still importing cigarettes into Hogsmeade - just for himself. The Hogs Head has a distinct smell of tobacco, despite Wizards generally having better things to smoke in their pipes.

[positivelybeastly]

From the Ashes Infinity Comics #16: Pygmalion, Part 2

Let's go. I'm eager to talk about this one, because it was good.

Ahhhh, I do love it when comic books are on the nose - and I genuinely mean that. Subtext may be for cowards, as Garth Marenghi once loudly stated, but I also feel like it's just. Too subtle, for most people. You really do just end up with a load of people who don't get the message because it wasn't loud enough, who are there because the franchise is cool and not because they internalise the messages of it, and that's how you end up with racist X-Men or Star Trek fans.

By all means, get into the franchise just because it's cool! But let's engage with the themes and the narrative and the meaning, too, yeah? Trust me, it makes it better.

Anyway, the Uncanny! The adjective applied to the X-Men most commonly since their debut in 1963, the concept of the uncanny has its roots in German philosophy, and specifically the work of Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling in 1837, but Beast and his mimic here correctly identify that it was popularised by Sigmund Freud's theories about psychotherapy and the human psyche, especially his 1919 essay literally titled "The Uncanny."

That being said, my first exposure to this word and its deeper meaning was in relation to Gothic fiction, and the use of supernatural figures like the vampire, in my English Literature class, where the following definition was perhaps a bit more apt: a. : seeming to have a supernatural character or origin : eerie, mysterious. b. : being beyond what is normal or expected : suggesting superhuman or supernatural powers. an uncanny sense of direction.

As a literary trope, the examination of the uncanny, liminality, and the creation of transgressive works exploring the human fascination with the taboo and what falls outside the bounds of 'normal', that which is considered both attractive and terrifying, is a very old human past time.

The X-Men, as mutants, were always meant to have this quality, though how much a writer wishes to touch on it will always vary. Compare and contrast Hickman's use of the uncanny to make Krakoa seem alien, disturbing, and strange, versus how very mundane a lot of especially late 00s X-Men was, with Utopia's focus on very War on Terror politics, and you can see just how different a vibe you get when you have a writer genuinely interested in exploring what makes mutants actually uncanny. Morrison vs. Whedon is another very good example of this dichotomy, imo. Morrison's X-Men are uncanny, and Whedon's are not. Both are good, but they have a very different feel as a result.

Anyway, enough waffling on about literary analysis!

Taking Ben Percy and Jed MacKay's lead, this version of Beast is very much more in line with his 90s or 00s self than the Defenders version he's meant to be closer to - 1985 Beast did not talk like this. That being said, Beast's use of affectation, facade, and code-switching to fit in means that it isn't really a breaking of canon, it just indicates that Hank feels that his goofball persona would be very ill-fitting for this stage of his life, and given the stresses he's under, I can't say he's necessarily wrong.

Browerian mimicry, otherwise known as automimicry, is a form of animal mimicry in which an animal will commonly imitate itself in such a way that it confuses and deflects attacks, i.e. a fish manifesting eye spots away from its actual eyes so as to misdirect a predator. But, as Hank points out, the form of mimicry on display here is somewhat more complex and involved . . .

And now we come to the first hint about what the actual conflict is going to be here - just how much of this mimic's thought processes are its own, and how much are Hank's? After all, while Hank has, historically born up under immense pressure, stress, and racial hatred before, that hasn't always been the case.

In Uncanny X-Men #8, he was one of the first mutants to experience racial hatred and a near lynching for the use of his powers in an altruistic manner, an experience which led him to nearly leave the X-Men. While he grew out of this misanthropy, it's interesting to see this trait potentially return in light of his inner conflict over his inner goodness and morality - it makes sense that Hank would question if he's only a good person when he's treated well, given his lack of faith in his intrinsic goodness and growing belief that he cannot be trusted.

So, we have to ask if this sentiment is the mimic, Hank, or both, especially given how sharp Beast is in this issue, and in MacKay's X-Men #4. Even an older, allegedly more morally degraded Beast, was more polite to similarly ignorant masses in Rosenberg's Uncanny X-Men, and yet, in this issue, Hank refers to them very unflatteringly, to say nothing of his somewhat brusque manner during his fight with the Upstarts . . .

"We're." "We."

Interesting.

I think this issue might well have given Psylocke more dialogue than all of Jed MacKay's X-Men run thus far. That being said, I'm not massively worried about her prominence and treatment, given that what she's gotten has been eminently capable, and she does have a solo series coming out soon, so it's not as though she's being particularly hard done by, I think.

Blankslate. I actually rather like that. It has a very pleasing simplicity to it, and it's both apt and unique, which is hard, given the number of existing shapeshifters that the Marvel Universe plays host to.

I do like that the instant Psylocke saw that Scott was considering field deployment of a vulnerable young moment, she locked that shit down, ASAP. We aren't having a repeat of Utopia's X-Force here, Scoot. Again, pulling at the relative lack of play Kwannon's gotten in MacKay's X-Men thus far, it's nice to see her so assertive and able to speak up against what she perceives as Scott's utilitarian tendencies.

Also, Hank continues to be incapable of sitting on a chair properly.

I really have to question what the fuck Scott thought was going to happen. Were you even listening to what Hank and Kwannon were saying, Scooter?

Hank really isn't used to having an outer monologue. It throws him, to hear the nasty things he thinks about himself spoken aloud, finished, and not left unanswered and unquestioned in his own mind.

It's also very interesting to see this fear explicitly acknowledged in even this version of Hank, given that this worry about rejection, and the ensuing bluster and humiliation, led to his violent reaction to the garbage intervention in Uncanny X-Men #600. He decided to leave rather than be made to leave, deciding that the X-Men had already elected to make him leave the team (not an unreasonable conclusion, given how determinedly shitty they treated him up until that point, and after it), and in so doing, made his worries manifest.

I've also talked before about the significance of moments where Hank doesn't talk. As a persistent prattler, it's worth noting his silences.

A Markov chain is, essentially, a statistical model of real-world processes, that often describes a sequence of possible events in which the probability of each event depends only on the state attained in the previous event, i.e. the prediction of a specific outcome after a number of specific events. Hence, a probability chain.

Here, Hank appears to have inputted data relating to his own life experiences, and the data available to him about the life experiences of his previous self, as well as, likely, his alternate reality counterparts, in an effort to discern his likelihood of turning out the same way.

While this version of Hank has substantially reduced life experiences compared to his older self, he still appears to be well versed in statistical modelling and probability mathematics. If he is behind his Prime self, it's likely only going to be for so long, given that this level of mathematics and modelling was well beyond his 1985 self, who was notoriously rusty at even his own chosen field of biophysics and genetic manipulation in New Defenders, having neglected his scientific studies in favour of, well, fun.

Prions are misfolded proteins that induce a similar misfolded state in normal variants of the same protein, leading to cellular death. Your most likely common experience of the word may be related to prion neurodegenerative diseases affecting humans and animals, such as Creutzfeldt–Jakob's disease, kuru, and mad cow disease.

While this is very impressive science, I think it skirts around the fact that Hank is essentially working on a gun that can kill him and reset him back to a more 'pleasing' version of the same person if someone he deems worthy of entrusting the gun to decides he needs resetting. This is horrific and exactly the kind of self-hating science that Hank would only ever conscience being used on him and only him, because he's like that.

This is the kind of thing that Simon Williams or Abigail Brand would beat his ass for doing, and then destroy, because no, Hank, do NOT keep the 'mind wipe me when you don't like me' serum around, it's horrible that you think so unkindly of yourself, you idiot!

I like Hank's weird little science lamp. The man can't just have a simple lava lamp like the rest of us, can he?

Oy vey.

To be continued . . . in another post, because I ran out of images right at the end, again.

[teine-mallaichte]

A 2am peice to add to my Campfire Snippets Series 😅 using the prompt "first kiss" from a bingo card.

Basically a bit of slightly angsty kind of pre-fenders for @dadrunkwriting

The camp was quieter than usual, as if the world outside their small circle of light had been muffled by the hush of winter’s approach. The others had long since retired to their tents, leaving Anders and Fenris alone by the dying embers of the fire.

The forest around them was dark, the air crisp, and the night sky seemed somehow closer - an expanse of glittering points stretching endlessly above.

Anders was gazing upward, his eyes reflecting the starlight, his posture relaxed as he sat on a fallen log. He looked almost mesmerised. Fenris did his best to appear uninterested, idly watching the edge of the camp. But from time to time, his gaze would slip toward Anders, lingering on the soft shape of the mage’s profile before darting away again. It was maddening, how aware he was of Anders, how the silence pressed down on him - like it wanted him to admit something he wasn’t ready to name.

“They look brighter tonight,” Fenris said at last, the words sliding out before he’d fully decided to speak.

At the sound of Fenris’ voice, Anders turned. There was a faint smile at the corners of his mouth, lit gently by the fire’s glow. “They do,” he agreed softly. “It’s the cold air,” he explained, looking upward again. “It makes the stars look sharper… as if they’re closer.”

Fenris followed Anders’ gaze. He’d never thought much about the sky before Anders had started talking about it. But the mage had this irritating ability to make the most mundane thing seem interesting recently.

Turning his gaze away, he tried to feign disinterest, his mind was hardly on the stars anyway. “I suppose the cold is good for something,” he muttered. He hated the cold—the dampness of it, the way it seeped into his bones and made every inch of his body ache with a low, constant discomfort. The winters in Tevinter had been cold, but they were dry. Frost and ice, not this rain and... Wet.

And yet, he didn’t move away from the fire, didn’t retreat into his tent like he likely should. He stayed, sitting a little too close to Anders, watching the mage with an intensity that he couldn’t deny. This fixation was becoming problematic... Distracting.

The tension between them had been building for months now. Subtle touches that lingered too long. Glances that spoke volumes without saying a word. What had once being arguments and biting sarcasm had evolved into an almost playful banter that had started innocently, but had taken on an edge of something more in recent weeks. Both of them had been dancing around it - neither willing to take the final step. Varric and Isabela had even started placing bets, they were not even being subtle about it.

He shifted uncomfortably, his chest tightening as the silence stretched on. Usually he welcomed the quiet, but not tonight. Tonight his thoughts felt tangled, spiraling around Anders without distraction.

"Did I ever tell you the legend of the Dravo constellation?" Anders says suddenly, gesturing towards a cluster of stars.

Fenris frowned as he squinted at the sky, no matter how many times the mage insisted there were pictures and shapes up there he could not see them. "You stated that a hero tricked the dragon. You did not provide... Details."

Anders chuckled, the sound warm against the cool night. "Right. Details. Well the story first that the hero defeated the dragon with biting but a lute."

"A lute?" Fenris echoed skeptically.

Anders grinned, leaning forward slightly as he relished in Fenris’ disbelief. “Yes, a lute. I know, it sounds ridiculous.”

"It is ridiculous mage," Fenris looked at the patch of sky again, *still no pictures*. "We have fought a dragon. Noone could defeat such a beast with a feable instrument."

Anders laughed softly, clearly amused by Fenris' skepticism. "Well, not just any lute. It was enchanted, of course."

Fenris rolled his eyes, "of course."

Anders leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. “ A bit of enchanted music, and poof, dragon vanquished. What could possibly go wrong?”

Fenris couldn't help but smirk at the absurdity of it.

"Maybe it was the song that made the dragon see the error of its ways," Anders teased, leaning in just a little too much, his breath warm against Fenris' ear. "You know, make it question its life choices."

"Indeed," Fenris muttered dryly, his heart racing slightly, "I am certain that dragons have existential crises regularly."

Anders’ laughter softened, and for a moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of trees in the night breeze. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward, but it was charged in a way that made Fenris shift his position slightly, as if the air had thickened around them.

Anders was too close. It would be almost effortless to make any touch seen accidental. He tore his eyes away. He was being ridiculous. This strange obsession, the urge, it needed to go.

He hated it.

Hated how every glance made his skin prickle. How every laugh from Anders made his chest tighten. How every subtle, lingering touch made his breath catch. It was maddening. It was dangerous. And yet...

He couldn’t look away.

Anders shifted slightly, the firelight catching his eyes, making them shimmer as he spoke. Fenris want hearing him anymore though, he'd hardly even registered that the mage was still talking.

And then it happened.

Before Fenris could stop himself, before his mind could reason his way out of it, he was leaning in. It was fast, impulsive, and utterly beyond his control. His lips brushed against Anders’ with a raw intensity that stole the air from his lungs. The seemed to show, the world suddenly unbearably still. His heart thundered in his chest, his pulse erratic as he pulled away almost immediately. He could feel the heat rising in his face, a rush of embarrassment mingling with something far more dangerous.

Anders, equally startled, sat still for a heartbeat longer before his hand instinctively reached up to touch his lips. He blinked at Fenris, wide-eyed, as if trying to process what had just happened. The words, the apology, the explanations were all hovering just on the edge of his tongue, but neither of them spoke.

Fenris opened his mouth to say something -;nything - but found no words. He couldn’t bring himself to make any of it real, not yet. Not with the storm of emotions whirling inside him, not with the flood of confusion, desire, and dread that tangled in his mind.

Instead, he stood abruptly. He had to move, had to escape the intensity of the moment before it swallowed him whole.

"Fenris..." Anders’ voice was soft, but the way it caught on his name made the elf pause. He could feel Anders’ gaze on him, the mage’s steady presence anchoring him even from a distance.

"I... Apologise. It was a mistake," Fenris stiffened, not turning to look, "I... Should leave."

He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t sure what this even was - whether it was something he had wanted, or something born from some twisted mix of guilt, loneliness, or just a need to escape the ever-tightening cage of his own mind.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

He couldn’t let it happen again.

He took a step away from the fire, and then another, his movements stiff and before he had fully processed the action the campfire was nothing but a distant glow.

Anders perspective here

[kaidoslastbraincell]

Dabi would burn the whole world to the ground if it meant you got to live; for a world without you is not worth living in at all. (it's a long one sorry not sorry)

readers quirk: healer's breath - you can take the injuries and pain of others for yourself and your body converts it into carbon dioxide to exhale - the more severe the problem, the longer it takes to expelled and that pain is yours until it's all gone..

pairings: dabi x fem!reader

genre: slight angst, fluff (nevermind all angst with a little fluff)

warnings: mild drug use (weed), character death (reader - I'M SO SORRY)

recommended song: gasoline by halsey

_________________________________

You were a normal person. Sure you had a quirk but you weren't a hero or a villain. And Dabi loved the normalcy he could experience whenever he was with you. He wanted to keep it that way...to protect you from the hell that came with being on either side of that coin. To protect the nights spent dancing to soft music in the kitchen of your tiny apartment while dinner cooked. The early mornings spent watching you rush around as your get ready for your shifts at the hospital. For someone so seemingly ordinary...to him...to him you were magnificent in every way.

But he should have known this peace wouldn't last for long. Shigaraki had found out about you and looked into your quirk and now he was interested. There wasn't a healer in the League yet but he wanted there to be. As much as Dabi played by his own rules and wanted to keep the two of you apart, he didn't want to get you killed.

That's how you ended up where you are today. You hadn't wanted to join the League...but with Shigaraki threatening both you and the man you love, you felt you had little choice. Dabi hated every second you were around the rest of the villains. Toga's tendency to crave the blood of people she took a liking to was unnerving. The others were tolerant of you but it was clear they weren't happy you were there any more than the two of you. Kurogiri, Compress and Spinner were a little more welcoming but wary of bringing a civilian into the group. You weren't desensitised to all the violence and it was evidently taking its toll on you. Dabi kept you away as often as he could, taking you back to your apartment and trying to maintain the mundane peace you felt in each other's presence. But he could see the spark slowly leaving your eyes with every mission that spread your quirk too thin. You could take away people's injuries and pain, your body converting them into carbon dioxide for you to exhale. But the more severe the issue, the longer it took for you to expel...and until it was all gone, that pain was yours to bear.

That night, you writhed in agony beside Dabi in the bed you often shared. Magne had received broken ribs during the attack at the training camp, and during a brief confrontation with the green-haired boy, you'd taken some of his pain too (not that the others needed to know that). It had your temperature rising and tears streaming down your face. Dabi felt hopeless, there was nothing he could do but hold you and soothe the ache in your soul with comforting words and gentle touches.

"I could kill him..." he muttered angrily, "I could kill him and we'd be free. We all would."

Your grip on the front of his shirt tightened.

"It's not worth the risk." Your voice came out a strained wheeze.

Later that night, when Dabi had long since fallen asleep, you pried yourself from his arms and curled up in a blanket on your small balcony. A blunt hung loosely from your lips as you played around with your lighter, the cool evening air aiding your high temperature. Taking a drag, you held your breath for a few seconds before sighing the smoke through your nose, some of the pain washing away in the process. You had a long day ahead of you tomorrow. There was no need for you to be there really...but Shigaraki had requested your presence nonetheless. Perhaps as backup? Or maybe just to make the League seem untouchable. What did that crusty bitch have planned?

Morning came; you and Dabi were on your way to the hide-out, your feet dragging with the exhaustion of shouldering so much pain. Your lover's arm settled firmly around your waist, supporting your weight.

"If we're lucky, this won't take long," Dabi muttered from your side.

When you made it to the bar, Bakugo was secured to a chair in the middle of the room, Shigaraki in front of him and the rest of the league behind. You quickly scanned the blonde and upon finding him injury-free, you breathed a sigh of relief.

"How are you feeling, y/n?" Kurogiri asked softly when he saw you.

"I'm fine. It'll pass."

The student's eyes immediately shifted to you, a look of confusion crossing his features. He frowned and you offered a strained smile (one that you hoped would be reassuring).

Shigaraki went on one of his monologues and you tuned out the entire thing, trying to breathe through the pain still plaguing your body. There was some shouting from the boy's part, followed by more talking.

"If we want him to join us, we need to treat him as an equal," the crusty boy grinned.

Dabi expressed his reluctance, then Twice, and eventually, everyone was refusing to be the one to release the chains. With a groan, you stepped out of Dabi's hold and to Shigaraki's side.

"I'll do it. He's just a kid."

As you moved closer to him, he watched you carefully. He didn't sense any kind of threat when you were near.

"Who are you?" he mumbled.

"No one important," you whispered back.

Your desire to remain anonymous was quickly disregarded by the League's leader.

"Allow me to introduce our team's healer," he smirked, "y/n l/n!"

"Healer? Those quirks are extremely rare..." Bakugo growled.

"Would you like a demonstration? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to put your doubts to rest," a maniacal laugh echoed through the room.

Dabi stepped forward, a hand roughly landing on Shigaraki's shoulder. "You know how much strain she's already under after yesterday," he hissed.

The crusty man side-eyed him, bushing his hand off.

"She'll be fine. Spinner, bring me a knife."

Within seconds, a small knife was in Shigaraki's hands, and he was approaching you and Bakugo. He grabbed the boy's arm, keeping one finger away from the skin, and pulled it towards himself.

"Tomura," your voice was low with warning.

"Shut up and do your job."

The knife was dragged along his limb, deep enough to draw a decent amount of blood, and the blonde hissed in pain, trying to pull his arm out of the bruising hold.

"Hold still, wouldn't wanna nic a vein now would we...go ahead y/n."

With a sigh (you'd been doing that a lot lately), your hand replaced Shigaraki's, much more gently than the former had been. With each inhale, Bakugo found his pain lessening, but he saw the way your brow furrowed and tears gathered in the corners of your eyes.

"It's okay," you murmured, "this pain is my burden now."

"Wh-what!?" his eyes widened and from his peripheral, he saw the fire quirk user look away, his eyes sad.

You backed away once the wound had fully healed, your hands shaking vigorously. You turned to Shigaraki, an icy glare taking over your features.

"Happy?"

He clapped his hands, eyes wide. "Extremely. Great job as always!"

Before anyone else could speak, there was a loud knock on the door. Everyone glanced around awkwardly. Dabi stepped closer to you, reaching and gently pulling you behind him. And in seconds, the door was busted open with heroes flooding in. Your boyfriend pushed you back and you stumbled into the arms of none other than the man you loathed the most. All Might had taken hold of Bakugo, pushing him closer to the door, but his eyes met yours frantically. Once the chaos began, you heard his voice, slightly panicked.

"Wait! The girl! You need to save the girl!"

A shiver ran down your spine when you felt cold, dry hands wrapped around your wrist and throat.

(comment for part 2 hehe)

[chippedshake]

Ponyboy's narration

I think everyone in the fandom is well aware of the fact that Ponyboy is an incredibly unreliable narrator, but what I thought I would do is look at it a bit more in depth, seeing what particular methods Ponyboy uses to twist the reader's perspective. I was also originally going to say why I thought he was such an unreliable narrator, but then this snowballed into something much longer than I originally planned for so I'm making it another post

For simplicity's sake, we'll assume he's reliable when it comes to actual facts, because if we didn't, well that's a whole other can of worms I don't particularly feel like opening because analytically it's not very interesting (at least for me). So let's assume that it's only when it comes to people's personalities and thoughts that he diverges a bit.

Now, I started out with a very clear idea of how Ponyboy influenced the reader's ideas. There were two main ways: stating his opinion as fact, and placing information in convenient places that made the reader subconsciously change their opinion.

Then I started analysing and... well, things weren't quite as clear-cut.

A bit of background: I was going to use the Outsiders for a school project but then I wasn't allowed to, so all the analysis I've done is going to end up on here. The format, though, that's going to change, so rather than a clean, edited version that guides you through a clear version of my thoughts, here's my stream of consciousness.

Read it if you feel like it, don't if you don't.

Johnny Cade was last and least. If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny.

[Dally] liked to show that he didn't care whether there was a law or not. He went around trying to break laws.

Me and Darry just didn't dig each other. I never could please him. He would have hollered at me for carrying a blade if I had carried one.

These aren't facts, they're Ponyboy's perception of the world and, mainly, his friends. If you ask someone else what Johnny's like or why Dally breaks laws or what the problem between Pony and Darry is, they'll have different answers.

But Ponyboy presents them as an absolute truth. He doesn't say "I thought Dally just liked breaking laws" or "Johnny seemed like a dark puppy to me", he says these as if it's common knowledge, mainly because (I think) to him it is.

So these would be clear-cut examples of stating his entirely subjective opinion as a fact.

The problems started when I tried to analyse the following quote:

He stopped instantly. "I'm sorry." 

He wasn't really. Darry isn't ever sorry for anything he does. It seems funny to me that he should look just exactly like my father and act exactly the opposite from him. My father was only forty when he died and he looked twenty-five and a lot of people thought Darry and Dad were brothers instead of father and son. But they only looked alike — my father was never rough with anyone without meaning to be. 

Darry is six-feet-two, and broad-shouldered and muscular. He has dark-brown hair that kicks out in front and a slight cowlick in the back — just like Dad's — but Darry's eyes are his own. He's got eyes that are like two pieces of pale blue-green ice. They've got a determined set to them, like the rest of him. He looks older than twenty — tough, cool, and smart. He would be real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold. He doesn't understand anything that is not plain hard fact. But he uses his head. 

This is actually the quote that inspired me to say that he places things in convenient places so you agree with him. Because here, he dedicates two paragraphs to describing how Darry is rough and tough and cool and cold, right after Darry does something that, without Ponyboy's commentary, would be innocent and caring and a fairly mundane action: accidentally shaking someone too hard when you want them to come back to consciousness.

But there's not just that. There are about four explicit comparisons to Ponyboy's dad throughout his description, and the entire description is a constant comparison between Mr Curtis and Darry. This is practically the first we hear of Darry, mind you, and first impressions matter.

So, not only is Ponyboy demonising a perfectly normal action, but he's setting up these impossible expectations for Darry, not just as himself but also for the reader, because whether you like it or not, having the first description you read of a character be a comparison to someone else is going to affect the way you view them. Ponyboy views Darry as his guardian, not his brother, and he transmits that to the reader, changing the way we perceive him.

Remove the inner monologue, and this first scene is an interaction I could perfectly well see myself having with my little brother if I ever found him knocked out, much less beat up.

There's also the constant subjectivity and Ponyboy's opinions being stated as facts: "Darry isn't ever sorry for anything", "He would be real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold", "He's got eyes that are like two pieces of pale blue-green ice", etc.

(There's also the whole eyes thing that I absolutely adore and will go into with more depth at some point in my life)

"I didn't tell y'all something," Dally said, finishing his third hamburger. "The Socs and us are having all-out warfare all over the city. [...] We got hold of the president of one of their social clubs and had a war council. Yeah" — Dally sighed, and I knew he was remembering New York — "just like the good old days."

Without the internal monologue, the last sentence can be interpreted mostly one of two ways: sarcastic or genuine, and that vastly changes the way his character can be perceived. Does he enjoy wide-spread violence, does he find it to be an inconvenience, does he hate feeling unsafe in the streets? We don't know, not without the "I knew he was remembering New York".

Except who, exactly, is telling us they knew Dally was remembering New York?

Ponyboy, who thought Darry hated him because he was so worried about him being out late. Ponyboy, who thought Dally didn't love anyone in the world and only came to terms with the fact that he cared about Johnny when he died out of desperation at Johnny's own death. Ponyboy, who is writing this essay several weeks after everything happened.

I can't recount a conversation I had this morning word-for-word, much less one that happened weeks ago. Can we really trust the way Ponyboy remembers Dally intoning a fairly forgettable sentence weeks before he wrote it down, especially considering the entire plot hinges on him not understanding subtext?

I think not.

(I know I said that we would trust Ponyboy on factual stuff but we can't, not really, and tone is really toeing the line between objective and subjective)

I noticed this once, but I'm sure it's happened other times throughout the book, Ponyboy inserting his opinions at convenient times, telling us what a character is thinking went we can't know that he's right with any sort certainty.

Quick note: I just want to clarify something, which is that I am in no way trying to say that I dislike Ponyboy as a narrator. I absolutely love unreliable narrators and think that they're incredibly interesting and fun to analyse, as well as providing sort of ambiguity that really helps have each person make the story their own. I love them.

I do, however, also know that they are... well, unreliable. And part of what makes them so interesting is how you can spend hours and hours trying to dissect how much of what you just read was a lie (beyond the aspect of fiction and whatnot).

So yeah. Just thought that might need some clearing up considering the tone I used above.

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Practice Conversations - Yearn for the Angel.: Tsumugi Tsukioka

Part 1

Tsumugi: While the Michael in the sequel is definitely Michael, I think at the beginning of the story, he’s a little different from how he was during the debut performance.

Tsumugi: I would like to focus more on the way I act so that the audience can experience an otherworldly feeling.

Tsumugi: I will also keep in mind the fact that he’s a med student as I prepare for the role.

Tsumugi: Spring, Summer and Autumn all put on amazing performances, and then passed the baton to us.

Tsumugi: As we hold that baton close to our hearts, we will definitely put on a show befitting of the Winter Troupe and make it to the finals.

Part 2

Tsumugi: Michael and Derrick talk about how they used to play chess together, so I decided to play chess with Guy-san as well.

Tsumugi: As we sat across each other above the chessboard, we talked about our role building and practice, various mundane things, and laughed over silly jokes.

Tsumugi: Spending time with Guy-san like this calms me down.

Tsumugi: I’m sure Michael felt the same way when he played chess with Derrick.

Tsumugi: Guy-san has a calm manner of speech, and playing with him is fun. I’d love to spend time with him again like this, even if it’s not for role building.

Part 3

Tsumugi: Oh, Director. I was looking at photos from my uni days.

Tsumugi: I’ve been looking back to all sorts of things from that time lately in order to prepare for my role.

Tsumugi: I was a psychology major, the classes were interesting, and I enjoyed everything I learned, but…

Tsumugi: Even more than that, I was focused on theater, and my friends and I would act for days on end.

Tsumugi: And I’ve also been imagining what it’d be like if we had attended the same university…

Tsumugi: We’d attend lectures together, help each other with studying, talk about acting in the cafeteria…

Tsumugi: Now that I think about it like this, I really wish we could’ve spent our university days together.

Tsumugi: … That being said, Director, would you like to try an etude set in a university with me next time?

Tsumugi: I’d really appreciate your help with my role building.

Chat: Juza Hyodo 

Juza: The Winter Troupe’s sequel performance is comin’ up, isn’t it? How’s practice going?

Tsumugi: We’re discussing all sorts of things during practice. We talked about our hand gestures during conversations today.

Juza: Even small gestures like that are important to convey feelings in Winter Troupe’s plays.

Juza: When I watched your delicate acting during your debut performance, I thought you’ve got somethin’ amazing that I’ll never attain.

Tsumugi: Thanks. But I’m also always amazed by your powerful and cool action moves.

Tsumugi: I got really emotional when I saw how much you had polished your action and acting in the sequel performance.

Juza: Thanks.

Tsumugi: Everyone in the Winter Troupe is also getting better. I get really into it whenever we practice.

Tsumugi: And I think I too can now act in ways I wasn’t able to back during the debut performance.

Tsumugi: It’d be nice if everyone’s improvements could complement each other so we can put on an even better play.

Juza: If anyone can do it, it’s you guys. I’ll be lookin’ forward to it, too.