#we’d have a hundred more writers in our tag | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iam93percentstardust · 4 years ago

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so i want to talk for a minute about why it’s so important that you reblog fics on tumblr (yes, i know there’s a problem with art too but this is specifically about fics today)

first of all, let me kick this off by saying, if you’re reading this, this is for you specifically. yes, you with less than a hundred followers, you with less than ten followers, you with zero followers. there seems to be this misconception that it doesn’t matter if you don’t reblog something because no one will see it and i’m telling you right here, right now, that you’re wrong. it definitely 100% matters and i’m going to tell you why

last month, i reached a follower milestone and was very excited - for about a day and a half and then my excitement plummeted because what i realized was that i had just hit this milestone and yet the number of notes on my fics had never been lower. at first i was baffled. how could i have more followers than ever but be getting less notes than i used to? at the time, i was posting one to two ficlets every day so i thought maybe the quality was decreasing because of how much i was putting out and i just hadn’t noticed so i decided to take a break from posting ficlets and focused on my longer works and the events i was participating in

i went back to posting today after asking for prompts from followers yesterday and go figure, the number of notes is still lower than it was compared to posts from the beginning of the year, even factoring in the time that’s passed since then. so then i thought to check the notes themselves and what i ended up finding was that while the number of likes hadn’t changed, the reblogs had (interestingly, this drop in notes coincided with a post making the rounds telling writers to be happy with the silent readers who leave neither likes nor reblogs on works but that’s a story for another post)

this is when i went to a couple friends to complain that i didn’t know what i was doing wrong and made an off-hand comment about wondering if people were seeing all these posts begging for people to reblog and just not thinking it applied to them, which is when may - thank you, may - told me that yeah, that’s exactly what a lot of blogs think so let me tell you why it does actually matter that you reblog, even if you don’t think it does

firstly, as it relates just to the author, when you reblog, you’re telling the author that not only did you like their story, but you want to share it with everyone else too. i don’t know an author out there who doesn’t go through the reblogs and read the tags and i can pretty much guarantee that we all get that warm, fuzzy feeling when someone leaves a particularly nice tag

there are two common arguments that i hear for this point: what if i like something cringey and why does it matter if i reblog something when i don’t have any followers to share it with?

as for the first argument, no media is unproblematic and no media is something that everyone will consider non-cringey. there’s always going to be someone out there who thinks your chosen fandom is cringey and it’s best to realize that now and get over it. you can’t please everyone. besides, it’s your blog. why wouldn’t you want to post things you like on your blog?

as for the second argument, if it’s not enough for you that even just the act of wanting to share fics means something to the authors, then let me bring you to my second point: fandom is built on active, not passive, participation

we’ve all heard stories about the star trek fans who actively passed paper copies of fic around to share it with people. fandom was built on sharing those fics. friendships were built on sharing those fics. and if those fans had taken the fics they wrote and hidden them away, shared them with only a couple friends and told them not to distribute their works, modern fandom as it is today wouldn’t exist. we’d still be hiding our fics, hoping that we don’t get the all-terrifying dmca notice

along the same lines, tumblr is built on active participation. every couple of months, it seems like tumblr comes out with a new way to make it harder for content creators to share their stuff: the 2018 nsfk ban, shadow-banning, problems with the read more, and recently not being able to put links in your work if you want it to show up in the tags. all of this means that it’s up to us to keep fandom on tumblr going because tumblr isn’t going to do it for us

tumblr’s algorithm, unlike just about every other social media site, is designed around reblogs. this, in many ways, makes sense. tumblr is a blogging platform so of course its algorithm is designed around what gets shared. this means that posts that show up in the tags are the ones that get reblogged. the posts that show up in the On Your Dashboard, What You Missed, and Recommended features are all the ones that get reblogged. the posts that show up on the login screen, for those of you who regularly see it, are the ones that get, you guessed it, reblogged

so what that means is that, even though you might have only a couple or even no followers, your reblog counts toward that algorithm and that post gets bumped a little bit higher in the tag

which is why it’s such a big problem when people stop reblogging. i can’t tell you how many times i’ve seen a tag saying something along the lines of “wow this is so good, why doesn’t it have more notes?” well, typically it’s because anywhere between 2/3 and 3/4 of the notes on that post are likes, which means that tumblr’s algorithm counted my fic as worthless and didn’t bother promoting it

which leaves me where i currently am: reblogging my own ficlets over and over in the hopes that someone will like it enough to reblog it, tagging it with something as pleading as “if you like please consider reblogging” because if i use anything stronger, i get a whole bunch of people telling me that i can’t tell people what to post

no, you’re right, i can’t tell you what to post. the most i can do is beg and explain yet again why every reblog counts

#fandom #i'm so tired guys #we have this argument all the time #and it just goes round and round in circles #long post

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fox-bright · 3 years ago

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A note for all the people who started writing in 2020, and are submitting stories now:

I’m a submissions editor (that is, I read slush) for a fairly well-known SF magazine, and in this read period I am noticing a considerably higher-than-usual percentage of manuscripts that are rejected for severe grammatical errors. When I mentioned this on a writing forum, I received a number of comments and PMs from writers who were surprised that I don’t “just fix the errors.” I’ve realized that it’s likely a lot of people don’t really know what a submissions editor does, or what happens to their short story after it’s submitted.

I’m not the magazine editor. I don’t get to send you the fun email that says “We’d like to buy your story!” and at no point do I have any place tinkering with your story at all. It’s not my place to correct errors.

I’m a filter. It is my job to take twenty stories and find one good one out of them to send on to the magazine editors. The other nineteen get rejected. I take stories, one after the other, from the submissions pile and I read through them until I hit a place where I say “No, this one doesn’t work” and I send a rejection letter. If the writer is skilled, I get to the end of the story without hitting that point, and I go “Huh!” and I set it aside for a day. I sleep on it. I go back and read it again, and if I get to the end and go “This is pretty great!” I send it on to the magazine editors, who do the next round of the process. If I am myself very lucky, I start reading a story and immediately forget that I’m looking for reasons to reject it. I am consumed by the drive to finish it, and I immediately send it on.

The second-to-last category is, as I said, composed of about one in twenty stories. The last category? That’s rare. One in a hundred, maybe. Maybe one in twice that many.

It is a lot more likely that I pull a story, open it up, get two or three double-spaced pages in, sigh, tab back to the submissions page and hit the “send rejection” button.

There are a lot of reasons that a story might not make it past me. There’s the basic stuff (does it meet submission guidelines? Is the format correct? Is there a cover letter with the necessary information about the writer? Is it in English? Is it a short story, not a novella, a novel, song lyrics, poetry, or a picture book?) and then we move on through grammar, readability, originality of concept (is it a fiftieth story about sex robots?), genre fit (we don’t publish non-fantastic westerns, or noir, or gonzo horror slasher stories, for instance, even if they’re very well-written), and increasingly arcane, specific things that any particular magazine is looking for. Those specific things differ, from publication to publication; there are good markets that want that gonzo horror robot porn western, for instance.

But the thing is, I can’t even get to looking at all of that top-level stuff if trying to get through your grammar and spelling is like stubbing my toe on concrete every other step.

There’s a tag on Archive Of Our Own that sees pretty common use, variations of “No Beta, We Die Like Men!” meaning that the chapter went up without ever getting a second set of eyes on it. Nobody checked it over for grammar, spelling, cultural accuracy, et cetera. And for fanfic, that’s often fine. You are (by law) not trying to sell your fic, and you’re giving it to readers who generally already know the setting, the characters, the premise of the original work that the fic is based on. Other writers have done all of that trailblazing for the fic author. So if a fic has bad grammar, or weak characterization, or any of the other flaws common to new, casual writers, it’s not such a big deal; we already have a strong construct in our heads that we’re projecting the fic onto. We want to read good fic, but even mediocre fic can have something satisfying about it.

With original fiction, all the work is being done by the writer right then. There aren’t thirty TV episodes, a hundred hours of video games, forty volumes of manga sitting in the reader’s head already waiting for your story to join them. This means that every little thing, every word, is important. Every piece of grammar. Every clue about characterization. You’re building it all in front of us and if it’s nothing but dialogue then we can’t understand your setting, and if it’s nothing but ponderous worldbuilding, we’ll never come to be interested in your characters. And if there are fifteen grammatical errors on a page, it’s too distracting to immerse ourselves in any of it.

I don’t think that most submissions editors like rejecting stories. I think that all of us, who love reading and the craft of storytelling, would much prefer that when we pull your story from the submission pile, it grabs us by the throat. But we have to reject the ones that still need work.

You don’t want to submit a story that needs more work. You want to submit the absolute best thing that you can write.

So if you’re new to submitting stories, particularly to professional markets, I highly recommend that you get a second set of eyes on it before sending it on to me or any other slush reader who will have to bounce it for the sixth dangling participle in two pages. Have a hyperfluent, passionate reader friend go over it for you in exchange for a pizza. Get in with a writing group (there are a lot online!).

And if you don’t have access to anyone else who can help, I suggest that you take the story and you put it in a box for a month or three. Come back to it with fresh eyes after leaving it entirely alone for a few weeks, and read it out loud. Record what you read, and then listen to it! A lot of the mistakes should pop out into sharp visibility.

#writing #fiction #publishing #my actual life

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miraclesabound · 3 years ago

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Writer Wednesday - Prelude

Summary: Ezra and Daniella Vane have to take in their niece after Damon dies in the field. Luckily, they’re the Borrowers at a particularly cozy cabin.

Pairings and Characters: Borrowers!Ezra/OC (Damon’s cousin), Borrower!Cee, Borrower!Two

Notes: I mentioned an idea for a Borrowers AU to @writeforfandoms ages ago, and I realized this would be a perfect way to kick it off. If people are interested in further items, please let me know! I’m going to need to reformat my tag list soon anyway. This version of the AU is based on “The Secret World of Arrietty” by Studio Ghibli.

Warnings: Death from a bird attack, significant peril. It’s a dangerous world when the adults of the family are only five inches tall.

Current part O Next part

Tags: @autumnleaves1991-blog, @direnightshade, @glassbxttless, @clydesducktape, @daydreamsofren, @finn-ray-nal-beads, @morby, @candycanes19, @desiraypark, @trelaney, @formerly-anonhamster, @thepilotanon, @mariesackler, @sacklerscumrag, @clumsycopy, @contesa-lui-alucard, @millenialcatlady, @jynzandtonic, @clydesfavoritegirl, @sacklersdoll, @barbers-glimmerin-darlin, @roanniom, @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather, @hopeamarsu, @tropicalchiaa, @cinewhore, @auty-ren, @mazeltovcocktail555, @foxilayde, @signorinapsicologia, @flightlessangelwings, @leatherboundriot, @caillea, @darklingveracruz

Ezra and Daniella Vane knew they had told Two he could visit any time, but they were still caught off guard when they heard him knock on their door late one foggy autumn afternoon. As Borrower dwellings went, theirs wasn’t easy to get to. They lived in the eaves near the chimney and weather vane of an old cabin - any visitors had to take a hidden internal staircase to get to their door. What could possibly be so important that Two hadn’t sent word ahead?

Ezra was the one to open the door to the taller Borrower. “Two, it’s nearing sunset, what’s happened? I - Oh.”

Daniella heard the slight shock in her husband’s voice, and got up from her chair, her long black braided hair swinging behind her. “Ezra, is something wrong?”

“Our compatriot isn’t alone, my love,” Ezra called back. “Will you start some tea?” He stood out of Two’s way, and Two came through the door. The taller man was carrying a young blonde Borrower who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. Ezra would have offered to help, but with his right arm gone, he knew he wouldn’t be able to carry the girl’s weight.

Daniella had no such concern, and after she put the kettle on, she helped Two put the girl down on a couch. The teenager was conscious, but obviously exhausted. Ezra locked the door behind him, and tapped the young stranger on her shoulder. “Do you have a name, birdie?”

The girl looked at him in confusion. “Uncle Ezra, it’s me, Cee...”

The recognition hit both Ezra and Daniella, and Daniella pulled Cee into a hug, crowding the slender girl with her own thick frame. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, we haven’t seen you since you were five! Goodness, you’ve grown so much...” She looked around, but saw no sign of her cousin, Cee’s father. “Sweetie...where is Damon?”

Cee started crying, and the grown-ups decided to hold the question until after she had gotten some food and sleep. The story came out the next morning, and it was worse than the Vanes had feared. Two had heard this already, so he set out immediately after breakfast.

“It was a run we’d made a hundred times,” Cee said. “We were low on food, so we left our burrow to go get some berries and nuts. Dad had always said to me to be extra careful, but this time he didn’t take his own advice.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why he was so interested in digging for gems all of a sudden; he’d always told me that with where we live, the birds will catch sight of anything shiny and attack.”

“That’s true,” Ezra said. “It’s why I gave up “wild” borrowing before you were born. Human beans at least share our language - birds and other such beasts are incommunicable.” He pointed to his empty sleeve. “You can imagine how I found that out.” And frankly, he thought to himself, I don’t know what Damon was thinking doing wild work while he still had Cee to take care of. The gem fever must have really taken him.

Cee shuddered. “He seemed possessed - and he was muttering something about “no more burrow” as he dug. I saw the bird diving and tried to warn him, but it was too late.” Her eyes welled up with tears again. “There wasn’t anything left of him to bury...”

Daniella pulled her niece into her arms and rubbed soothing circles into her back. “You did the right thing coming here, sweetie - but you must have been walking for days.”

“I did,” Cee said. “Dad had always told me that if something happened to him, I needed to take a hundred thousand steps to the west, and I would get here. I lost count after three cycles - thankfully, Two found me. He carried me all the way across the lawn from the forest edge and up the stairs.”

“Someone remind me to borrow a bit of tobacco and sugar to repay Two for his efforts,” Ezra said, and Daniella nodded. He squeezed Cee’s shoulder. “When you’re feeling better, I want to take you on a tour of this house - and also, I want you to meet the human bean who lives here.”

Cee stared at Ezra as if he’d just grown his arm back. “Meet?? I thought we were never supposed to actually be seen by beans!”

“He’s different,” Daniella explained. “He’s never bothered us, and I think he likes the company, living out here alone. His name is Din.”

#writer wednesday #ezra x you #prospect fanfiction #borrowers au #tw: death #tw: animal attack #the family vane

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managingmymuse · 3 years ago

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employment

for writer's month day 2: coffeeshop AU

(original work, time-traveler universe)

No one in my family had ever really had a job.

We worked, of course. Running the farm was an entire summer's worth of back-breaking labor. Our portion of the homestead, too, required a lot of work to keep and maintain. When we were away, in another town or another century, we took on odd jobs to keep ourselves fed. In the pre-industrial age, my mother and sister and I took on laundry and mending, while my brother and my father hired themselves out as hands. Sometimes we'd stay for a week, other times for a whole season, but no matter where or when we were, there was always work to be found.

But that was the pre-industrial age. I was beginning to discover that the twentieth century was a lot harder to work around.

"Do you have your social security card?" the woman behind the counter asked.

I was standing in the pleasantly blank hallways of a large department store. The carpet was a dingy peach, and the walls had a magic-eye-like pattern to them. The faint sounds of classical music drifted through the air, piped in from a speaker that I hadn't yet been able to locate.

I shifted uneasily on my feet. "My what?"

"Your social security card," she said. "It's a blue card about this big." She held up her thumb and forefingers about three inches apart. "It's a government document."

"I don't think I have one," I said slowly.

The woman behind the counter popped her gum. "Sure you do. Everyone has one. It's probably at your parents' house."

"Right," I said, already thinking of how I could lay my hands on someone else's. "Can I call them and get back to you?"

"You sure can." The woman blew another bubble and removed the clipboard containing my half filled out job application. "You don't need to start today, do you?"

"I can't start without the card?" I asked. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said. She gave me a sympathetic smile. "It's corporate policy. We get in big trouble if we hire you without it. But don't worry, we've got tons of available positions. Come back with it by next week, and we'll start you on the floor. Okay?"

I pressed my hands flat against the counter, struggling to take deep breaths. "I don't think I'm going to be able to get the card that fast," I said. "My parents... they live out of state."

"They haven't lost it, have they?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea."

The woman stared at me over the counter. Her jaw worked furiously, but her eyes held sympathy. "You can always write to the records office where you were born if your mom can't find it," she said. "Though that's going to take longer."

"I really need this job," I said. "I can't... I don't know if I can wait a week.

The woman tilted her head to the side. I don't know if she sensed my desperation or not, but she must have felt bad for me, because she pressed up on her toes, looking out into the empty hall behind me before rummaging around on the counter for a piece of paper.

"Okay," she said. "You didn't hear this from me, but I've got a friend in town. Her name's Sherri. She owns a little place down by the university. Java and Jams. You ever heard of it?"

I shook my head, and the woman wrote down an address. "Sherri's got a bit of a bleeding heart. You tell her you've got no papers, and she'll probably take you on."

"You think she has a job for me?"

"Fall term is set to start in another week," the woman said. "I know she's got a job from you." She smiled brightly. "Tell her Karen sent you."

"Karen," I said.

She pointed to her name tag and smiled again. "That's right. You take care now, dear. And if you do get your card and you still want to a job, well, give me a call."

She extended a card to me along with the paper she'd written the address on.

"I... thank you," I said.

"No trouble," she said.

Behind me, the sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of someone else. Karen straightened up, smoothing her vest down over her shirt. "Well, miss, if that will be all?"

I glanced at the corner, and a man, heavy-set and wearing a thick tie, came into view. Karen's manager, if the squinty look in his eye and his name badge was to believed. "Thanks for your help," I said, before disappearing down the crowded aisles of the store.

It was a forty minute walk from the mall to the university district in the center of town. On an ordinary day, I would have hated it. But today it gave me some time to think.

Some time to think about how screwed I was, that is. I'd been in the 1985 for three days now, and already my supply of emergency rations was running dry. I hadn't planned to come here, so I didn't have any kind of modern currency on my person. Before my jump, I'd been in pre-colonial America, and the things the Iroquois had traded-- corn and squash and tobacco-- wouldn't get me anything here.

(Also, they were precious difficult to carry; say what you will about the modern capitalist economy, but it did make emergency funds easy to carry around).

I'd lucked into a place to stay, an apartment that was, blessedly, vacant. But if the calendar on the wall was to be believed, the professors that lived there would be coming back, and soon. I had to find a new place to stay, and enough money to buy it with. Not to mention a little extra to buy some food to eat.

My stomach rumbled even as I thought about it, and the sound tempted me to just jump home. To find a nice, shadowy alleyway, cross my fingers, and jump. But even as my stomach begged me to do it, my mind pulled back on the idea.

It wasn't that I didn't have the juice for it; after three days' rest, I had the stamina to jump back five hundred years at least, let alone a paltry one hundred. But the last time I'd jumped, Micah had found me. Not after an hour or a day or a week, but immediately. Within moments of my arrival.

I supposed I was lucky he hadn't turned up here. That I hadn't turned a corner and run smack into him. But even though I was in the clear-- for now-- I couldn't help but worry that by jumping to the Homestead, I was endangering everyone within it. Turning our only safe haven into a trap we couldn't escape.

A shiver rolled down my spine, even in the afternoon spine. I'd jumped with with Micah literally on top of me that last time. His knee had held me down while his hands wrapped around my neck. If I'd been anyone else-- my brother, or my mother, even -- I'd be dead now. I would have been too drained from the last jump to jump away.

But I was a freak among freaks. Damaged almost too far for repair. I screamed and kicked and fought, and somehow I drew in just enough air to pull it down into my middle. To speak the words to send me away.

I hadn't been terribly concerned with where at the time. I certainly hadn't been thinking of 1985. But apparently my subconscious was ready for hair bands and spandex, because here I was.

It wasn't a bad place to be, I told myself, as I turned onto the coffee shop's street. It could have been worse.

The coffee shop was tucked away in a Tudor-style building that looked more like a home than a shop. Though it stood on a relatively busy street, it had a front garden fit for the suburbs. Wildflowers grew in great plumes on either side of the walk. A sign hanging from a wooden post in the yard read "Java and Jams."

I sighed and started for the door.

At nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, the place was almost empty. A man sat behind a bistro table in a corner reading a book and nursing a cup of coffee. A woman with frizzy red hair in a bun swept the floor in the middle of the room.

She looked up when I entered and set the broom down. "Need an afternoon pick me up?" she asked. "Today's special is the Colombian blend."

I wrinkled my nose. "No, no thank you. Are you Sherri?"

She wiped her hands on her apron, red and splattered with what looked like foam. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Allison," I said, putting a hand over her chest. "Karen sent me. From the mall."

Sherri tilted her head to the side, and the resemblance between the women instantly resolved itself. Sisters. They were sisters. "You looking for a job?"

"If you're hiring," I said. "I didn't see a sign."

"I don't advertise much," Sherri said. She sighed and moved behind the counter. "What was wrong with the mall? Don't you want to work in that over air-conditioned tundra?"

I risked a smile and stepped closer. "Karen said she would hire me if I came back with my social security card," I said. "But I... I don't think I have one."

Sherri's eyes flashed wide in alarm. She glanced over my shoulder at the man in the corner. He was still deeply absorbed in his book. "Well then. Have you ever worked in a coffee shop before?"

I suspected that doling out cups to hungry miners in California didn't count. "I've done some food service before with my family," I said. "But not coffee."

"Well." Sherri sucked on her teeth, looking me up and down. She must have decided something, because she nodded once, fiercely. "You seem a good sort. I can give you a try. We can fit in two weeks of training before the poets come back."

"The poets?" I asked.

Sherri's lips spread into a broad, genuine smile. "That's who mostly comes in here, in the first weeks of term. It's poets and novelists, starving and otherwise. They come to discuss literature and human misery. It's all quite dramatic."

I gaped at her, but the sparkle didn't leave Sherri's eyes. "We'll have college students later in the term, too," she said. "They don't usually show up until they've got midterms, though. Are you at the university?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

Sherri looked at me, thoughtfully. "Well then. Two week trial. Cash okay? We'll do under the table unless you've got a bank."

A sigh of relief bubbled up from my stomach. "Cash is great," I said. "When can I start?"

Sherri untied her apron, pulled it off her neck, and offered it to me. "Right now. There's only an hour until we close up-- summer hours and all that-- but I think I can run you through the basics. Does that work?"

I tied the apron behind my back. "That works," I said. "That works really well."

#writersmonth2021 #writing #my writing #writeblr #fantasy #wip: time travelers

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simana-x · 4 years ago

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Oh yeah, and this is the information page for the BTHB if you’re interested in taking part!

BTHB About Page

Guidelines + Rules

(home ask)

What is this? — Getting Started — How It Works — The Rules — FAQ —

What is this?

This is your motivation to write that fic. Always fun to take prompts when they’re in the form of games you remember from elementary school birthday parties.

You may have seen some bingo cards floating around in the fanfic community. People make a card featuring 24 prompts, and other people will submit a request for one of these prompts to be filled, as well as choosing which character(s) will prominently feature, and occasionally other details as well, depending on the cardholder’s preference. The cardholder then writes the fic and marks it off on the card.

Sounds fun, right? Right.

We all know that some of us are here to get DARK. So, why not make a bingo game focusing on Bad Things?

At this page you will find a list of tropes and scenarios. Currently, there are over four hundred listed. Most are whump-focused, some are more angst, and a few are centered around the ‘comfort’ part of hurt/comfort. Some are fairly general, some are very specific. Some are fairly lighthearted, and some take you right into the heart of Sadism Land.

These are the fics we’ll be writing.

Getting Started

Once you’ve finished reading the rules and FAQ, click on the ‘request a card’ link on the home page or here. This will take you to an application. Let us know the tumblr url you want us to send the card to, and if you want, what fandoms you intend to write for.

Next, you pick your tropes. We’ve got a lot of them, and of course, not everyone would be interested in writing for all of them. Some tropes may not work in the setting you want to write for, some may be difficult to get inspiration for, some may be too dark for you or not dark enough. Go ahead and check off the box next to every trope that you ARE okay with having on your card. You must choose at least 25, so every space on the card has a prompt. (There is no free space; freedom is an illusion.)

There will be a couple of additional questions at the end of the application, then, just submit! Make sure you have your submission box open on your tumblr, with the option to submit a photo, so that we can send you your bingo card. If your submission box is not open, you will not receive a card.

How It Works

When you receive your bingo card, you can start writing! You can write at your own pace and in your own time frame. Go ahead and post your bingo card if you’re making the fics available to your followers, and don’t forget to keep track of which spaces you’ve completed! Doesn’t have to be anything fancy; you can use anything from Photoshop to MS Paint to a text post with strikethroughs to track your progress.

For fic bingos, many people like to take prompts from their followers. Someone will send an ask requesting one of the tropes from your card and a character(s) for the fic to focus on. If you’d like, you can also let your followers prompt other details such as which character you want to have hurt and which one should be the comforter, whether it should be romantic or platonic, an AU to set it in, anything at all. Sky’s the limit. However, prompts are not required; you can select which combinations of tropes and characters you want to write and in what order you want to write them on your own.

Once you’ve written a fic, post it! If in your application you gave us permission to reblog your work, we’ll put it right here on this blog to share with other players and readers. Be sure to tag it with #badthingshappenbingo, or @ us in the post, to ensure we see it. Additionally, please tag the trope featured in the fic, and the fandom you wrote it for.

If you cross-post the fic on AO3, we have a badthingshappenbingo collection, which you can find here! Feel free to add your fic to the collection!

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jenetica · 4 years ago

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A Brief Note from Our Sponsors: Us.

Greetings! If you’re here, it’s likely that you have questions or complaints about our decisions regarding the Calendar Girls series. An ominous start to this discussion, but truly, we welcome you! If you’re here, it means you have been emotionally impacted by our work and, even though this context isn’t the cheeriest, we are so, so grateful you (1) enjoyed our work enough to care about it, and (2) want to develop a better understanding of our process so that you can engage with Calendar Girl more.

First of all, we understand why you’d be upset with us! The cliffhanger at the end of AotM was a DOOZY and leaves a LOT of important questions unanswered, and we left you readers hanging for a LONG time. This post will, hopefully, assuage the worst of your fears without giving away too many plot points.

That being said, please note that there WILL be spoilers ahead. If you want to see the story unfold as we intended, do NOT read this post further. We will tell you now that the post addresses the Deadpool’s identity, our decisions regarding the construction of AotM and the final cliffhanger, our decisions regarding developing the sequel as a prequel, and our plans for future installments. And, naturally, the accusations of “queerbaiting.”

Let’s get started.

QUEERBAITING

It makes sense to open with the most serious issue, so let’s talk about queerbaiting. For anyone here who doesn’t know, queerbaiting is defined as the purposeful insinuation of a homosexual/queer relationship, only to backtrack/subvert that insinuation to avoid the queer relationship. For an example, see: Supernatural from Season 4 and on.

We have received accusations of queerbaiting for about four years, based exclusively on the reveal at the end of the final chapter. Similarly, we have received complaints that we duped readers into reading hetfic. So, to get things out of the way, yes, Deadpool is Gwen. No, it’s not a trick of the light, or a mistake, or some odd resemblance. They are one and the same. HOWEVER, that does NOT mean that we have queerbaited anyone.

First of all, the tags of the story are honest, and they always have been. AotM is tagged as a “Multi” fic, meaning that there are relationships of multiple orientations involved, and it is tagged with Peter/Gwen as well as Peter/Wade. Careless Whisper is tagged as F/M. We have never suggested or implied that the story would exclusively be slash fiction. We actually left multiple hints that Wade enjoyed femininity, at least as a practice, if not an identity. iFlail and I discussed this issue at length as we wrote/edited AotM and carefully crafted the story with queerbaiting in mind.

Peter is an unreliable narrator, he always has been, and he always will be. In AotM, Peter assumes Wade is a man and thus, for the purposes of the narrative, Wade is one. The truth, however, is less clean than that. We won’t get into the details here, but safe to say, gender is not binary, it is not permanent, and it is not inexorably linked to one’s biology. Wade has a complicated history and a complicated/unique sense of identity. We have always intended for him to be that way, just as we always intended for him to be notably, pointedly smaller than Peter.

The accusations of queerbaiting and/or conning readers into reading “het” fic are exclusionary of the greater conversation of gender identity. It was, frankly, disheartening to see so many people assume heterosexuality based exclusively on the last word of AotM. We hope that our work will challenge readers to be more mindful of the expansive world of gender, and to avoid assuming that a specific kind of pairing might involve specific kinds of body parts.

If you have any questions or reservations about our queerbaiting at this point, you are either welcome to keep reading future installments of this work to learn more, or you are welcome to stop altogether. The choice is yours.

CONSTRUCTING THE STORY ARC - PRESENT, PAST, AND FUTURE

With that hot-button topic out of the way, let’s talk about the greater concept of ending a story of a cliffhanger, our thoughts behind building this series, and our goals for future installments.

The second part of the Calendar Girl series, Careless Whisper, was written first, and it comes first chronologically. I (Jenetica) initially worked on the story by myself, as an exploration into the concept of “Gwen becoming Deadpool” to see how it might play out. I ended up writing a story I loved, so I moved onto the next part of the story, set four years later. This ended up becoming Angel of the Morning.

@iflailfic, a good IRL friend of mine from college, came onboard (after I wooed her with several stories worth of porn, as you can see through a jaunt through my posted works) to help me edit. She fell in love with AotM and, as we worked on first draft edits, she floated the idea of AotM coming before Careless Whisper. Honestly, I rejected the idea at first (not sure if she actually knows/remembers that part, lol), because I couldn’t fathom how we would be able to link the parts of the story together. But, eventually, I began to realize her point: AotM introduces our protagonists, develops the “current” world for the series, and has a more dynamic/engaging plot.

The cliffhanger was a joke at first. My idea. I think my exact words were something like, “LOLOL what if we just ended on ‘GWEN?’ OMG IMAGINE hahahahaha.” But, as we continued to edit… it became the perfect way to end things. Anything that came after that point felt like trash. If we’d expanded any further, we ran the risk of falling headfirst into Part 3 and doubling the size of AotM. Let’s be real, the ending is, all waiting aside, an absolute nuclear bomb on the rest of the story.

We talked about the likelihood of enraged readers. But we rationalized it by telling each other/ourselves that we had Careless Whisper written, so the wait wouldn’t be too killer.

Best laid plans.

I (Jenetica) take full responsibility for the time it took to start posting again. Over the last four years, I have gone through a number of experiences that challenged my sense of self and pushed me to become a different person, including moving halfway across the country, attending a relatively prestigious law school where I was no longer “the smart kid in the room,” and losing the relationship that I later learned was toxic and abusive. I lost my confidence in a number of ways, including my confidence as a writer. I became terrified that I would never produce anything that lived up to AotM, and that I would disappoint the many (many!) readers demanding answers. Luckily for me, through that adversity I found rewarding friendships, a beautiful partner who treats me the way I’d always fantasized/written about people like me getting treated, and an engaging career that leaves me with enough energy to write. My experiences are mirrored by iFlail, who went through a different, but similarly life-changing, series of events. But through this all, we never lost hope in this story, and we always planned to complete the series. We are wiser, stronger people now, and we both believe that the story will be richer for it.

Which brings us to now, and our plans for the future. We do NOT intend to wait another four years to post X Gon’ Give It To Ya, the third and final installment of the series. We have spent countless hours brainstorming the plot, and all that’s really left to do is put it to paper. But, for people who are afraid of being burned twice, we will warn you now that Careless Whisper is JUST a prequel. If you want to know what happens after the “Gwen?” reveal, you will not get any answers until XGGITY (which I have, as of just now, decided to pronounce as “Ziggity”). We hope you stick around to watch Careless Whisper unfold, but we will understand if you want to wait until XGGITY to start reading again.

IN CONCLUSION - FINAL THOUGHTS

The Calendar Girl series has received more attention than we’d ever dreamed, and regardless of whether you liked or disliked our work, we want to thank you for taking the time to read it. If you made it to the end of AotM, we did something right, and again, we are so grateful that so many people have stuck with us this far.

We encourage everyone, moving forward, to keep a close eye on the tags that we use for our stories. We may not tag everything relevant, for the sake of preserving mystery about the plot, but we will be sure to tag everything that may be triggering or concerning, like self-harm, violence, or expected brand of romantic/sexual interactions. We will be adding this warning to the beginning of each story in the series.

Additionally, we want to acknowledge that there is a stark difference between legitimate concerns about the story and unfounded attacks on our character. Our decision to make this post is our attempt to dissuade the latter: We are not queerbaiting, and we have no interest in “forcing” people to read content that is not to their taste. However, that doesn’t mean that our execution of AotM, Careless Whisper, and/or XGGITY will be beyond reproach. The conversation on gender politics has evolved tremendously over the years that we’ve been working on this series, and it will undoubtedly continue to evolve as we progress into the future. We encourage constructive (!!!) criticism and open conversation on ways that we can improve our story, even if it involves tweaking published work to avoid mishandling deeply personal issues.

That said, if, after reading this post, you are still upset and/or unconvinced about our intentions for this series, we encourage you to stop reading it. We are not compensated for this work, and we have spent hundreds (probably thousands, by now) of hours striving to make the Calendar Girl series the best that it can be, for our own benefit. We believe that it may be the best fanfiction we will ever produce, and our satisfaction with our work is our priority. We will continue to post with that priority at the forefront, and with the demands of our reader base playing second fiddle. Similarly, we expect our readers to prioritize their needs above all others. We ask for your patience and your kindness moving forward and, if you cannot give us that, you are welcome to close the tab and move on with your life to other ventures that suit your interests better.

For those of you that choose to stay: You are in for a hell of a ride. We are both anxious to get through Careless Whisper, because we are both SO excited to share XGGITY with you. We believe it’s going to knock your socks off. We hope to see you there.

Thanks, everyone, and happy reading!

#angel of the morning #calendar girl #spideypool #hashtags

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junie-bugg · 4 years ago

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The Heartrender - Chapter Two: Embers

Hey everyone!

Here’s chapter two, in which a truce is struck, crude jokes are made, and we learn more of Peeta’s childhood.

You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3 (I suggest reading on AO3 because I add a poem at the beginning of each chapter that I feel fits nicely with the story’s themes or the chapter’s plot.)

Big shoutout to my beta reader @nonbinarypeeta. You da best music💕

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows

Summary:

He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.

After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

ALSO, I made a map! Yes, I am that level of writer nerd. (If you look closely, there’s a little Hunger Game’s reference in there. Let me know if you see it, lmaooo.)

Chapter Two: Embers

His commander had gone into the city for the night, leaving the crew on standby at the docks. Their ship, lovingly named The Bloody Rose, needed tending and Peeta, an exhausted soldier running on three hours of sleep, needed a drink. He longed for a pint of proper ale. Not the bitter swill that the ship’s cook had distilled.

A chilled autumn wind whistled through the harbor, jostling netted shrouds and furled sails. The white and blue flag of Sjorkden snapped proudly above the crow’s nest where Thomas Jaclin quietly kept watch. There was a muted hush about the night, as if the world were holding its breath in anticipation, knowing something was about to happen. At this point, with his chores done and nothing left for him to do except lose another round of cards or go off to bed, Peeta wished something would.

He was nursing a cup of moonshine and chatting with his friend, Yasser Pjengo, when they heard the sounds of a scuffle. He and Yasser crossed the deck and looked down onto the dock that the ship was moored to.

There, struggling to drag someone up the gangplank, was the commander.

“Commander on deck!” Peeta announced with all the authority he could muster, hoping his voice carried down to the lower levels to rouse the men from their games. Peeta had only recently been promoted to lieutenant, and he was going to prove he deserved it. He felt a rush of pride swell within him when the crew emerged from their sleeping quarters, blinking both the mist of alcohol and the gleam of gambling from their eyes.

Commander Snow was of medium height with a thick beard and hard blue eyes. Though the hairs at his temples were gray, the way he carried himself was young. He spoke softly but commanded the kind of respect that caused listeners to lean in and catch every word. He now dragged a young girl with him onto the ship. Her red dress was torn and low cut, revealing the hollow between her breasts. A few strands of hair had been pulled from a tar-black braid to hang limply in front of her face. She had a blooming bruise on her jaw and a cut above her eye but otherwise seemed unharmed.

“Men! Say hello to our newest addition. From what I’ve seen so far, she’s sure to be a feisty one.”

Some of the crew had laughed and hooted, including Peeta, but the girl snarled as she twisted and spat in the commander’s face. In return he sent a heavy punch to her gut, causing her to whimper and double over in pain.

“I have to warn you all. This here is no ordinary witch. She’s a Heartrender.”

Peeta sucked in a breath and felt a chill pass through the assembled crew like a breeze passes through dead grass.

“A Heartrender…”

“One of her kind cursed my uncle. Turned his feet backward.”

“I heard they could snap your neck with a flick of a finger.”

“They don’t just stop hearts. They cut them out and eat them.”

Peeta had heard of Krellian Heartrenders. The rarest of the witches, Heartrenders could use their magic to manipulate bodies: peel the flesh from bone, collapse lungs, knot intestines, burst eyes in their sockets. He could only imagine what she would unleash upon them if her hands weren’t locked into those metal hand caps.

Snow cleared his throat to quiet the men. A hush fell over the deck.

“I see you’ve all heard the stories. If you let her out of those shackles, we’re all dead. I want at least one guard on her at all times.” His eyes shifted to Peeta in the front row. “Mellark, you take the first watch. Gerholt will take over at midnight, then Dawson, then Pjengo. This will be a rotating schedule. You’ll all get a chance with her before this voyage is over.” He twisted her arm, throwing her into the semicircle that Peeta and the crew had formed around them. She collapsed onto her stomach, a wilted heap of red dress and chains. “Now get her out of my sight.”

Peeta and a few others bent down to lift her up as the commander retired to his quarters, but she swung out her arms to ward them off.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat in Krellian.

“Get up and walk or I’ll drag you, witch. Your choice,” Peeta growled. His accent was thick, but he knew by the way her nostrils flared that she’d understood him.

She stayed crouched on the ground, her metal covered hands in her lap.

Peeta’s anger erupted.

“Fine,” he snapped. He wrenched her off the floor, threw her over his shoulder, and listened to her screams the entire way down to the brig.

During their slumber, the witch had commandeered his arm.

She lay sound asleep, his bicep propped under her cheek like a pillow. He only awoke when his hand had gone numb, the blood trapped, circling and pricking within his fingers like a swarm of wasps scrabbling to get out from under his skin. He watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the pulse that fluttered at her temple. She looked peaceful. Almost innocent. But he knew what she was really capable of.

Her head smacked the ground with a dull thud when he took his arm back.

“Ow!”

The witch glared at him as he massaged the feeling back into his palm. She made it a point to rub the tender spot on her head dramatically so that he’d feel bad.

It didn’t work.

“Get up,” he rumbled.

The witch turned over and curled in on herself. “Five more minutes.”

He rose from the nest of furs, grabbing one and wrapping it around his waist to cover his nakedness, then moved to sweep the curtain out of the doorway. From the watery yellow sun high in the sky, he determined it was noon.

“Get up,” he growled again, injecting more anger into his tone. “We need to keep moving.”

“Why? We found shelter,” the furry lump on the ground said.

“If we want to find civilization we’re going to have to move. We need to get home as soon as possible.”

She turned on her side and rested her head in her hand. Her eyes gleamed like freshly polished silver in the light pouring past the curtain. “You’re letting me go home?”

“I meant my home,” he corrected, allowing the curtain to fall and shrouding them in dusk-like darkness once more.

There was a tense moment where both knew the time to act was upon them. Either kill the other or let them live. Both were risks. If Peeta killed the Heartrender, he’d be left to fend for himself. There’d be no magic to keep his blood warm. But if he hesitated and let her live in the hopes that he could return her to Sjorkden and have her tried for witchcraft, there was a chance she’d kill him down the line. It would be so easy to reach out and crush her windpipe, deaden those bright eyes, neutralize the threat. She may have magic but she couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. Peeta had height, strength, and military training on his side. He was arrogant enough to assume the odds were in his favor.

He thought she was thinking along the same lines because she eyed his muscles warily. He was broad-shouldered and obscenely muscular, the product of a decade doing hard physical training at the academy. She couldn’t crush his heart if he lashed out and stalled her hands first. He may be heavy but he was surprisingly quick. After all, he hadn’t become a witcher for nothing.

She pursed her lips as if considering something. “I think we’d both sleep better at night if we made a truce.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Your word is as valuable as a campfire is to a fish.”

She scowled slightly, a deep line forming between her furrowed brows. “This isn’t a promise that I’ll never harm you, just as I know you won’t agree to never harm me. You are a witch hunter after all. Bloodshed is your life. But let’s make a pact that until we make it out of this, we help each other.” She paused a beat and looked away as if ashamed. “After that, all bets are off.”

Peeta had nodded, but this truce didn’t mean he trusted her to stick to it. In fact, it made him even more suspicious of her. What kind of demon agreed to the drawing out her own demise? He thought her gamble unwise and surmised she had some angle to play against him. He’d have to be especially careful from here on out.

They faced away from each other and put their clothes on quietly. She still wore the red dress, the one from The Bloody Rose. It looked looser on her now, but the sleeves were elegant, poufed at the shoulders, and fitted down to the wrists. The skirt was still full, even after she had spent so much time sitting in her cell and thrashing about in the sea. She would have looked ready for a party if the dress wasn’t so dirty and torn.

She caught him watching her and winked. “Like what you see?” She twirled and the skirt flared like the petals of a blooming rose, twisting and shimmering in the low light.

Peeta grunted as he did the last button on his dusky blue jacket. His undershirt was still damp against his skin. “It doesn’t fit you where it counts.” He gestured towards her breasts.

She had snorted then, happily surprised he was loosening up.

They set out with empty hands, only having the clothes on their backs and the furs wrapped around their shoulders. The witch had taken a liking to the black one. She stroked it between her thumb and forefinger like a child would clutch to a blanket for comfort.

The briny scent of the sea permeated the air and even so high up as they were on the cliffside, Peeta felt the fine spray of the waves collect on his cheeks. The constant rushing of wind blew his hair back and whipped the fur about his shoulders.

They had been walking for hours when the witch asked, “What do you miss most about home?”

Peeta wished they could just be quiet.

“A bed to myself.”

“Right,” the witch crowed wickedly. “I can feel how much you hate sleeping next to me. I felt it pressing into my hip last night.”

Peeta’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He had never been with a woman. He was a member of the Order: chaste until he earned his talisman and won the right to choose a wife. For his service to the Order he’d be allowed the hand of a nobleman’s daughter. Pretty, young Sjorkden maidens with hair of palest gold and soft, supple bodies. Daughters of the nation raised in the ways of womanly charm and domestic knowledge, basket weaving and child-rearing, dancing and singing and carving.

He had been dreaming of what his future wife would look like, what their first carnal encounters would entail, the holy honor in producing a child. As a father, a former witcher, and the husband to a woman with status, he would be granted an official seat on the council of Rjaka. His first solid foothold on the ladder of power. It was a lower rung, but it was a start. If only he could get back to his post and fulfill his service, then he would be given his freedom and permitted to marry.

Those dreams, full of glory, sex, and fatherhood, were the source of his arousal and frustrations, not the witch’s soft skin against his body. Her deep complexion and ebony hair were not of Sjorkden. Her lips were too large, her nose too wide, her body too slender and bony. She looked as if she had spent years scrounging about for meals, with ribs and hips that protruded like sticks in a canvas bag. He liked rounded women with pillowy bosoms, not scrawny little birds.

Or so he told himself.

“Why do you say such lewd things?”

“Because I can. And because I like when you turn red. It does wonders for that pale complexion of yours, valkrӕlla.”

Valkrӕlla.

Barbarian.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You like it,” she teased and continued walking, swaying her hips beneath the cloak of fur clasped at her throat and sweeping a glossy curtain of hair over her shoulder. Even here, in the permafrost fields of the tundra, she still smelled of moss and jasmine, as if the misty forests of Krell dwelled within her pores.

Peeta scowled. He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her.

Not even a little bit.

They walked in the hopes of finding a fishing village, or maybe a trading outpost, somewhere with an inn they could stay at. But as the day dragged on and the sun dipped precariously close to the sea, Peeta started losing hope. The witch stumbled behind him, making her way over embedded boulders and paling tufts of dead brush sticking out from the snowbanks. She squinted against the burning red sunset staining the landscape in bleeding color.

“Maybe we should head back,” she said, though they both knew this wasn’t an option. They were many hours from the whaling camp and turning around now meant they’d just be back at square one, with no food and no fire.

Peeta hadn’t been hungry last night, but his adrenaline had burned off, leaving his body weak and watery. He salivated at the thought of rosemary crusted mutton and boiled potatoes, buttered peas in ceramic crockery, honeyed mead, and angel cake with lemon filling. What he wouldn’t give to be back in the vast stone dining hall of the academy, laughing with Yasser through full mouths of meat and drink. After a feast, all the boys would tell stories in large circles or spar each other for prizes. Peeta had been one of the best hand-to-hand fighters among his peers and as such had accumulated a treasure trove of their makeshift awards. The wishbone of a chicken. A fork with a bent prong. A pearl someone had found in an oyster. When he had tired of winning, he would climb the stone steps to his dormitory and sleep dreamlessly on a goose down mattress. He’d wake to the rising sun and Yasser’s deep snores and know that he’d have a day of training ahead of him. Advanced lessons in combat, weapons handling and upkeep, survival skills, sailing, and instruction on foreign languages. He was a well oiled hunting machine, as he was raised to be by the masters.

But that was the past, a boyhood he would never return to. Peeta was a man now, and nobody was coming to instruct him. He was on his own.

Well, not entirely. He looked back at the witch. Her skin glowed deep bronze in the fading light and her dark hair whipped loosely about her angled face. She caught his eye and winked.

No, he thought grimly. I am not alone.

Peeta had only been seasick once. It had been his first time on a ship, sailing from his birthplace to his new home. As the other boys “oohed” and “aahed” at the gray stone towers of the academy rising up from the mists, Peeta had vomited over the banister.

The others had made fun of him for it. Groups targeted him in the corridors, tripping him or pulling on his hair. Others mocked him, knocked him down hard in training, and then pretended to retch dramatically as he struggled to his feet, fighting to hold back tears. They called him ‘Greenie’, for the color of his skin on that first voyage.

It was better than ‘runt’ but he still resented himself for it, ashamed he had shown weakness. He trained hard after that, alone if he had to. Classes would be over, dinner would be served in the great hall, but the masters would find him in the training rooms practicing his punches on a dummy, or throwing knives, or moving through his stances with a blade. The hours of solitude paid off, and once the students were old enough to compete for rank in the sparring circles, no one came close to Peeta’s brutal technique or raw ferocity.

And after he broke Geoff Tonson’s leg, no one ever called him ‘Greenie’ again.

Peeta climbed down into the bowels of the ship, feeling the slight sway of the ocean lapping against the hull as he descended. The Heartrender had been on board for two weeks now and hadn’t earned her sealegs. He shriveled his nose as he came upon her cell. The acrid scent of vomit filled the compartment.

“Time to switch?” Wilhelm asked from his seat in the corner.

Peeta nodded. He hated guarding the Heartrender. She was in her own cell, isolated from the other witches he and the crew had captured. At least when you guarded the others you could eavesdrop on their conversations. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Wilhelm Larone, a fresh-faced recruit on his first-ever witcher voyage, rose and stretched languidly. He hadn’t been able to grow a full beard, but his top lip held some promising peach fuzz. “I thought a Heartrender would be more entertaining,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling as a thought occurred to him. “Hey!” He rattled her bars. “Lift up your dress.”

The witch slumped in the corner, her skin waxy and coated in a film of sweat. Her hair was matted and oily. She blinked slowly at the wall and ignored Wilhelm’s racket.

He sighed like a disappointed child at the zoo. “I thought the commander said she was feisty.”

“That was before she had vomit on her dress,” Peeta said dryly.

The witch responded to Peeta’s voice, turning her head slightly to watch him between lanky strands of hair. A chill ran down Peeta’s spine at the intensity of her gaze. They hadn’t spoken since the first night when he had thrown her over his shoulder and dragged her into this very cell, but she remembered him.

Peeta tore his eyes away.

Wilhelm had placed his foot on the lowest step, moving to leave when she croaked: “Water.”

“When was the last time she was fed?” Peeta asked.

Wilhelm turned, a confused look on his face. “I don’t know. Ask the commander.”

“At least get her a cup of water before you go to bed. We want to keep her alive for the trial.”

Wilhelm smiled wickedly. “I have a better idea.” He jumped off the stairs and sauntered over to the Heartrender’s cell once more. “You thirsty, witch? Here, drink up.”

Peeta watched in horror as Wilhelm unbuttoned his pants and began pissing through her cell bars. Wilhelm’s eyes, which Peeta thought were too far apart in his head, darted up to the older man’s face. “You owe me two gold pieces if I can get it in her mouth.”

The witch made a strangled sound of disgust and tried to move away, but she was already in the corner. There was nowhere to go and her dress was soon soaked a deeper red.

“That’s enough,” Peeta said, but Wilhelm’s stream only grew stronger. “I said that’s enough!” he barked and shoved Wilhelm away.

In his surprise, Wilhelm sprayed the wall. “Damn, Mellark. It's a joke. Dawson’s right. You are no fun.” He shook the last drops of piss from his cock and then stuffed himself back into his pants. He turned to the witch and winked. “Maybe next time you can drink straight from the source. If you promise not to bite of course.” He then fixed his uniform and lumbered up the stairs. Peeta watched him and his half-mustache go.

“Krą khiăh,” she whispered after the creaking of Wilhelm’s steps faded.

Thank you.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Peeta snapped. “It was unsanitary, and your kind deserves hellfire, not some quiet death on a ship.”

Peeta spent the remainder of the night sitting on the chair in the corner, breathing in the scents of piss and vomit and misery. He hid his annoyance when the witch started sobbing.

But the next time he reported for guard duty, he brought her a cup of water.

#The Heartrender #everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlark fanfic #everlark smut #thg #thg fanfic #Fantasy AU #witch!Katniss #witch-hunter!Peeta #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games

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heauxplesslydevoted · 5 years ago

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Chess Not Checkers

Summary: King Liam and Queen Kendall finally have a meeting with Bradshaw and Isabella to discuss the betrothal treaty.

A/N: The final part of this Fracture trilogy, and probably my favorite one to write. Who knows what the writers have planned for Auvernal’s hostile takeover of Cordonia, but I’m not letting that shit fly not another damn second. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!

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Tags: @senseofduties @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @badchoicesposts @drakewalker04 @canknot @sirbeepsalot @hopefulmoonobject @texaskitten30 @eadanga @the-unconquered-queen @flyawayboo @aestheticartwriting @ao719 @zaffrenotes @kingliam2019 @aworldoffandoms

~v~

“Do not wear a blue tie!” Liam hears his wife yell from their walk-in closet.

Liam drops the tie in his hand and steps away from it, suddenly suspicious. “Why not? Is something wrong with them?

Moments pass and Kendall walks back into their bedroom, slipping on a pair of heels. “Nothing is wrong with your ties. But the color blue brings out your eyes, and we aren’t going for a warm and friendly aura. Wear red. You’ll look bold and commanding.”

Today is the day for their meeting with Bradshaw and Isabella. For the past week, he, Kendall and their group of close friends have been talking and going over plans to get Eleanor out of her betrothal to Bradshaw and Isabella’s son. While Olivia wanted to ambush them and have them killed as soon as they stepped foot in Cordonia, Kendall wanted to be as quick and civil as possible. While she isn’t above starting an international war, she doesn’t want that to be her first option.

Liam decided to step back on this and let Kendall take the lead when it came to dealing with Auvernal. He’s willing to intervene if the need arose, but for now, he is perfectly content with just silently supporting his queen. She has a solid plan of attack, and he’s excited to see everything play out.

“Red it is.”

Kendall finishes putting on her lipstick and drops the tube onto her nightstand, as Liam puts on a deep red tie. He slips on his jacket to complete the look, checking the pockets a few times, and the couple walks out of their private quarters, headed to Liam’s study, a guard a few steps behind, watching from a safe distance. Kendall demanded that they get better security, so they are currently in the process of testing out a few ex-military men and women.

Bastien greets them at the door to the study with a quick bow. “Your Majesties.”

“Hello Bastien. I take it our guests have settled in?” Liam asks.

“Yes, they’ve been in here for about 10 minutes.”

“And they haven’t caused any trouble right?”

Bastien shrugs. “They’re about as well behaved as we can expect them to be. No red flags, sir.”

“Very well.” Liam squeezes his wife’s hand, and she squeezes back. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Bastien steps aside and lets them in. Bradshaw and Isabella are there, Isabella checking her nails, a bored expression on her face, Bradshaw standing at the bar cart, sipping on a glass of scotch. Liam bites down on his tongue in order to prevent himself from berating Bradshaw and calling him a tacky piece of shit for taking it upon himself to get a drink.

Kendall squeezes his hand once more before dropping it. “Bradshaw, Isabella! How was your flight here?”

“Nice. Thanks for sending your jet to get us.”

“No problem.”

“I will say your security detail is extremely...thorough,” Bradshaw continues. “They took all of my wife’s jewelry, all of our electronics. I couldn’t even keep my lucky handkerchief.”

“It’s a new security protocol,” Liam says. “This palace has been through...trying times recently, so we decided to take the necessary precautions. Surely you two understand.”

“Of course!” Isabella says brightly, trying to keep things as light as possible. She looks Kendall up and down, silently appraising the new mother. Kendall looks good, with her dewy skin, long brown hair drawn into a low ponytail and simple black dress. “Kendall, you look amazing! I could barely get out of bed for the first month after having my twins and I looked like a whale, but you’re glowing.”

“Thank you, Queen Isabella.”

“Yeah, you’d think after such a...traumatic birthing experience, you’d be lying low,” Bradshaw adds. “You must be made of steel.”

If the mention of her labor brought up any sort of emotion, Kendall refuses to show it. Liam studies her, and she remains absolutely calm, as if she didn’t hear Bradshaw at all.

“I’m from New York,” Kendall says with a shrug. “We’re tough people. Resilient.”

“I can see.”

“Why don’t we all have a seat?” Liam suggests. “There’s a lot that we have to talk about.”

“First and foremost, congrats on the little bundle of joy!” Isabella says excitedly. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Liam confirms. “Named Eleanor after my late mother.” Isabella coos.

“A little princess! A future queen.” Bradshaw nods approvingly. “Congratulations.”

“Where is the princess?” Isabella asks. “We’d love to officially meet her.”

“She’s with her grandmother right now,” Kendall says. “And she’s only two weeks old, so she’s not accepting visitors at the moment.”

Isabella falters a bit but she quickly recovers. Kendall can tell she wasn’t expecting that as a response. “Very well. I guess we’ll have to meet her at another time.”

“When the rest of the world meets her at her anointing ceremony,” Kendall says, her tone short. “And not a moment sooner.”

“Now, now, Queen Kendall, simmer down,” Bradshaw starts. “You’re mighty tense for someone who’s practically family at this point.”

Kendall reels back, mostly in shock that Bradshaw had the audacity to get so familiar with her. Who the fuck does he think he is?

“The condescending orders may work for you and your marriage, King Bradshaw, but please never again make the foolish mistake of telling my wife what to do, especially in our home,” Liam warns, his jaw getting tense. “And thank you for bringing up this marriage alliance, because it’s the perfect segue.”

“When should we make the announcement?” Isabella asks. “I was thinking we could host a small gathering first, just so the kids get acquainted with each other first. I’m sure Isaac and Lyra will absolutely adore Eleanor.”

“That won’t be happening,” Kendall says with a shake of her head. “But speaking of Isaac and Lyra, I found out some wonderful information not too long ago.” Kendall sits back in her seat, beaming. “You two are married in name only.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me loud and clear, and it’s a pretty straightforward concept to grasp. Bradshaw needed a wife, Isabella was a gold digger and just cunning enough to get what she wanted. Match made in Hell if you ask me. You guys both have people on the side, and you live separate lives.”

Bradshaw is visibly flustered, but after a few tense seconds, he chuckles. “With all due respect, our marriage is none of your concern. And that had nothing to do with our children.”

“Oh, but it is and it does,” Kendall says. “Bradshaw, you don’t appreciate the art of storytelling. I’m building to my point. You guys are married on paper only. Which is fine, live how you want to live. But on my maternity leave, I’ve been doing a lot of reading. And I’ve been particularly fond of Auvernese history and inheritance laws.”

“What about it?”

“Six hundred years ago, your ancestor, King Marshall, married a woman named Catherine. He was still the Crown Prince at the time, they were young and in love. Sounds simple enough, but Catherine had been previously married, and that marriage produced a son, Harold. This was quite a scandal, for multiple reasons. But Marshall and Catherine wanted to be married. Marshall’s parents were against it, no way the heir could marry a divorcee, with a child. But Marshall persisted. After a long standoff, the then king Erik relented, but on one condition. He put it in writing that under no circumstances could a non-blood relative receive land or titles through royalty, and heirs were only legitimate if they were conceived within the marriage. The monarchy was to flow solely through the bloodline, come Hell or high water. Marshall accepted, and the amendment was added to your country’s Constitution, a document that can only be added to, never taken away from. It’s a harsh, strict law, and many people have fought it, but your country’s Supreme Court has never overturned it, nor has the European Court of Human Rights. Anyway, Marshall married Catherine, and they lived happily ever after, having 3 children of their own.”

“Now that I’m done with my history lesson, I’m sure you’re wondering what my point is,” Kendall continues. Her eyes flicker over to Isabella, who’s glaring daggers at her. “You want to tell him, or should I?”

Bradshaw looks between the two women, “Tell me what?”

“That your treaty mandates that the Crown Prince or Princess of Cordonia, child to King Liam and Queen Kendall, is to marry Prince Isaac, or Princess Lyra of Aurvernal, child of King Bradshaw and Queen Isabella, thereby uniting the two countries. Those are the exact words, your words. But Bradshaw, the problem with that is, you don’t have any children.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bradshaw, don’t listen to a word this woman says,” Isabella orders.

Kendall rolls her eyes at the demand. “Bella over here, was very reckless and wasn’t cautious of her ovulation cycle or taking precautions, because she didn’t get pregnant with your children. The twins belong to someone else. I did a little digging, and voila!” Kendall moves her arms dramatically, the boisterous New Yorker coming out. “I found the truth.”

The silence in the office is so thick, it threatens to stifle everyone.

“I don’t believe you,” Bradshaw says.

“I don’t care. Notice how your wife hasn’t jumped in to defend herself or deny my allegations.”

Bradshaw turns to Isabella, his glare so cold, it could’ve frozen her on the spot. “She’s lying, right?” She doesn’t say anything in response and he bangs his fist on the table in front of him, making her jump. “RIGHT?!”

“Bradshaw, I’m sorry. They’re still yours in–”

“I don’t want to hear another word from you!” It’s one thing to cheat. Bradshaw doesn’t care about that. But his wife’s recklessness could crumble the monarchy.

“She could’ve gotten away with it, because those children are a spitting image of their mother, it’s almost scary. No one would bat an eyelash or ask questions.” Kendall thinks back to the spy mission Olivia completed last week, a trip to the hospital the twins were born at. This information came about after she knocked out a few guards and scoured the family’s medical records records. “But it’s simple biology. A woman with type A blood, and a man with type AB blood cannot produce two children with type O. Now, as for the true, biological father, that is something I don’t know, but Isabella is currently sleeping with her personal bodyguard so it may be him.”

Liam waits on bated breath as he watches the exchange. Bradshaw’s face is beet red, and Liam is on guard, defensive just in case the other king decides to do something stupid.

“So you see, Eleanor isn’t going to be marrying your son, ever. Or your daughter.”

Bradshaw dismisses Kendall’s words with a hand wave. He’s not letting go so easily. “I signed their birth certificate, I am their father. Your husband signed a treaty, whether you like it or not. And the fact that you just admitted to breaking countless laws with your little espionage scheme is grounds enough to get you into a lot of trouble.”

“Prove it,” Kendall challenges. “Prove that I had someone access those records, and that I’ve been collecting intel. I’m already done so you didn’t catch me red handed, and there’s no proof of my admission. The two of you were thoroughly searched and stripped of any cell phones, recorders, and cameras. Our guards have 24/7 security footage in this office, so on the off chance you were able to get in here with any of the aforementioned items, you would’ve been caught planting them before this meeting began. And besides, you push this issue any further, I will demand a paternity test on the world stage, and then all eyes will be on us. You’d rather die than publicly admit your wife cheated on you and someone else fathered those children.”

“I’ll have children with Bradshaw, easily,” Isabella says quickly. “Problem solved.”

Kendall grimaces sarcastically. “You specifically named Isaac and Lyra in the treaty. Had you not done that, your plan could’ve worked. Nice try though, and kudos for the quick thinking.”

Bradshaw glares at Kendall and then stands. Clenching his fist, he tries to breathe, to calm down. “You insolent, little girl. You think because you’ve read a few history books that you’re so smart and you can play politics? You think you can blackmail or extort me?” He scoffs before turning to Liam. “I know she gets your dick wet every once in a while, but you’re letting your commoner wife dictate you and shape international diplomacy?”

Liam’s nostrils flare but before he can reach across the table to attack Bradshaw, Kendall’s places a comforting hand on his shoulder, signaling for him to remain seated. There’s no need for violence when they clearly have the upper hand.

“I don’t think I’m smart. My bachelors degree from Brown in Policy Analysis and my Master’s from Columbia speak volumes all by themselves. There’s no need for vulgarity and petty insults because you aren’t intelligent or mature enough to comport yourself professionally.”

“I figured you wouldn’t back down after the whole paternity fiasco, and that’s fine.” Kendall shrugs with nonchalance. “We can involve the United Nations and the International Law Commission, and have them review that treaty if that’s what you want. But when I get in front of an audience and turn on the waterworks, crying about how my unborn daughter and I nearly died in the middle of a hostage situation, and instead of helping though you had the means to do so, you strong-armed my husband into signing a sham treaty, I don’t think that’ll go over too well for you.”

“It’s politics,” Bradshaw snarls. “You got bested.”

“No, it was a shitty coercion attempt. And a direct violation of Article 51 of the Vienna Convention Treaty, something your ancestors signed.”

“You don’t want to go down this road with me, with Auvernal,” Bradshaw continues, his eyes getting black as coal. “We want to be adults about this alliance, but please don’t force my hand. We can either be a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy.”

“You’ve been not-so-subtly hinting at war or a hostile occupation of Cordonia for over a year, and we’re not afraid of it. Like I’ve told my husband, I am not afraid of war. In this case, I’d welcome it gladly..”

“Ooh, such big fighting words.”

“Bradshaw, stop it!” Isabella hisses. He was always one for threats and brute force, when it wasn’t necessary.

“Shut up, you traitorous whore.” Bradshaw keeps his eyes on Kendall. He raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Well, the choice is yours. Excuse me, the choice belongs to the monarch. I keep forgetting who is who, considering your husband lets you wear the pants in this relationship.”

Liam sighs. Bradshaw wants to get a rise out of him for some reason, and it’s almost amusing.

He gets out of his seat and starts walking around the office. His movements are poised and he glides across the room, until he’s standing where Bradshaw is. “Unlike you, Bradshaw, I actually respect my wife. She’s strong and intelligent, and she has my full support in whatever we do. Your attempts to belittle her for being my queen consort are weak and baseless. And because she doesn’t want me to react, I won’t.”

“Of course not.” Bradshaw smirks. “Oh, King Liam the Gentle Hearted. You’ve always been the weakling, the coward. Too afraid to actually do something, opting to always play it safe. Tell me, how’s that working out for you? For your people? All the bombings and assassination attempts? How’d that work out for your precious daddy, Constan–”

Bradshaw can’t finish the question because in a flash, Liam pulls a dagger out of his suit pocket and trains it at Bradshaw’s throat, the tip of the blade just barely touching his Adam’s apple.

“Ohmygod!” The words fly out of Isabella’s mouth so fast, she stumbles over them. Liam motions for her to stay calm and seated.

“What was that?” Liam asks. “Please continue to speak on my late father, I dare you. Go on, I want to hear what you were about to say about him.” Bradshaw stays silent, his eyes trained on the dagger. “Eyes on me, Bradshaw.” Liam hits Bradshaw under the chin, forcing the other man to look him in the eye.

“I am so sick and tired of people mistaking my kindness for weakness. I try to be a good leader. Thoughtful and compassionate. I just don’t want my people to fear me, to cower in my presence. It’s so easy to rule like you do, through fear and intimidation. That’s the true cowardice. And yes, I am a kind man, but don’t ever in your poor excuse for a life attempt to write me off as weak or cowardice. The Queen was correct, you do not scare us in the slightest. You’re nothing more than a little man with a Napoleon complex and a need to overcompensate for your own shortcomings, with a wife who honestly couldn't care less if you live or die. Your country is broke and falling apart at the seams because all of your resources go to an oversized military and flashy attractions, so you bulldoze your way into other territories to offset the damage, but hear me well when I say Cordonia will not be one of them.”

Kendall’s breath hitches in her throat at the unexpected action. Liam pulling a dagger - no doubt a gift from Olivia - on Bradshaw wasn’t part of their plan. But she wants to see where this goes, what his next move is. She’s known Liam to get upset before, but this is something new, this tense, tight-lidded rage. Where Bradshaw is one to puff out his chest, yell, and make threats in order to cause confusion and chaos, Liam moves like a ninja, swift, direct, and lethal.

“You want a war? We can go, in an instant. This country may be small and peaceful, but we descend from strong leaders and brave warriors. And be advised, that I’ve been through a lot this past year, and I have a lot of rage inside of me. Keep poking the bear, Bradshaw, and I will not stop until I personally kill you with my bare hands. I will not rest until I witness the life leave your eyes, and your country is nothing more than ashes and rubble. Just say the word, and it’ll be a done deal.”

“Don’t forget, darling,” Kendall stands to join her husband, but she keeps a watchful eye on Isabella. But the woman is practically frozen in fear, not an imminent threat in the slightest, “that if we go to war, it won’t be just Cordonia and Auvernal. It’ll be Auvernal and the small countries that they’ve seized against Cordonia and her allies. Greece, Italy, Spain, the United Kingdom, Australia, and my home country, the United States.”

“Oh right! Silly me, how could I forget? Thanks for the reminder, my love. So Bradshaw, Isabella, how about we forget the whole alliance and treaty fiasco, right here, right now. Or we can go to war.” Liam shrugs and presses the blade deeper, still careful not to break the skin. “Or how about I end this right now, slit your throat, and let you die a slow death, bleeding from your jugular and choking on your own blood. I don’t want to do that, because it’ll stain my very expensive floors, but I will. The choice is yours.”

“We withdraw!” Isabella exclaims, finally standing. “We’ll forget the whole thing, we’ll call it all off! Just put the weapon down, please!”

“Isabella, didn’t I tell you to be quiet?”

Liam tsks. “Listen to your wife, Bradshaw.”

“Bradshaw, are you truly prepared to die here?” Isabella asks. “Is all of this worth it? Put your foolish pride aside for once in your damn life! It’s over.”

Bradshaw looks Liam in the eye, knowing that the other king isn’t bluffing. Slowly, he raises his hands in the air. “We concede.”

“Good. That wasn’t so hard was it?” Liam lowers his dagger and Bradshaw releases a sigh of relief. “But just one more thing.”

“What?”

Liam extends his arm, the dagger slashing out and quickly plunging into Bradshaw’s side. Shouting in pain, Bradshaw falls to his knees. “I may not kill you for your disrespect towards my wife, holding her life over my head, and threatening war against me, but I can’t let you leave unscathed. But fear not, it’s a minor wound and I didn’t hit any arteries, because unlike you, I’m a skilled fighter and I know what I’m doing.”

Isabella jumps out of her seat, and rushes to Bradshaw's side, pressing into the wound to stop the bleeding.

Kendall takes in the scene. She didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for the pathetic man-child writhing in pain on the floor, or his wife for that matter. Had Liam killed him where he stood, she probably would have have batted a mascara-covered eyelash. “Bastien!”

At the urgent calling of his name, the King’s guard enters the office. His eyes immediately fall onto Liam and Kendall, before taking in Bradshaw and Isabella. “Is everything alright in here, Your Majesties?”

“Excellent!” Kendall exclaims. “We’re actually done here, so if you could see to it that Bradshaw gets that nasty wound patched up and send the happy couple on their way, that’d be great.”

Bastien nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Bradshaw, Isabella, it was a pleasure having this meeting with you, and our attorneys will be in contact soon.” Kendall reaches for Liam’s hand. “Ready to go?”

“Ready.”

~v~

Liam’s feet dig into the soft carpeted floor of his bedroom as he walks into the en-suite. His eyes immediately land on his wife, who’s in their marble tub, covered in bubbles, sipping out of a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“Slow down, Speed Racer,” he teases.

“Eleanor doesn’t need to get fed for a few more hours, and I think I deserve this champagne.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I just don’t want you to get a headache.”

“I’ll drink a few glasses of water before I go to sleep.” Kendall holds the bottle out to Liam, offering him some, but he declines. So she just sits it on the floor. “Is Nori asleep?”

“She is. I swear, she’s the most alert and stubborn newborn on earth. She did not go down easily.”

“You’re already being bested by our daughter?”

“I know you two have been conspiring against me while she was still in the womb.” Liam smiles softly. “But I am still the champion, she eventually settled.”

“Good.”

“Enjoying your bath?”

“Yes. Can I sleep in here tonight?”

Liam chuckles. “Your skin will get incredibly dry and wrinkly.”

“I’m sure that’s nothing a few spa treatments and some heavy duty shea butter can’t fix.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” Kendall answers with a dramatic sigh. The day was long and she’s been running on pure adrenaline, it’s easy to forget she did push out a human just two short weeks ago, under very extreme circumstances. “And sore. I never want to wear heels again.”

Liam crouches down, getting on his knees at the edge of the tub. Reaching in he grabs one of Kendall’s feet and pulls it out of the water. Carefully he presses his thumb into the arch.

“Mhmm. I always forget that you moonlight as a masseuse.”

“Only for you.”

“It better be,” Kendall shoots back with a smirk.

“After the day we’ve had, I say you’ve more than earned a foot massage.”

“Ugh.” Kendall slips further into the tub before resurfacing. “I cannot stand those smug, overbearing assholes. Thank God we’re done with them.”

“Do you really think we’ve seen the last of them?”

“You probably pissed Bradshaw off when you stabbed him,” Kendall says pointedly, the mischievous look on her face betraying the seriousness in her tone. “But I do. They’re underhanded and sneaky, the threat of us exposing them publicly and involving superpower countries is enough to stave them off. But like we both said, war is on the table if push comes to shove.”

“Can I just say that you were absolutely amazing today.” Liam can’t get rid of the goofy grin on his face if he tries. He’s in awe of his wife, of her wit and strength.

Liam switches feet and she sighs in content. “Yes, please sing my praises.”

“I cannot believe how courageous you were, how absolutely brilliant. I’ve never seen anyone able to stand up to Bradshaw the way you did.”

“The same could be said for you. You were ready to kill him then and there. By the way, I was not anticipating that at all, but you had them scared shitless.

“The only reason I was able to do that is because I knew I had you in my corner the entire time.”

“I’ll always be in your corner, Liam.”

“I know, and I need to trust that. But all praise aside, I should have never put you in this position to begin with you. You should be spending this time relaxing and being with our baby, not getting involved in dirty politics.”

“Stop it!” Kendall wrangles her foot out of Liam’s grasps, and hits him in the chest with it. Liam looks down at the sudsy print on his chest incredulously.

“Did you really just hit me with your foot?”

“Yes!” He’s going down that slippery slope of insecurity and self loathing. “I’m the Queen, I know my job will never be done. This past week has been stressful, yes, but it has not taken away from my maternity leave or my time with Eleanor. I can multitask, you know.”

“I know, I just wish you didn’t have to be burdened with the weight of the crown at a time like this.”

“Stop apologizing,” Kendall orders. “I’ve forgiven you and it’s all in the past now. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

The corner of Liam’s mouth quirks up, a hint of a smirk on his face. He loves his wife’s commanding side. He leans over the tub so he’s hovering above her. “As you command, my queen.”

“The Queen also commands a kiss.”

“That can be arranged.” Liam surges forward, one hand reaching out to cup his wife’s cheek, the other getting tangled in her now damp hair and captures her lips in a kiss.

Kendall hums in satisfaction and sits up to deepen the kiss. Water sloshes out the side of the tub, soaking Liam’s pajama bottoms, but neither of them care. Her hands travel to his back, pulling him closer.

Too soon for either of their liking, Liam breaks the kiss with a groan. “4 more weeks. That is a depressingly long time from now.”

“Do you have the willpower?”

“I don’t know, but let’s not test it and disobey doctor’s orders.” Liam kisses the tip of her nose. “As soon as you’re cleared, I’m taking you to Valtoria, and we’re going to spend a few days in the small cottage you had built on the property. And I’m not letting you come up for air.”

A chill runs down the length of her spine. “Mhmm, don’t threaten me with a good time, Rys.”

“Oh, it’s not a threat, it’s a promise.” Liam reaches back into the tub and pulls the drain. He grabs a large towel and unfolds it. “Now come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Liam helps his wife out of the tub and drapes the towel across her shoulders. She shivers dramatically, her teeth clicking together for added effect. He knows she’s putting on a show, but he curls her into his side, which is what she wanted.

After changing into the closest pair of pajamas she can find—really just a pair of Liam’s sweats and an old Knicks t-shirt—and peaking into the bassinet at their bedside, Kendall finally collapses onto their bed. Liam joins her, loosely slinging his arm around her midsection. The smell of whatever fruity bubble bath she was just using invades his senses, but he welcomes the scent, his eyes closing instinctively. Kendall smells like home to him.

Kendall turns around in order to look at her husband’s face. For the first time in a long time, he looks peaceful. The outcome of the day instantly took 5 years off of his appearance, and she’s glad. She hates that he carries so much stress with him at all times.

“Hey Liam,” she whispers, poking his arm.

“What is it?” He asks, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“I love you.”

That gets a smile out of him. His grip on her tightens slightly. “I love you more.”

“I love you infinity.”

“I love you infinity plus another infinity, for good measure,” Liam shoots back.

“One of these days, I’m going to win.”

“But not today. Now get some sleep.”

Kendall gets closer to Liam, until she’s practically on top of him. His heartbeat is slow and steady underneath her head, and the rhythmic thump slowly pulls her into unconsciousness.

Today was a victory. Sure the kingdom of Cordonia had other things to face, but Kendall takes comfort in knowing that she’ll face them with Liam, as a team. The two of them together are unstoppable.

Today was officially the start of their happily ever after.

#playchoices #choices: stories you play #the royal heir #the royal romance #king liam #king liam x mc

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Rome: The Long Road of the Original HBO Epic

https://ift.tt/36frbPD

It was the biggest show ever produced when it premiered on HBO. Filming in exotic international locations and on sets that went on for blocks, it was an epic spectacle that many whispered couldn’t be done on television. Not with its hundreds of extras in lavish costumes, and not with its cast of more than a dozen major characters. Yet HBO gambled big with a budget that exceeded $100 million on its first season.

These details might be mistaken by many as the genesis of Game of Thrones. But before HBO’s song of ice and fire, this was also the origin of the first actual modern TV epic. It was the story of Rome.

In its debut, Rome was even more gargantuan in scale and opulent in design than Thrones’ first few years. Filmed at the legendary facilities of Cinecittà Studios in the actual Rome, HBO and showrunner Bruno Heller oversaw a vast recreation of antiquity during the life and times of Julius Caesar. From the austere grandeur of the pre-imperial Roman Forum to the eventual seediness of the gangs on the Aventine Hill, the final days of the Roman republic were reimagined in sweaty, shocking, and spectacularly expensive detail.

“We used the most modern scholarship, which suggests that all the sculptures were painted,” Heller says over Zoom as we reminisce about Rome and its Cinecittà extravagance 15 years after the series’ 2005 premiere. Every morning Heller would be up at 4am, arriving early on set and getting lost in the art direction’s colors. “Walking out there at dawn into the Forum and seeing this world created, it was just magical. It gives me goosebumps now thinking about it, seeing a hundred [Gaul] tribesmen on horseback with great furry helmets charging down a hillside yelling, that sort of thing. No one makes things like that anymore. Even something like Game of Thrones would use CGI for the kind of things that we were doing for real.”

Actor Kevin McKidd, who played one half of Rome’s soul, the honorable to a fault Lucius Vorenus, expresses similar awe when he thinks back at what they accomplished.

“I mean listen, none of these budgets were small, but I think Game of Thrones ended up being smaller than ours,” McKidd correctly points out. Whereas Rome was budgeted at $100 million when it premiered, Game of Thrones debuted with a more reasonable starting price tag of $60 million. Says McKidd, “Ours, it was the first time anybody had tried this, so we just had to spend the money. And I think they figured out, it seems, ways to do it smarter or for less… because our show came out of the gate just huge and bawdy and big, and unapologetic.”

Heller is even more succinct in describing Rome’s making.

“Most films, and even TV, is planning for battle,” Heller says. “Planning for a big TV series like [Rome] is like planning for war, for a campaign. It’s invading Russia.” He pauses, “You have to think about the retreat, as well.”

This was Rome’s war: brief, bloody, and beautiful.

‘Very Unlikely to Be Made’

When HBO first hired Heller to take a crack at a Rome treatment, he didn’t think for a minute it would get made. In the early 2000s, HBO was a different place than it is now. The Sopranos and Sex and the City of course turned the premium cable network into the leader of the prestige cable revolution—or harbinger of peak TV as it would later be called—and the network had its eye on bigger and more dazzling projects. In 2001 HBO even released the most expensive miniseries ever up to that point with Band of Brothers. But that World War II-set series also had the names Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks attached as producers. The network still relied on bankability.

So when Heller took a meeting about Rome, he was acutely aware he’d be unable to lend that same prestige to a sword and sandals epic. He’d written some scripts before at HBO and admired the vision of then-HBO chairman Chris Albrecht and Carolyn Strauss, then-president of HBO’s entertainment division. But he was being called in to discuss a show based on a preexisting miniseries pitch by John Milius and William J. MacDonald—a pitch the network was already wary toward.

“It’s one of those projects that’s really going for broke and very unlikely to be made, [given] the budget that was required,” Heller recalls of HBO’s attitude toward Milius and his vision. “They were paying me to write a script to take it at least to a respectable point at which time they can say, ‘Okay, thank you.’”

Citing himself as “cheap” at the time, Heller recognized it was easier to pay a young writer for a treatment than a whole production crew for a pilot. So he used the opportunity as an excuse to immerse himself in Roman history and lore. This began via conversations with his co-creators Milius and MacDonald. Their central conceit already had in place the three characters of young Octavian, the boy who would be Augustus, first Emperor of Rome, as well as Roman centurions Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus.

In history, as with the series, Pullo and Vorenus were the only Roman soldiers who Julius Caesar mentioned by name in his journals. But other than being Roman centurions in the 13th Legion, not much else is known of the men. And Heller took his first major liberty when he lit on the idea of changing Pullo from a centurion to a coarse, insubordinate soldier beneath Vorenus’ command.

It was a savvy move that mapped the heart of the Rome series. Whereas most other fictions about this oft-dramatized era in history focused on the lives of the legendary patricians—be it Caesar and Octavian, or Marc Antony and Cleopatra—Rome would maintain all those characters and the lower tiers in daily Roman life. Through the introduction of Pullo and Vorenus, and their contentious friendship, the fall of the Roman republic suddenly becomes an upstairs/downstairs dramedy.

Says Heller, “The model that first sparked me on ‘oh, this is how to play it’ was [Tom Stoppard’s] Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, because the larger story is so well known, like Hamlet, that it’s hard to tell that story. The downstairs story has to be more compelling than the upstairs story, because the upstairs story, a little like Batman, is a given. It’s a myth. Everyone knows what happens.”

It also allowed Heller to dive into modern research.

“There was a lot of very recent scholarship at that time that transformed people’s sense of what Roman [history] was,” Heller explains. “There was much more about the everyday life of Roman people, about how people would have lived in apartment blocks in the insular working class life, and looking at it from that modern perspective.”

Reflecting on the dirtiness and filth that would be in the Roman Forum, the showrunner adds, “It’s lucky that practically every previous representation of Rome on any scale kind of went for the grand imperial late Edward Gibbon velvet drapes and marble columns. Even Gladiator went for that. Whereas, in fact, it looked much more like Calcutta or Bombay, and smelled like that.”

This also provided the writer the chance to explore Roman culture and custom with a greater push for authenticity than many Hollywood films of yore. For example, Heller attempted to learn how to read Latin at least as well as the uneducated Pullo—though he says he only got about as far as being able to recognize “oh that’s a pub” if he were walking the streets. More successfully he came to understand his vision of the Pagan working class mentality when he wrote a scene of Pullo praying to Portunus, the Roman god of locks and keys.

It all informed an extravagant treatment for a series he’d end up writing half the episodes of (and he tells us all 22 installments of the show passed through his typewriter before shooting). Yet, at least per the co-creator, what got Rome greenlit was as much his innovations as the developments of an entirely different epic series at HBO.

“[Chris Albrecht] was looking for something that had to be big and that they had to put money behind,” Heller says. “I think it was going to be Mel Gibson doing Alexander.” Indeed, at the same time HBO was developing Rome, the network was also working with the then-beloved Oscar winning director behind Braveheart for a 10-part series on Macedonian conquest.

“Then it turned out that Mel Gibson was going to do Alexander but he wouldn’t be Alexander,” Heller says. “[But] they didn’t want to be in business with Mel Gibson as a director-producer without Mel Gibson as [the star].”

As Gibson’s project imploded, Rome’s prospects would rise, sans any stars. Clearly things in the entertainment industry were about to change.

A Bottle of Tequila in the Roman Forum

When speaking with McKidd over Zoom, the actor’s affection for Rome is profound. Not 20 feet from his screen rests Lucius Vorenus’ sword, which he safely keeps in his own home. Similarly, within the actor’s mind resides nothing but warm memories. He reminisces about seeing his children spend summers growing up around the actual ruins of the Roman Forum and Colosseum during production; and he savors still the long nights at Cinecittà with British theater legends like Kenneth Cranham, a fellow Scotsman who played Pompey Magnus.

“It was an incredibly social time,” says McKidd. “It was almost like summer camp for British actors. We all got to live there; we went out for long dinners every night and we’d speak to Kenneth and all the older actors, who told us such amazing stories about all their time in the theater.”

But one relationship, perhaps the most significant of the entire series, was that shared by McKidd and his co-star Ray Stevenson, aka Titus Pullo. While there were of course other vital parts to the series, from worldly Ciarián Hinds as Caesar to Tobias Menzies’ despairingly well-intentioned Brutus—and one must never overlook Polly Walker’s Machiavellian Atia of the Julii (Heller’s favorite character)—the heart and soul of the series belongs to Pullo and Vorenus, the odd couple of 48 BCE.

Off-screen McKidd and Stevenson had known each other for years through mutual friends, but it wasn’t until they were in the final round of chemistry auditions in a Covent Garden hotel that they began a significant lifelong friendship. But then, it was a late epiphany to cast the red-haired and fiery McKidd as the straight-laced Vorenus.

For the actor, the process began early when he bumped into Heller, as well as executive producer Anne Thomopoulos and director Michael Apted, while in Romania. At the time, McKidd was there filming the TV movie Gunpowder, Treason & Plot (2004), as it was cheaper to shoot a period piece about 16th century Scottish court intrigue in eastern Europe than actual Scotland. The Rome team was entertaining a similar idea.

“I’m strutting around in my thigh-high leather boots and period costume, and we’re riding horses and swinging swords, and all that stuff and having a great old time,” says McKidd. “And I hear these American voices in the corridor, so I come out, and here is this guy called Bruno Heller.” They immediately got to chatting about the Danny Boyle movie McKidd did, Trainspotting (1996), and about this new TV series focused on ancient Rome. McKidd quickly prepared with his current director a film reel of himself riding horses.

Yet when HBO finally sent him a script, the producers didn’t want him for the Vorenus role; they saw him as Pullo.

HBO’s Rome Ending Was Originally Very Different

By David Crow

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On the casting process, McKidd remembers, “I said to them, ‘I’d love to come in and read, but I would really much rather read for the part of Lucius Vorenus.’ And they were like, ‘No, we really see you as maybe Pullo, can you read for Pullo?’ So I said, ‘Okay.’ So I came in and I read for Pullo. And they’re like, ‘Okay.’ Then a week goes by, and they call and they say, ‘We really love you, but maybe can you come in and read for Marc Antony?’”

So it continued until McKidd begged to get a screen test for Vorenus. It even took so long he initially considered turning the series down in favor of indie projects he was already committing to. That was at least a thought he had on the set of Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven (2005) until word got around at the pub to co-star Liam Neeson.

“I came down to the bar and Liam was pointing his finger at me and he was like, ‘You, I need to have a word with you outside,’” McKidd says. “And I was like, ‘Ah shit.’” Out in a snow-covered Spanish countryside, Neeson commanded, “Go to a phone booth, find a phone right now. Call your agent and hope and pray they haven’t offered that part to somebody else.”

They had not, and soon enough McKidd was flying alongside Stevenson to the actual city of Rome.

“I remember me and Ray going to Rome in the spring… with Michael Apted, walking around this back lot at Cinecittà, and it was all just scaffolding at that time, there was no frontage. I remember Michael turned to me and Ray and said, basically, we can’t fuck this up, because it was so huge. It was so beyond anything that any of us had ever seen.”

With red paint chipping across weathered doors, and mules grazing in the squares, a Roman Forum unlike any other came alive in the same space where Martin Scorsese just filmed Gangs of New York. The sense of size and scale was overwhelming, as was the pressure on Stevenson and McKidd to anchor it. Fifteen years later, McKidd is candid about how that tension shaped each man and, in the actor’s mind, the series.

During the last day of production on the first season, after shooting had wrapped and festivities began, McKidd and Stevenson found themselves sharing a quiet set of stairs leading up to their Roman senate. Between them was a bottle of tequila. Off in the distance, the faint sound of wrap party debauchery was rising to a muffled roar, yet the central stars of Rome were keeping their own company and having a long overdue conversation.

“I don’t think Ray would be mad at me for telling this story because we’re still close friends and I love him dearly,” McKidd says with a measured tone. “Initially, he and I clashed. We just had very different styles. Ray’s this big larger than life personality, and as Bruno would say, I’m much more this ‘Presbyterian,’ or you could say a little more controlling… and we ended up at loggerheads a lot, and fighting, and being difficult in the first season.”

Yet as McKidd is quick to point out, this translated to perfect chemistry on the screen, as Pullo and Vorenus were often “at loggerheads” during the first season, which culminated with Vorenus’ life imploding on the same day as Caesar’s assassination. Meanwhile Pullo found some semblance of peace. But here in the twilight of a recreated Roman Forum, the season was getting a much needed post-script.

“The wrap party is going on somewhere, and we can hear the music,” McKidd says, “and he and I just sat out there sharing the bottle of tequila. And we had it out, you know? Because we both had been holding stuff in for the season about things that annoyed each other… We got all of it off our chest and we ended up just having a huge hug, and we threw this bottle, this [now] empty bottle of tequila, into the middle of the Forum. We made a pact with each other that from that point on we were going to be the closest of friends, and we still are.”

In many ways, it mirrored the coming dynamic between Pullo and Vorenus in season 2, which McKidd likewise recognizes.

“Our bond was unbreakable in the second season,” he says. “You see that chemistry shift and move, and morph throughout the two seasons, and it pretty much tracks Ray and my relationship.” And it would prove indispensable that second year, especially as both characters, like their actors, were forced to close ranks and face that the end was nigh.

The Cost of Doing Business Like the Romans Do

Founded in 1937 by Benito Mussolini, the international renown of Rome’s Cinecittà Studios has long superseded its less than auspicious beginnings. Celebrated as the home to a highly skilled community of filmmaking artisans, Cinecittà’s name is inseparable with legendary filmmakers like Federico Fellini, Roberto Rossellini, and Sergio Leone. And it’s been the site of landmark Hollywood productions, such as Roman Holiday (1953), Ben-Hur (1959), and even the notorious Cleopatra (1963). Yet as Heller points out, no American production has been back to Cinecittà since Rome.

Says the creator, “It’s Italy, I love it, and it’s part of the culture, but you were there to be picked over and for them to, in completely formal and legitimately legal ways, take as much money out of the production as possible.” He pauses to smile and choose his next words carefully about the difference between shooting a movie and TV series in that environment.

“With a series, you’re making long-term relationships,” he continues. “It’s like a marriage. A movie is a one-night stand. You can be a bastard to everyone on a movie and you’re never going to see them again. So the result is more important than the relationships. In a TV series, the relationships are more important, in the end. It’s pointless having a successful first season of a show and then you can’t do the second season because no one will work together.”

This is not to say the only reason Rome was prematurely cancelled had to do with frustrations over the cost of doing business in Rome—McKidd also cites, for example, Rome eating up too much of HBO’s production budget from other projects in 2006. Nonetheless, reports of high-finance rigamarole even reached the cast.

Says McKidd, “I heard enough to know [about] the scaffolding. I don’t know how many tons of scaffolding was used to build that set, but I remember one of the earlier conversations was, ‘We need to buy this much scaffolding.’ And the people at Cinecittà were like, ‘You can’t buy that much scaffolding, but you can rent it from my brother.’”

Both Heller and McKidd insist there was no criminality or dishonesty about this, and it was simply the way things are done. But for the creator, word was executives high above his pay grade were disturbed by the Byzantine labyrinth of Italian politics. So much so it became contagious throughout Hollywood.

“At one stage, the Italian government issued arrest warrants or provisional arrest warrants for all the fiduciary producers of the show,” Heller recalls. “And that’s a sort of a standard Italian business practice, but when buttoned-down straight-laced lawyers from New York are flying out to Rome and discovering that this is [how business is done], people were spooked.”

It was also just a contributing factor to Rome’s untimely cancellation, which occurred during the pre-production process of season 2—and before the series’ popularity would explode with the international DVD sales and second season launch.

Heller was so far into writing the second season that they were in prep, gearing up to film the second season premiere, when he got the call it was over. The havoc this wreaked on Rome’s remaining 10 episodes, with one of them ready to shoot, was immediate.

When the first season concluded, Gaius Julius Caesar was dead, Vorenus had lost the love of his life, and Rome was headed toward civil war. The second season was always meant to be the fallout of that war, with a study in the brief and doomed alliance of Marc Antony (James Purefoy) and young Octavian (Max Pirkis), as well as the woman between them, Octavian’s mother and Antony’s lover, Atia. All of that, plus the death of Brutus and the other conspirators, would still occur in season 2… but so would Antony’s flight to Egypt and the eventual civil war between a now adult Octavian (Simon Woods) and Antony and Cleopatra (Lyndsey Marshal).

“I had to reconceive the second season basically from scratch,” Heller says with lingering exasperation. “Because when you take out that much history, the jump between the death of Caesar and Marc Antony taking over, and his death in Egypt, it was a huge amount of quite obscure but great, scandalous, fascinating, eventful history.” Most of it had to be jettisoned, too, between Brutus’ death and Antony declaring in his will that Caesar and Cleopatra’s son is Caesar’s true heir.

Some critics and fans were disappointed with the visibly breakneck pace of the second season. Others found it an exciting retelling of that period. One of Rome’s stars seems to be in the middle.

“I think the second season was successful in some ways, but it also feels, in my mind, a little rushed,” McKidd confesses. “And I think Bruno would say that too. Just because so much story was crushed and sort of concentrated down into season 2. I love [it], but I definitely felt like it was a lot condensed in.”

And yet, McKidd and Heller both seem to lean more toward a satisfaction with it. In fact, the producer even suggests the ending with the ascension of Octavian to imperial status (he takes the title “First Citizen”) was the perfect grace note. While it’s well known among fans the series had a five-season bible with Cleopatra and Antony’s deaths originally marking the end of season 4, and season 5 following Vorenus and Pullo going to Palestine in time for the birth of Christ, that was never Heller’s favorite part.

“That was one of the elements that Milius was fascinated by that I had no interest in whatsoever, frankly, trying to tie it in to the birth of Christ. Because, at the time, it meant nothing. It would have to be a completely different story. Put it another way, no Romans were worried or thinking about the coming of the Messiah.”

It was a Christmas story Heller didn’t want to tell. Even so, he had some interesting ideas already in place, including a vision of the ancient Holy Lands being closer to Monty Python’s Life of Brian than Ben-Hur.

“Palestine was in ferment at the time, and messiahs were popping up all over the place,” Heller says. “Judaism, at that point, was in a moment very much like Islam at the moment, full of passion and ferment and faith, and dreams of martyrdom.”

Like much else with Rome, it feels like a fascinating opportunity left unfulfilled, but one that the creator is glad to leave unexplored.

All Roads Lead to Rome’s Legacy

Rome shined briefly but brightly on premium cable. Premiering in the fall of 2005, it was gone by spring ’07. But even shortly after its cancellation, there were some small whispers of regret because of the show’s DVD sales; whispers that continue to be heard by stars of the series. McKidd says if you asked HBO in 2020, some would likely wince again at cancelling it, as he heard they did by the time season 2 aired. But “they couldn’t go back on that, or felt they couldn’t.”

But if it burned off like a Roman candle—with fire and thunder in its wake—the show still provided a roadmap for how to produce a massive spectacle as a television series.

“I think a lot of the producers that aren’t the ones that you hear about mostly, like Frank Doelger… were all pivotal on Rome and went directly into Game of Thrones,” McKidd says. “Frank Doelger was one of the main producers, and he very much was the guy who whipped our show into shape and we learned a lot of lessons. So yeah, I think very directly, those people went into Game of Thrones and had learned a lot about how to do this kind of level [of production.]”

Heller likewise marvels at how HBO learned from Rome’s problems with its initially more affordable and tighter fantasy epic.

“The way they divided crews up in Game of Thrones, it was clever because there was always a general staff of central command, but they had more than one general, and they didn’t lose control of the generals,” Heller says.

And just as Rome carved a path for the modern era of epic television shows, Game of Thrones has now created a space for more diverse TV epics like Netflix’s The Witcher and Amazon’s upcoming Lord of the Rings series.

“[We were] ahead of the curve in the sense that it was too early,” Heller says. “But it’s not so much the audience [changed], as it is the appetite and the ability of networks and studios to make things of that size and to promote them and to market them, and to have faith and the courage to back them up.”

This series walked so that Peak TV could run. It’s a formidable legacy, and one that proves all roads in blockbuster television really do lead back to Rome.

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freddiesaysalright · 5 years ago

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Catching Up Part XII

A Joe Mazzello x Reader Fic

Summary: Reader is a writer for an entertainment news network and after Joe comes in to do an interview, they reconnect. Unexpectedly, they’re having a child together.

Word Count: 4K (its a dramatic one)

Tag List: @crazylittlethingcalledobsession @jennyggggrrr, @somethinginthewayiam, @grandaddy-roger-trash, @rogerloveshiscar, @hopefully-aesthetically-pleasing, @danamaleksworld, @mrsmazzello, @reedusteinrambles, @rexorangecouny, @caborhapch, @kurt-nightcrawler, @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls, @queendeakyy, @hotttspace, @anxious-diabetic, @someone-get-a-medic, @psychosupernatural, @lizvxx, @cobra-anon, @anotherhystericalqueen, @mazzello-lee-jones-malek It’s not over quite yet! Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A/N: Y’all ready to meet Joey?! Here he comes!

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Pat VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

Part XII here we go!!!

You and Joe returned to New York, where the cold was a shock after the warmth of California. You were happy to be back in your house, which you decorated for the holiday season. You spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Mazzello’s. They adored you, and the feeling was mutual. They were so sweet and welcoming and incredibly excited for you and Joe.

His mother was an actual angel, who just doted on you. She was thrilled you liked the ring, since it was inherited from her mother. She told you the rich family history of it, and it made you all the more honored to wear it. Although, you told her it was getting rather tight around your swelling fingers, so she gifted you a gold chain to wear it around until after the baby was born. You thanked her over and over again. She helped you put it on and told you how beautiful you looked. You thought you might die of happiness.

They did take a few moments to grieve Joe’s father. You felt a bit like an outsider then, since you never knew him. You’d met him briefly when he came to pick Joe up from school back in those days, but you never knew him well enough to mourn. You started to excuse yourself, but Joe took your hand, holding you close to him, needing you.

When you got home, it was after New Year’s. Your belly was becoming a nuisance to you now that it was too round to bend over or turn around in a narrow hallway. It made you thankful you were no longer in your apartment. That space was much too small. Joe was still travelling since Bohemian Rhapsody was nominated for so many awards. But he would be with you the entire month of February. You told him that was fine, but he had to go to the Oscars. The baby would be a newborn, but it was something you insisted he couldn’t miss.

February began and you and Joe were so excited you could hardly talk about anything other than the baby’s arrival. Dr. Jones was finally back from Kenya, which you were incredibly thankful for because Dr. Barrow was just so rude. You wouldn’t actually see her until your delivery though. Until then, you and Joe were putting together Joey’s nursery.

“Baby, do you want to do anything for Valentine’s Day?” he asked as you handed him the next part he needed for the crib.

“Huh,” you said, thinking. “I forgot about Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s just that it’s our first one together and I was wondering if you wanted it to be special,” he pointed out.

“Honestly, Joe, Valentine’s has never meant very much to me,” you explained. “The restaurants are crowded, people are annoyingly in love, other people’s feelings get hurt. It’s always seemed a little silly to me.”

He shrugged. “Alright, then, we won’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Please don’t say that now and plan a big surprise for me,” you said. “Really, I mean it. It’s not a big deal. Plus it’s less than a week from Joey’s due date and I don’t wanna go into labor or something if we’re in public.”

He chuckled, leaning over and kissing your forehead. “Alright then. No Valentine’s plans. Although, Ben’s gonna be in town by then. Rami and Lucy will be here too.”

“Honey, I’m sure Ben will be your Valentine if you ask him nicely,” you teased.

“He’d be lucky to have me,” he returned with a smirk. “But since Rami and Lucy will probably be together, maybe we could have Ben here and tell him the good news.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” you agreed.

You and Joe had talked a lot about Joey’s godparents. You had already named Christy the godmother, and she was honored to accept. Joe, however, had a difficult time deciding on a godfather. In the end, he chose Ben. It surprised you, but you supported him one hundred percent.

“What about Gwilym?” you asked.

“He’s flying in on the fifteenth early in the morning,” he said.

“Well, alright, we can have Valentines with just us and Ben,” you said. “That’ll be fun.”

A couple weeks went by, and it was the holiday of love or bitterness. Ben agreed to come over to you and Joe’s for dinner and stay with you two in the guest room. He loved the house and the nursery.

“Really, you guys have done an incredible job,” he praised. “It’s so...you guys.”

“Thanks, man,” Joe returned. “Y/N, is dinner about ready?”

You nodded. “Should be.”

You all went downstairs, Joe helping you with your slow pace. You served dinner and when there was a lull in the conversation, Joe cleared his throat.

“So, Ben,” he began, and he took your hand. “There was something we wanted to ask you.”

Ben raised his eyebrows at the both of you. “Okay?”

“We’ve thought about it a lot, and we wanted to know if you would be Joey’s godfather,” Joe said.

A smile erupted across Ben’s face. “Really? D’you mean it?”

“Yeah!” you assured him. “We think you’d be wonderful!”

Ben laughed. “I thought...I thought you’d pick Rami for sure. I can’t believe it!”

“So you’ll do it?” Joe asked to clarify.

“Of bloody course I will!” Ben cried. “I’m honored!”

He stood up and hugged you both.

“Sorry your Valentine’s Day was just us,” you said when he kissed your cheek. “But I hope we made it okay.”

“Are you kidding?” he replied, still grinning. “This is the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had. Thank you so much, guys.”

At that moment, you felt a small contraction. Your breath hitched in your throat at the feeling. You’d been having them every few days since you were so close to your due date, but you knew when you would need to go to the hospital and it wasn’t time yet.

“Alright?” Ben wondered.

“Another contraction?” asked Joe.

You nodded. Ben shot Joe a worried look.

“Not yet,” Joe said with a laugh. “It’s just that he’s close.”

“Yeah, he could come any day now,” you said. “I have had more contractions today than before. Maybe it will be his godfather that brings him out.”

Ben smiled. “I’m so excited.”

“Us too,” Joe said.

You took a deep breath. “I think I will go up and lie down. Do you guys mind doing the dishes?”

“We can take care of that,” said Joe. “Besides, you cooked, so I clean. Those are the rules.”

“I’m still getting used to it,” you said with a laugh, and reached out to give Ben another hug. “I’ll go ahead and tell you goodnight. Thanks for being here, Ben.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, kissing the top of your head.

You pecked Joe on the lips. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

“Love you,” he said.

He was thankful - for years afterward - that those were the last words he said to you before you closed your eyes that night. He stayed up with Ben, catching up on the couch as they each had a beer. They laughed and talked as if they had never been apart at all.

“I really am amazed you’re about to be a father, mate,” Ben said.

“And you’re gonna be a godfather,” Joe returned. “As well as Uncle Ben.”

“Seriously,” Ben said. “You’re gonna be a great dad, Joe. You’ve supported Y/N through so much, even beyond the pregnancy. You and her are like the dream team.”

“I think so,” Joe agreed. “I’m just ready to be married to her now. Maybe have another pretty soon.”

“You’ll have the perfect little family.”

“Honestly, Ben. It’s like, cosmic that she and I found each other. It was like I’d known her forever, just seeing her when we walked into that newsroom. Like we’d stayed friends and nothing else had happened.”

“Everyone wants what you two have. To be that sure about a person...I’m jealous.”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” Joe said. “She’s it.”

Ben opened his mouth to reply, but they both stopped when they heard you cry out like a wounded animal from upstairs. Both men leapt to their feet and stormed up the stairs to your bedroom. When they burst through the door, they found you thrashing on the bed, crying and yelling.

“It hurts!” you cried. “It hurts!”

“Y/N!” Joe called to you, crawling up beside you on the bed. “Y/N, can you hear me?”

You paused, panting, just barely opening your eyes.

“Joe?” you breathed.

“Has it started?” Ben asked.

“I’m not sure,” Joe returned.

“Wha...what’s Ben doing here?” you wondered blearily.

“Honey, he’s been here all night,” Joe said, brow furrowing. “We just had dinner.”

You started to answer but shouted again. “Fuck! My head! Joe, it hurts!”

“What’s happening?” Ben cried.

“I have no idea!” Joe said.

You shrieked beside him, writhing again. More tears spilled down your face. Joe’s heart broke at the sight. He felt so helpless.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Ben asked.

“No, let’s just take her ourselves,” Joe instructed. “Help me lift her, I don’t think she can walk.”

He pulled back the covers, and he tried to touch your face to tell you they were going to carry you. You couldn’t open your eyes, though. And you were clutching your head too tightly for him to touch you.

“Joe,” said Ben darkly. “Look.”

He followed Ben’s gaze and saw the dark spot between your legs. Your water was broken. You were in labor and you didn’t even realize it. Worry shot through his heart. What was going on with your head that could make it so bad you couldn’t even feel contractions?

“We gotta be fast,” Joe said, and he put his arms underneath you on one side.

Ben took the other side and together they lifted you off the bed. You moaned with pain, but you weren’t screaming anymore, either. You turned your head into Joe’s chest and whimpered into him, tears dampening the cotton.

“Stay with me, baby,” he said. “We’re gonna get you some help, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You just moaned again. They carried you to the car and placed your carefully in the back seat. Joe told Ben to get in with you so he could drive.

“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “I can drive if you want to sit with her.”

“I’ll be faster, I know where I’m going,” Joe insisted.

Ben did as he was told. Joe gave you one last desperate look before climbing behind the wheel and taking off as fast as legally possible. It was pretty late, so traffic was light, but he still felt his heart rate taking off the closer you got.

You gave another pitiful moan, grabbing your head again and yelling.

Joe’s throat became thick as he heard you scream once more, “Ahhh! My head!”

When he pulled up to the hospital, he and Ben helped you inside. He told the nurse you were in labor and they got you set up in a room to prepare you for delivery. Your headache subsided as you got settled, but you couldn’t remember getting to the hospital now. Joe frowned, confused at your confusion.

“Okay, Dr. Barrow is already here so he’ll be down in just a minute to check on you,” the nurse said. “First I’m gonna take your blood pressure.”

Joe watched as you held out your arm and the nurse recorded the number.

“Okay, it’s pretty high, but nothing to worry about yet,” she said.

“What about the headaches?” Joe asked. “And where’s Dr. Jones?”

“Dr. Jones is on her way,” she told him. “And Dr. Barrow can tell you about the headaches and if it’s anything to worry about.”

She left and Joe began pacing. Ben took the chair next to your bed. You closed your eyes and winced when you felt a contraction.

“Did my water break?” you asked.

“Yes, baby, we told you in the car,” Joe said. “You’re in labor.”

“It just doesn’t really feel like it,” you said.

Joe and Ben exchanged worried glances.

“Rami and Lucy are on the way,” Ben said. “I texted them. Gwilym’s on the plane, so I haven’t heard back from him yet.”

“Is Christy coming?” you questioned.

“Yeah, I texted her,” Joe answered.

“Good,” you said with a sigh.

At that moment, Dr. Barrow came in.

“How are we doing?” he asked cheerfully. “Ready to have a baby?”

“Things are fine,” you said tiredly.

“What?” said Joe. “No, honey, they’re not. Dr. Barrow, we had to come tonight because she’s having severe headaches. She didn’t even realize she was in labor her head hurt so bad.”

“Women often exaggerate -” he began.

Joe cut him off. “Doctor, she was screaming.”

“This can happen during labor,” Dr. Barrow said. “For now, we’ll monitor her contractions and dilation.”

He left and Joe groaned.

“He’s kind of a prick, isn’t he?” Ben remarked.

“More than that,” Joe said. “He’s ignored every concern we’ve had. I think he just doesn’t want to deal with anything that could go wrong.”

“He’s in the wrong profession for that,” Ben said.

“I’ll say,” said Joe.

In another five minutes, Rami, Lucy, and Christy had arrived. They all looked happy, but the smiles faltered when they saw Joe and Ben’s faces.

“What’s wrong?” Christy asked.

“We don’t know,” Joe said. “But it’s something.”

“Hey, guys,” you said from the bed.

Christy stepped over to you and took your hand. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

You nodded. “I think so. It’s probably too early for you guys to come to the hospital. Joey won’t be here for another few hours.”

“Don’t be silly,” she returned. “We want to be here for the whole thing.”

You looked at your hand in hers. “God, my fingers look huge.”

Christy blinked. “Don’t worry about that right now. Just focus on getting your baby out safely.”

“Has the doctor seen her?” Rami wondered.

Joe nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not our primary doctor, and he’s not taking it very seriously.”

You choked on the next thing your were about to say to Christy as another headache came over you. You squeezed your eyes shut and howled with pain.

“MY HEAD!” you shrieked. “JOE! IT HURTS!”

You slammed your fist down onto the bed, writhing again. Joe grabbed your hand.

“Hey, stay with me, baby, we’re gonna figure this out,” he said, stroking your arm in an attempt to soothe you.

Christy ran and got the first nurse she saw. Luckily, she was approaching with Dr. Jones. When they heard your cries, they came running.

“What’s happening?” Dr. Jones called over your yells.

“I don’t know!” Joe returned. “She’s had headaches all night and she’s completely out of it!”

“Oh, God,” Dr. Jones said. “Has her blood pressure lowered since I saw you?”

“The nurse said it was still high when she took it a minute ago,” Joe explained.

“I need to test the latest sample of her urine,” she said. “I’m gonna take care of that and I’ll be back soon. This looks like preeclampsia, and if that’s the case we need to get her an IV of magnesium to prevent her from seizing.”

“She could have a seizure?!”

“Not if we act fast,” she said. “If we’ve caught it soon enough, then we can also avoid a c-section.”

“If it we didn’t catch it on time?”

“We won’t worry about that unless it’s true,” she said. “For now, try to keep her focused on labor.”

She left to run the tests. You were recovering again, taking deep breaths as sweat coated your skin. Your eyes were red and puffy from your bouts of crying. Tears still rolled softly down your cheek and you reached for Joe. He knelt down and took your hand, fighting back tears himself.

“Joe,” you whined. “I’m scared.”

“I know, baby, I’m scared too,” he said. “But we’re together. Just stay with me, okay?”

You only nodded. Then Dr. Jones poked her head inside and called Joe out. You looked at your friends around you. You reached one hand out to Christy and the other out to Ben, knowing you had to tell someone, and it might as well be Joey’s godparents. They each took your hand.

“What’s up, Y/N?” Christy asked.

You swallowed thickly. “If something happens, and I don’t make it through the night -” “Don’t say that,” Ben said gently.

“Please,” you said. “If I don’t, tell them - and Joe - to do whatever it takes to save my son. Even if it puts me at risk. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I’m going to try my hardest to get through this. But if I can’t…” you trailed off, emotion taking your voice.

“We’ll save Joey,” Christy assured you after swallowing hard.

“We promise,” Ben agreed, stroking your hand lightly.

Lucy couldn’t stand it. She buried her face in Rami’s shoulder. He rubbed her back, wiping his eyes with his free hand.

“Where’s Gwilym?” you wondered.

“He’s on his way,” Ben said. “His plane doesn’t land for another two hours, though.”

“We told you, honey,” Christy added. “You don’t remember?”

“I think so,” you said, but you really couldn’t remember talking about Gwilym.

“It’s okay,” Ben told you. “We’ll remind you of anything you forget.”

Meanwhile, Joe was outside talking to Dr. Jones.

“I’ve just gotten some test results back,” she said. “The protein level in her urine is high. That paired with high blood pressure, swelling, headaches, and muddled mind tells me this is a pretty severe case of preeclampsia. How long has she been having headaches?”

“The intense ones only started tonight,” he said. “But she’s been having them since the second trimester.”

Dr. Jones’s eyes went wide. “Did she tell Dr. Barrow?”

Joe nodded. “Yes. Several times. He said everything was fine.”

“He made no notes in her file that she had complained at all,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Joe. Clearly, he didn’t see all these symptoms together, and now she’s at risk.”

“Is - is she gonna be okay?” he wondered.

“I believe so,” she said. “I’ve already ordered her IV to keep her from having a seizure, but the only cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby. Luckily, she’s already in labor and we don’t have to induce. I’m going to keep her on magnesium and see if we can successfully deliver the baby vaginally. I’d like to avoid a c-section if possible.”

The nurses walked by with the IV bag, saying nothing as they closed the door again.

“I can’t make any promises,” Dr. Jones continued. “But what I can say is that preeclampsia is rare, but very treatable. It makes delivery more difficult and maybe a little more painful, but not impossible. We don’t need to worry until it develops into full eclampsia. And even then, we’re already at the hospital and ready to treat her if she seizes.”

“But once the baby is born, she’ll be fine?” he asked.

“Should be,” she replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a few words with Dr. Barrow. The fact that he missed this is pretty alarming.”

Joe watched her disappear down the hall. He felt a little better but he was still worried. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t forget the sight of you thrashing around and the sound of your screams. He shook his head to clear his mind and then returned to the room.

The IV was attached and you seemed to be doing better. You didn’t look so weak anymore. He walked over and explained to everyone what Dr. Jones told him.

“So, everything’s gonna be okay?” Christy asked.

“Dr. Jones seemed pretty confident of that,” Joe said.

She sunk into her chair and let out a shaky breath. “Oh, thank God.”

Time slipped by. Your headaches had ceased as one hour passed into two. When you were seven centimeters dilated, it was almost time to push, so Dr. Jones told everyone but Joe to relocate to the waiting room. They did, and waited anxiously. While they were out there, Gwilym arrived, looking worried and breathless. Ben and Rami updated him on everything that had happened. He looked relieved that you were going to be alright and that he hadn’t missed Joey’s arrival.

Before too much longer, Joe emerged, grinning so hard it was a miracle his face wasn’t split in two. He was laughing, but tears spilled down his cheeks. Everyone got to their feet, smiling back at him.

“He’s here,” he managed to say. “He’s ready to meet you all.”

They surged forward to hug and congratulate him. Christy was the first to break away and head to your room. Joe shook hands with Gwilym and told him he was glad he’d made it. Then they all followed Christy and came in to see you looking exhausted but happy, and holding your baby in your arms. He let out a little gurgle and you beamed at him. Your heart felt full. You’d never known a love so powerful as what you felt when you looked at your son.

Your friends surrounded you and you smiled at them.

“He’s beautiful, Y/N,” Christy said, deftly touching his head. “I’m so proud of you.”

Joe took a seat beside you on the bed and kissed your cheek. “You did wonderful.”

“Thank you,” you said. “Do you guys want to hold him?”

They nodded. You handed the baby to Joe, who passed him first to Ben. Ben looked a little terrified and you almost laughed. You held back, not wanting to make him feel bad. He held Joey close to his chest. He looked so small in Ben’s arms.

“I’m so tired,” you said with a yawn. “I hate to be rude, but I’m going to sleep a little.”

“Go ahead, baby,” Joe said, tucking you under his arm. “You’ve earned it.”

You closed your eyes and dozed against his chest.

Ben passed the baby to Rami next. He stirred and just barely blinked up at Rami.

“He’s got your eyes, Joe,” he said.

“He’s so cute,” Lucy cooed, looking down at him in Rami’s arms. “He might actually be the cutest baby in the world.”

“I agree, but I’m probably biased considering I helped make him,” Joe returned.

Rami passed him to Lucy. “Well, she didn’t,” he said lightly. “So I think it’s a fair statement.”

They continued to pass Joey around. They snapped a few photos to put on social media later, but didn’t post anything yet. Joe also requested they not take any of you while you were asleep since you weren’t able to give them permission. They respected that. Gwilym sent photos of Joe holding the baby to Brian and Roger, who had asked for updates after the child was born.

At one point, Christy left to get everyone coffee. It was the middle of the morning now so everyone was starting to crash a little from being up all night. When she finished passing them out, everyone felt at ease. Ben was holding Joey again, claiming godfather rights. Suddenly, your eyes snapped open and you looked at Joe’s face.

“Joe -” you began, but cut yourself off with a strangled cry, grabbing your head again.

“Shit!” Joe yelled getting to his knees to try and hold you still.

Christy and Lucy hurtled out the door to fetch the doctor.

You squirmed on the bed. Your screaming stopped when you found yourself gasping for air. You couldn’t fill your lungs. Your vision blurred.

Joe looked on in horror as you wheezed, head thrown in the pillow, and eyes beginning to roll back into your head.

“Y/N, breathe!” he cried desperately as he took hold of your hand and held it to his chest. “Stay with me! Come on!”

Your body jerked some more as your face started to turn blue.

“No, no, no, NO!” Joe yelled. “Don’t leave me, Y/N! Please stay with me!”

The jerks slowed to small twitches. Your head started to slump to the right. Your hand became limp in Joe’s.

“Stay with me, Y/N!” he continued, grasping your arm as if it was what tied you to this world. “Baby, PLEASE!”

#joe mazzello #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzello x you #bohemian rhapsody #BoRhap #BoRhap cast #borhap boys #borhap imagine #queen #queen imagine #rami malek #Lucy Boynton #ben hardy #gwilym lee #John Deacon #John deacon imagine #john deacon x reader #john deacon x you

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sui-senka · 5 years ago

Text

We’re all so goddamn tired

Turns out all is still not peaceful in the fandom... because when scrolling through the tags I see this:

@staff you need to help us take action, as our reports don’t seem to work.

@derelict-stranger / the user formerly known as thephantomporg84 up to their same old tricks again. I’ve seen them in the vergil tags doin’ their same old thing, shitting and getting butthurt on the dmc games, and reaching out to writers on tumblr (users kinda like me) in hopes to isolate them like what happened to me and @gottahaveamain.

You’d think at this point that they’d might have learnt something, but no - apparently not. It’s in one ear and out the other, by the looks of it.

So either - they still don’t understand the consequences to their actions and have an incredible lack of self awareness, they are dying for attention, or they’re a straight-up masochist.

My money is on the first one, combined with extreme immaturity and stupidity.

So, @derelict-stranger - here’s a final message, since you didn’t seem to understand the first time.

I’m not a traitor. If anything, Me and other writers are the ones who was betrayed - because what we saw of you was someone who was genuinely kind and took interest in our content, but we were blind to the toxic shit that came out of your mouth. You’re duplicitous, and you only act kind or play the victim when it’s convenient for you, and you lack the decency to apologise.

Secondly - me calling you out has done a service to people who were still getting disgusting anons when you took down your account and didn’t know who they were from. Now that we know that you have your current blog, it makes it all the easier to know that the negativity in the fandom hasn’t left.

Thirdly - me and the 40-50+ people on this site aren’t the disgusting psychopaths that you paint us at. It’s you who’s disgusting. None of us, except for you, have been actively hating on people online or been saying racist, ableist, homophobic, transphobic, death threats or rape threats on anon to people. We’re not cowards, like you. And if we did, we’d gave the decency to apologise and not use a) mental illness or b) our identity as an excuse. You do realise its hundreds of us, people who are doing great things vs. You - a lousy troll that has nothing else better to do it seems than to shit on people.

You do also realise that as you’ve sent more that 1 message on anon or hateful PMs to all 40-50+ of us, that gives us over 100-200+ nuggets of evidence to give into police as evidence of cybercrime - cause that’s a thing now. To use your own words that you said to me - “ You have no legs to stand on here”. If someone on this site turns in this evidence, then it’s adios to your biochem job, which you kind of deserve - because if you’re gonna harrass that many people, you deserve to feel misery in return. Imagine if your peers (highly doubt you have any) found out - what would they think?

Speaking of misery - if this fandom gives you so much depression and misery, then why are you still here? Like I said before, None of us want you here - and none of us should feel bad for having opinions that you don’t like. You do realise that if you don’t like something - you don’t have to say anything, and that you can scroll away to preserve your sanity. Ah - let’s be real, you probably don’t.

Also - you must be wondering “oh woe is me - why do I get so much hate from everyone” - well, it’s kind of fun to dunk on someone who recycles boring and lacklustre insults, and as you don’t seem to listen to reason anyway, it’s a little bit of fun do deflect from any possible hurt you may have caused us. Sorry if none of us have been pissing ourselves cause of your threats. :/

Also - repeat after me:

👏the 👏first👏amendment👏is👏not👏a👏good👏excuse👏for👏hateful👏comments👏

Just because you have the right to say something, doesn’t mean that you should. There are direct consequences to your actions these days - and the internet is a permanent record of your actions. This will bite you in the ass, someday. Every action has en equal and opposite reaction, so the more you hate on us, the more we take the piss out of you. Simple. As.

For the sake of the fandom:

- install IP strackers to keep track

- block and report as much hate that you receive

- if you are active on the dmc subreddits and the /v/ section on 4chan, block and report as well

-if you have the balls and the means, pursue legal action as tumblr is doing jack, no offense @staff

For the sake of yourself:

- actually log off if you are getting depressed from all this

- stay away from our tags

- stay away from reddit and 4chan

- I’d say deactivate your blog, but as you don’t learn anything you’ll come back anyway

- if you wanna have a clean slate, actually apologise for the things you say to us and maybe, all of us won’t dunk you you no more, but I doubt you will do that.

- finally, 🖕

@sakkajagga @diabeticsugarush

@creepyscritches @brasspetalsx , @fandomhell97 , @breezeinmonochromenight , @kaldea88 , @xalmasyx , @hornyangrybean , @noir-sorrow, @catspook , @xenontrioxide , @zilla-may-cry , @boobble , @vergilshusband @tifaroni , @littlebluewraith , @im-a-clown , @genovaempera , @neodicronus, @thelessiknowtheworse, @thriilsy @jestermania , @bunny-girl-sweetseek @darka3363 , @witchkiid , @45 @manadebutt , @magsamaire @brasspetalsx, @fandomhell97, @breezeinmonochromenight, @kaldea88, @xalmasyx, @hornyangrybean, @noir-sorrow, @catspook, @xenontrioxide, @zilla-may-cry, @boobble, @vergilshusband, @tifaroni, @littlebluewraith, @im-a-clown, @genovaempera, @neodicronus, @thelessiknowtheworse, @thriilsy, @jestermania, @bunny-girl-sweetseek, @darka3363, @witchkiid, @45, @manadebutt, @magsamaire, @spaghetti-queerghetti, @clairexredfields, @204863-yunglynn, @yuri-subtext, @miss-soso-25, @josuke-kujo, @cameguisada, @trionfi, @glitteryhumanfiretrash, @ @creepyscritches, @brasspetalsx, @fandomhell97, @breezeinmonochromenight, @kaldea88, @xalmasyx, @hornyangrybean, @noir-sorrow, @catspook, @xenontrioxide, @zilla-may-cry, @boobble, @vergilshusband, @tifaroni, @littlebluewraith, @im-a-clown, @genovaempera, @neodicronus, @thelessiknowtheworse, @thriilsy, @jestermania, @bunny-girl-sweetseek, @darka3363, @witchkiid, @45, @manadebutt, @magsamaire, @spaghetti-queerghetti, @clairexredfields, @204863-yunglynn, @yuri-subtext, @miss-soso-25, @josuke-kujo, @cameguisada, @trionfi, @glitteryhumanfiretrash @lewdbunbun, @journalofsparda, @complacentdevil, @infernokid, @emogodmatthew, @brit-o-raptor, @salsa-and-chips, @gemstone-enema lewdbunbun, @journalofsparda, @complacentdevil, @infernokid, @emogodmatthew, @brit-o-raptor, @salsa-and-chips, @gemstone-enema, @spaghetti-queerghetti , @clairexredfields, @204863-yunglynn @yuri-subtext, @miss-soso-25 @josuke-kujo , @cameguisada, @trionfi @glitteryhumanfiretrash @lewdbunbun , @journalofsparda @complacentdevil , @infernokid @emogodmatthew, @brit-o-raptor @salsa-and-chips , @gemstone-enema

#devil may cry #dmc #dmc discourse #discourse #thephantomporg84 #derelict-stranger #🤡

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blouisparadise · 5 years ago

Note

I think you answered an ask similar to this a while back, but thought I'd make a suggestion about tagging writers in fic recs? I know it's a lot more work for you and I for one appreciate how much effort you put into the blog already, but I have seen that you are now looking for more members and you have closed your fic rec requests for the time being, so maybe it would be more feasible now? I feel maybe your fic recs would get more exposure if the writers knew they had been included. Love you!

We’ll consider it. To be absolutely frank with our followers, running this blog has been a bit discouraging lately because of the lack of support for the fic recs that our admins already put a lot of time into. We still have over a hundred rec lists scheduled, so we’re not actually taking a break from the work, it’s just that we’re not adding more work on top of it. The one or two people who will be joining the blog are replacing two people who recently left, and their work will be focused on finding content for the blog rather than rec lists.

We’re so happy that BLP is enjoyed by a lot of people and we enjoy running it and plan to continue for as long as we can, but when we post anywhere from 6-12 rec lists each month (which is unmatched by almost any other blog) and most of them can barely hit 100 notes, it doesn’t provide much motivation to spend even more time on them. We have rec lists already done through the end of the year, but we’ll consider tracking down authors next year.

In the meantime, we’d really appreciate if our followers who send rec requests (we still receive a lot), enjoy our fic rec lists, and want us to improve on them to please reblog them and help spread the word. It may seem silly, but all our admins and members are busy and it’s difficult to justify spending extra hours of our time working so hard on things that very few of our followers appreciate.

- BLP 🍑

#asks

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romanticsuspense · 6 years ago

Text

Is Outlander Claire’s Story or Jamie’s?

The first time I came across this question was just a couple of week ago, when I read @gotham-ruaidh‘s answer to that very question. To be honest, I was a little miffed by the supposition that Outlander was Jamie’s story more than Claire’s. Didn’t Diana set out to write a story about a marriage? How could Outlander be more Jamie’s story than Claire’s? Aren’t their stories intertwined in such a way as to be almost inseparable?

Well, today, while perusing the Outlander tag, I found this post by @lburks226. Liesel’s perception of the books align closely to mine—It’s Jamie and Claire’s story. But, I wondered what Diana had said on Twitter to cause such a brouhaha...

So, I went to Diana’s twitter and it seems that this uproar started when Diana made a comment about inserting Claire into the Outlander story to add “sexual tension.” I read some of the fan’s replies, and it seems that some fans interpreted this to mean that Diana viewed Claire as a sexual object and nothing more, only there to titillate the male characters. (One fan used the phrase “sexual pawn.”) Which, if you ask me, is twisting Diana’s words.

As I read through her tweets, a lot of them sounded very familiar, and then I remembered that Diana has answered this same question before on TheLitForum.com. In her very detailed explanation, she essentially says the same things she was trying to convey on Twitter, but she gets her point across much more effectively (not having to deal with a 280 character limit). So, under the cut, I’ve quoted Diana’s post about this in it’s entirety, as well as a few screencaps of her tweets on March 19th. I hope it gives some fans who may be irritated by Diana’s comments a bit more context and clarity. The statement “It’s Jamie’s story as told by Claire” makes a lot more sense to me now, after reading Diana’s explanation.

My two (or five) cents:

1. Twitter is not the best place to have a productive discussion about Outlander. There’s just not enough space for it. And it’s difficult to read a person’s tone on Twitter.

2. From a structural standpoint, the Outlander series is Jamie’s story (in the sense that it’s Jamie’s time and place), as told from Claire’s first person point of view.

3. Outlander is primarily about Jamie and Claire and their marriage...But, it’s about a lot of other things and characters, too.

4. The idea of Outlander started with “a man in a kilt.” An Englishwoman was added into the story for sexual tension, conflict (being an Englishwoman among Scots), and to be the reader’s eyes into a strange world.

5. But, that doesn’t mean Claire isn’t an important character. She has just as much agency and complexity as Jamie does. I particularly love Diana’s final paragraph, so I’m quoting it here above the cut:

So. You introduce Claire into Jamie's time (and his life) and she immediately enters the much more adventurous, vivid context. A lot of what happens to her in OUTLANDER (and later books) has to do with who Jamie is and what he chooses or is forced to do. This doesn't mean she's a bystander, onlooker, or in any way a nonparticipant; the fact that she's _there_ is vitally important, both to Jamie and the story overall, and she makes personal choices that shape her own life, as well as dealing with circumstances forced upon her. But it's Jamie's context in which both of them live their lives together. She's telling it, because she's the outlander, the fish out of water, the stranger--we identify with her, because that's what our role would be in similar circumstances, and it's a much easier way to tell a historical story, if you can use modern idiom and perception.That doesn't mean it's principally her story, or that her part in it is either more or less than Jamie's--as previously noted, the story itself doesn't exist without both of them, and both of them _together_.

So, what do y’all think? Does it matter to you if it’s more Jamie’s story or Claire’s? If it does matter to you, why? Does Diana’s explanation of how the Outlander story came to be and how Jamie and Claire fit into it make sense to you? How do you interpret the statement “It’s Jamie’s story as told by Claire?”

“You know, it's possible that many writers go about their work with a lot more pre-thinking than I do. <g> All I had, when I made up my mind to write a novel for practice (no one was EVER going to see it, so I could have perfect freedom to do anything I felt like, try anything I wanted to experiment with (in order to increase my skill), etc.)--was a man in a kilt. Period. That's it. Man in a kilt.

So if one is going to say that OUTLANDER is "about" any one character (and it's not, but put that aside...), it would be The Man in the Kilt. However, about the third day of writing--and I didn't think about what I was _going_ to write, I just wrote about whatever vague thing drifted into my mind, just to put fictional words down on paper (ergo, those first two days were entirely focused on the Man in the Kilt (nameless, then)....

Well, I'd gone to the university library (I was an assistant professor, which gave me really good access and borrowing privileges) immediately, when I decided to set my practice novel in 18th century Scotland, and as of the third day, I knew a few things <g>--mainly, that the Big Conflict in Scotland in the 18th century was the Jacobite Rising of the '45. Which--on a very superficial level (superficial is all you _can_ be, with two days' research)--seemed to be a war between England and Scotland. (It was, of course, much more complex than that, but then, all wars are a lot more complex than they seem on the surface.)

So--in possession of that fact <g>--I thought, well, obviously, I need a lot of Scotsmen here, because of the kilt factor, and if it's a war, we'll have them--but maybe it would be a good idea to have a female to play against them; then we'd have sexual tension--that's conflict, that's good...and if I make her an Englishwoman, then we'll have _lots_ of conflict. So...

I introduced An Englishwoman. No idea who she was, what she was going to do, etc.--she was just An Englishwoman, whose only purpose was to interact on some unspecified level with The Man in the Kilt, in order to escalate the sense of conflict and tension.

So that's who Jamie and Claire were, to begin with. <g>

Now, it was my husband who observed to me, sometime last year (when people started saying that Outlander was "Claire's story"), that in fact, it was Jamie's story as told through (and by) Claire (who was naturally an integral part of said story).

I mentioned this quote to someone, observing that I thought he was right (not that I'd ever thought about it myself)--and now we have all this nonsense. (Not blaming you for it, I hasten to add. <g>)

What _I_ think is that a) of COURSE it's Jamie and Claire's story. How could it not be? It wouldn't be the same story without either one of them--as is quite obvious when you see the separate tracks of their lives in the first part of VOYAGER. And b) what is behind my husband's observation is true, but it has nothing to do with the importance of either character _as people_.

It has to do with the fact that Jamie lives in much more interesting (read, dangerous, unpredictable, and to a large extent unfamiliar) times. Claire's post-war, 20th-century life without Jamie is, on the surface, not real interesting. Re-establishing emotional connections with a husband (but in a context of mutual safety and mutual desire to make those connections), or (later) dealing with the challenges of becoming a professional woman and balancing those challenges against the responsibilities and emotional draw of motherhood.

Yeah, you can make a good novel out of such material--hundreds of Women's Fiction novels do. But the raw material is not intrinsically interesting. What makes it interesting is either an intense and unique personality of the main character and/or cultural interest/outrage on the part of the readership. Women respond to this kind of story because they face those challenges, and they want to see how other women might manage them. Men, not surprisingly, don't; that's why it's "women's fiction."

So, Jamie's story. He's a wanted outlaw, constantly at odds with just about everybody, from the British government to a large segment of his own family. There's incipient social unrest surrounding him (and his whole culture), with the constant potential for violence, subterfuge, mistrust, and imminent execution. In other words, he lives in a high-stakes context; Claire lives in a very personal (but overall low-stakes) context. Adventure (and the demands of such things on character, for good or evil), vs. "My husband KNOWS I take care of a squalling baby all day, how can he bloody invite people to DINNER without asking me?"

So. You introduce Claire into Jamie's time (and his life) and she immediately enters the much more adventurous, vivid context. A lot of what happens to her in OUTLANDER (and later books) has to do with who Jamie is and what he chooses or is forced to do. This doesn't mean she's a bystander, onlooker, or in any way a nonparticipant; the fact that she's _there_ is vitally important, both to Jamie and the story overall, and she makes personal choices that shape her own life, as well as dealing with circumstances forced upon her. But it's Jamie's context in which both of them live their lives together. She's telling it, because she's the outlander, the fish out of water, the stranger--we identify with her, because that's what our role would be in similar circumstances, and it's a much easier way to tell a historical story, if you can use modern idiom and perception. That doesn't mean it's principally her story, or that her part in it is either more or less than Jamie's--as previously noted, the story itself doesn't exist without both of them, and both of them _together_.

But if you're looking at the structure of the story, then yeah, it's Jamie's story as told by (and lived with) Claire. So what?”

Below are some screencaps of Diana’s tweets on March 19th. Remarkably similar to the above explanation, right?

#outlander #outlander talk #diana gabaldon

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g0dblessthefandom · 6 years ago

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Live! From New York: A Brittana Fanfiction Ch. 2

Listen... I know it’s been a minute, but I promise there won’t be as long a gap until the next update. I swear. Catch up on FF.net and AO3.

Santana had been to 30 Rockefeller Plaza three times in her life. The first was when she first got to New York, and she and some of her friend’s had stumbled across the crazy idea that they wanted to go ice skating during Christmas. Santana hadn’t really known how to ice skate, but she’d given it a try, and broken her wrist. The second time was three years later when her parents visited from California, and insisted on going for the tour of NBC studios. They were obsessed with Kathie Lee and Hoda on the morning show, and it didn’t matter how much Santana protested, they were going, so she tagged along. She’d resisted the siren song of network TV for as long as she could, but once the NBC page pointed out the wall of signed photos from former hosts of SNL, they had her. She spent nearly $300 in the gift shop on swag, and yes, Mercedes had laughed at her for her lack of willpower, but it’d had been well worth it. She’d considered for a moment wearing her SNL t-shirt, but after about thirty seconds of wandering around her apartment, she figured that maybe that was coming on too strong.

The host dinner on Tuesday night was a tradition. Santana didn’t need to be told that. It was her first chance to make a big impression on the cast, writers and some of the crew, many she’d only seen on TV, and it was pretty important. Rachel had given her a long list of places that would impress even the snobbiest of connoisseurs, and for once, Santana was glad to have a friend who’s insane dietary demands kept her on the cutting edge of the trendy eateries in New York. Rachel and Mercedes sat in her dressing room, Michelin Eating Guides open and surrounding them, both shouting out suggestions as best they could, but Santana had yet to hear one that just sounded right.

“Oooh, how about Le Papillion?”

“Rachel, I’m trying to blow them away, not put them to sleep. That restaurant looks like the kind of place you’d take your mistress so you could avoid running into your side chick.”

Rachel took the comment in stride, thumbing through a few more pages. “The Grange? It’s got this lovely hunter’s lodge motif. I don’t find it personally enjoyable, but the cast might.”

Santana grunted noncommittally and hit a few mindless notes on the piano she kept in the corner.

“Okay, how about the new Japanese restaurant by that celebrity chef? I heard that they flip the sushi to your table from across the room!” Mercedes said excitedly waving a glossy magazine high above her head.

Santana hit a few more notes, and suddenly closed the piano with a sharp snap.

She pointed to Rachel and Mercedes in turn. “I don’t want gimmicks. I don’t want tricks. I just want a place that will dazzle and inspire them!”

She stomped over to the couch and sat down in a huff, crossing her arms.

“Um, so…” Mercedes said, setting her magazine down and sitting forward to pat Santana on the leg. “I’m going to ignore that little outburst because you’re my girl, and I love you, but if you snap at me like that again, I’m gonna yank out your weave, and sell it on Ebay.”

There was a lightness in her voice, but Santana knew that she wasn’t far from the truth, so she grimaced and nodded, rolling her eyes for effect.

“Fine, ‘Cedes, but something has got to be perfect. If I can’t find it, I will never make this right.”

There was a whine in her own voice that Santana didn’t like, but she couldn’t help it. This was a big deal. This was a first impression, and in a lot of ways, it could be the first step on her path of Saturday Night Live fame. She didn’t want to want it as much as she did, but she did. She cleared her throat in an attempt to wipe the desperation away.

“I don’t know why you’re all worked up about this anyway, Santana.” Rachel said behind the latest copy of Fine Eats magazine. “It’s just a performance. You do it every night of the week and twice on Sundays. This is old hat stuff.”

“Yeah, but if she screws up it’s not just to the crowd of one theater.” Mercedes broke in from behind her own dining magazine. “It’s in front of hundreds of thousands. Or at least whatever is normal for a Saturday night, I dunno. Could be millions.”

Santana laid across the couched, nearly knocking the magazine out of Rachel’s hands.

Rachel raised it above her head with a sigh. “Even then, it’s not even prime time! I sang backup for Sia last year at New Year’s and there were probably more people in Times Square alone than-”

“What’s this?” Santana exclaimed, rolling off the couch, and grabbing a magazine from the stack on the floor near the couch.

“What’s what?” Mercedes and Rachel said, nearly in unison.

Santana pointed at photo in the magazine, tapping the magazine emphatically. “Blaine Anderson!”

Mercedes was by her side in an instant, and nearly grabbed the article from her hands. “No fricking way. Are you serious? Blaine Anderson? The guy from Newberry Park?!”

“It’s gotta be. I remember that dumbass cowlick from anywhere.”

“Perhaps you’d like to clue me in, ladies.” Rachel sighed, folding her magazine primly in her lap.

“Oh yeah, Berry, I forgot that it was only recently that you started stalking us.” Santana quipped.

“I know that you’re joking, Santana, but I think everyone in the company agreed that you’re ‘joke restraining order’ was beyond the pale.”

“He ran this food cart in Newberry park, in our old neighborhood in Queens. He had a bunch of Filipino food, and it was pretty much the most delicious thing we’d ever eaten in our whole lives. We basically went there every day for three years, and then one day he said he was shutting down, and was going to open a brick and mortar place. We told him we’d be first in line, and gave him our contact info, but we hadn’t heard anything since.”

“Maybe that was your favorite place to eat, Mercedes, but I like to think that I had a bit more class than some fly by night operation.”

“Oh, well, I guess all the times that you texted me desperately at midnight asking me to bring you some adobo chicken on my way home from work were hallucinations.” Mercedes shot back.

Santana buried her nose behind the glossy print, and wouldn’t meet Mercedes’ eye. “Yeah, well, whatever. It turns out he made it big, and now his place is one of the up and comers in Manhattan.”

“Well, good for him! I’m so proud. We should definitely make a reservation.”

Rachel stooped behind Santana and took a look at the magazine herself. “Filipino-American chef Blaine Anderson opens up Hapa an American/Filipino fusion restaurant that mixes both of Anderson’s heritages into one amazing dining experience. Good luck with that reservation, ladies, it says here that they’re booked out for the next six months.”

“Maybe for a peon such as yourself.” Santana snatched the paper away, and tugged on the page, tearing it out. “But we were there at the beginning, and I’m sure there’s no way he can refuse one of his original supporters a seat.”

Mercedes did some quick math. “It’s not just one seat, San, you’re taking the whole cast of SNL, probably plus some of the writers. That’s like 20 people.”

“Sure, I’m not saying that it’s going to be easy, but you’re talking to Santana Lopez. Writer and star of the most sought after ticket on Broadway. I’ll offer him a few balcony seats to Billie! and he’ll be sold.”

“I’m not sure if it’s going to be that easy, Santana.”

“Well, luckily Rachel, no one asked you.”

“Santana, she’s right.” Mercedes said. “And, if you remember correctly, it’s not like you and Blaine Anderson had the most cozy relationship.”

Santana smiled slyly. “And that’s why I’m not going to ask him. I’m going to ask the co-star of the most sought after ticket on Broadway. The woman behind the throne. One of the most talented, kind, and not to mention beautiful women that I know.”

Mercedes opened her mouth to reply, but Rachel interrupted her.

“Why Santana, that was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!” She swooned.

Both Santana and Mercedes gave her a glare, but moved on with the conversation.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lopez.”

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Cedes. You know how much this means to me. Having it at this place, this great, cosmopolitan establishment, on the rise, with amazing food… It’s a can’t miss! It would mean the world to me.”

“I don’t know, Santana…”

“And I would owe you one.”

A devious smile crept over Mercedes’ features, and Santana’s eyes grew wide. She was beginning to regret her decision, but Mercedes was already accepting, her hand out to accept Santana’s.

“Deal. I’ll get you and the cast into Blaine Anderson’s restaurant in a couple weeks, and you’ll officially owe me one.”

There was something about her tone that Santana didn’t like, but she was desperate. What she had said to Mercedes and Rachel was real. There was something in her that needed to make a good impression, and she wasn’t sure why, but she’d do anything to achieve her goal.

She swallowed audibly, but took Mercedes’ hand regardless. “Fine. Deal.”

Mercedes held her hand a bit tighter. “But you have to convince Emma to give up the tickets.”

Santana looked like she wanted to resist, but a thousand scenarios ran through her head and there wasn’t a single one where she figured she could refuse this request.

“Deal.” She said, defeated

Mercedes nodded with a satisfied smile, and finally released Santana’s hand. She stooped down and started gathering the magazines off the floor.

“Ooh, I can’t wait. I’m already thinking of what you can do.”

Santana bent over to help. “Yeah, whatever. You just focus on getting me in that restaurant and the rest will fall into place.”

Rachel had placed herself delicately back on the couch, and was fanning through a Vanity Fair.

“You do realize she’s probably just going to get you to watch the kids so she and the Mrs. can have a date night, right?”

Santana scoffed and watched Mercedes carefully. “Yeah, she knows that I would do that for free. I can already see that she’s got something more devious in mind. Deny it, Mercedes. I dare you.”

Mercedes laughed lightly, and placed her stack of magazines on the coffee table. The laugh took on an edge of the maniacal as she didn’t say a word, but just walked out of the room.

Leslie Jones and Artie Abrams both watched Brittany with a strange fascination. They talked, but didn’t bother directing any of their comments toward Brittany, who had been muttering to herself for the better part of an hour, and had been standing in the middle of her dressing room with a signed copy of the Billie! playbill for the better part of fifteen.

They watched her mutter for a few moments more and suddenly Leslie stood up from the couch.

“Girl, just leave it! Damn. I swear you’ve spent more time doing this than writing any sketch I have ever seen you in.”

Artie waved his hands in solidarity. “Les, she can’t hear you, girl. She’s in La La Land.”

“Well, she better get her ass out of La La Land, because we’re supposed to be writing something to take to pitch tomorrow, and I can’t even think with her running around like this!”

The weeks before Santana Lopez’s arrival had slowly whittled down to days, and now they were only a mere 72 hours away from her arrival at Studio 8H. While not everyone in the cast knew (or cared too much) about Brittany’s fascination with Santana Lopez, they had all found a bit of humor in her worsening condition. It was like watching someone very, very slowly sink into quicksand that they only notice after the fourth or fifth day.

“What do you think she’s going to do with it in the end?” Artie asked, with a kind of quiet wonder.

“I dunno. She’ll probably try and eat it or something.” Leslie cupped her hands around her mouth. “She’s not going to care if you have a totally normal thing in your dressing room, Britt. Honestly, she’s probably not even going to come in here.”

That last sentence was directed towards Artie, but Brittany’s eyes snapped to Leslie. “You don’t think so? I mean, I wasn’t thinking that it would be a part of a tour or anything, but I’d really hoped that she’d stop by. I could show her my table, and my computer and stuff.”

“Britt. Girl.” Leslie deadpanned. “Santana Lopez, is like on a whole other level right now. She’s won like a million awards, and was friends with President Obama. She’s on a whole other level of cool, my dude.”

Brittany tried not to let her face fall too much, but she couldn’t help but be disappointed. “Yeah, no, you’re right. What was I thinking?”

She placed the framed Playbill on her desk with a soft slap. Artie pushed his wheelchair closer, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Nah, Britt, it’s not like that. I’m sure she’ll come by.”

“Yeah, Brittany, she’s a star, but she seems like a really down to Earth person, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Leslie chimed in, quick to reassure her.

Brittany took a deep sigh, and dramatically slithered to the floor, her body in fluid motion, floating to the ground. Artie had to admit that he was always impressed with her control and grace. Even falling to the floor, she looked like a dancer.

One thing he did know from being her friend for just under a decade was how resilient she was. He leaned over and patted Brittany on the leg.

“It’s cool, Britt, don’t worry. How about we head over to Jane’s office, and see if we can’t make some comedy magic?”

Leslie and Brittany both looked up at him quizzickly.

“What?” He continued, puzzled. “I thought it would better than just saying, ‘Write some sketches.’”

“Yeah.” said Leslie, taking a large step over Brittany, and reaching out a hand. “You should probably stick to jokes, funny man. C’mon, Britt, let’s get out of here before we catch any of his bad jokes.”

Brittany took Leslie’s hand, but lingered a moment as she and Artie argued a bit as they moved down the hall. She would be the first to admit that she sometimes got caught up in her emotions, and maybe tended to exaggerate more often than not.

Maybe.

But, she was a performer, and she was a bit of a cut up, and it seemed sometimes that the only way that she could express herself was in a funny character, or voice or bit. She was like the world’s most outgoing introvert. But, at the end of the day, she really did want Santana Lopez to notice her. What came after that, she really had no idea. She stifled a heavy sigh that was escaping from her lips and took a right instead of the left, turning off into a less populated corner of 30 Rock.

It was nearly midnight, and the building was quiet, but that was par for the course. Most of the “late night” shows filmed at six in the afternoon, so around this time, it was usually only SNL writers left. They were still early in the week, so the crunch wasn’t on, but it wouldn’t hurt to hammer out a few sketch ideas before heading in for the night. Still, it was pretty early for the SNL folks, most didn’t get their motors really running until 10:30, and it seemed like a waste to stop working then.

Brittany snapped back into focus and looked around. Her feet had taken her almost all the way to her after-show-secret-hideout, but she frowned to herself. She hadn’t meant to come this way at all. How out of order did her brain have to be to bring her this way? She rocked quickly back and forth on the balls of her feet and thought for a moment. It was just a show, right? Just a show like any other? Then why was she so nervous? Why was she so worried? Why was she acting so weird? She frowned again to herself.

“A lot on your mind?”

The voice behind her nearly made her yelp, but she contained herself, and spun quickly to face it.

Sam Evans had been on the show for less than a year, but he was currently the resident heartthrob, and his abs brought a certain quality to the shirtless scenes, so Lorne was sure to make good use of them. Brittany wasn’t quite sure how she felt about him yet. He had to tendency to make sketches all about him, and was hired after his successful YouTube channel had several viral videos. He wasn’t a stand up comic, and hadn’t been to Second City, so he was a new beast entirely.

Brittany eyed him up and down. “Nothing to concern yourself with, Sam. Shouldn’t you be out vlogging or something?”

She kept her voice light, but there was a bite. She didn’t have anything against the guy, but it didn’t hurt to remind him who had seniority.

“Nah, I’m just working on some killer stuff for this week. Lorne couldn’t get enough of my stoner surfer guy on Update a few weeks ago, so I’m thinking of bringing that back.”

“Yeah, might want to watch out for that, don’t want it getting stale.”

A look of uncertainty crossed over Sam’s face before he spoke up again. “You don’t think it’s weird you’re wandering around on this side of the studio late at night? Not worried about ghosts?”

The last part of his statement came with the hint of a sneer, and Brittany had to keep herself from smiling. She and Artie had spent the better part of a month convincing Sam and Ego Nwadim (the two first years) that the studio was haunted. Ego had been humoring them (nothing wrong with a little hazing to promote team building), but it seemed to Brittany that Sam had actually believed her, and still refused to go in the third floor men’s bathroom alone.

“Whatever, Britt.” Sam said. The uncertainty had slipped away, and the cocky grin returned. “Hey, did you hear? Santana Lopez has sent out invitations for the Host Dinner. I just got mine a few minutes ago.”

He reached into his jacket, pulling out a gorgeous egg shell envelope. He waved it in front of Brittany and with a flash, she had snatched it out of his hands, and was pulling it open.

“Hey! That’s mine.”

She batted his hand away, and pulled the envelope open, removing a document that Brittany could only describe as ‘wedding Invitation fancy’.

“Holy hell. This is amazing.” She breathed, gazing down at the paper.

You Are Cordially Invited To Join Santana Lopez for the Inaugural Host’s Dinner

For Episode 848 of Saturday Night Live

Reservation at 6PM at Hapa

72nd and Columbus Ave.

Be there or be square!

Brittany clasped the note to her chest. “Oh my god.”

Sam’s eyes widened a little. “What’s wrong?”

Brittany sighed a little and smiled tightly. “She’s such a freaking dork!”

With that she raced down the hall, back towards the writer’s offices, doing a joyful leap every so often.

Sam watched her leave curiously. “But that was my invitation.”

#brittana #glee #santana lopez #brittany s. pierce #fanfiction #wlw #live! from new york brittana

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