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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

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His Good Sweater: Chapter 18

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 7.6k

Abu Dhabi holds a special place in Pierre's heart. The food is great, the views are spectacular, and there is always plenty to do to keep him busy. Night races are some of the more exciting races too and Pierre appreciated the variety.

Coming into the final race of the season, Pierre holds on to seventh in the championship by a few points. Perez sensed the usurper creeping up on his seat and had cranked it up to eleven.

Exams had kept you in London for the race in Brazil, where Pierre had finished sixth and Checo DNF'd. You had managed to fly out for the weekend in Saudi Arabia, where Perez had finished fifth and closed the gap to Pierre to only four points behind.

If Pierre didn't finish ahead of Perez this weekend, he was fucked. And he was at the distinct disadvantage of his good luck charm being absent, stuck in London finishing up your final few exams of the semester. Two weeks without seeing you coupled with barely hearing from you had worn on him. It wasn't purposeful on your part but Pierre's stress was already compressed like the suspension on his car. Stray an inch too far over the racing line, hit a curb too hard and it was liable to snap, sending bits and pieces flying.

Pierre checks his phone for the millionth time as he waits to check in to the hotel. Wednesday was late for this many crew members to be arriving. His main concern though was that you hadn't responded to the text he'd sent you upon landing.

"Look lively, will you?" Max claps Pierre on the shoulder and he slides his phone into his pocket. "It's the last race of the season. We get to go balls to the wall and leave it all out in the track. And here you are looking like a kicked puppy."

"Easy for you to say," Pierre starts, grinning at his friend. "You clinched the title weeks ago. You don't even have to race this weekend if you don't want to and you'd still win."

"Doesn't mean I won't be shooting for a podium."

Pierre rolls his eyes. "Yeah well we can't all be so lucky, can we?"

"Next year you'll be playing with the big dogs." Max hands the receptionist his ID, says a few words and turns back to Pierre. "Looking forward to having you as a teammate again. It was fun for those couple races and I'm sure you'll be a challenge now that you've found your groove."

"You're gonna jinx it if you keep talking." Pierre laughs, praying that it covers up the old wound Max's statement picked open. Pierre hated the idea of moving back to Red Bull but he didn't have much choice. He was still contracted to one of four Red Bull branded seats for next season. A promotion, at the very least, would help him showcase his talent and further cement his value. If he had to spend any longer than that with the team, ripping out his hair was a real possibility.

"Wasn't someone supposed to be with you this weekend?" Max quirks a brow. "Where is she?"

"In London." Max bringing you up doesn't help the pit forming in Pierre's stomach. Win or lose, seventh or eighth, Red Bull or Alpha Tauri, come Sunday Pierre wanted you at his side. Interview requests were bound to roll in either way and Pierre would need someone to ground him, a task much easier to accomplish if you were physically at his side.

"Too bad." Max clicks his tongue and takes his room keys from the receptionist. "It's gonna be a fun weekend."

"I don't think-"

Pierre's vision goes dark at the same time someone whispers, "Guess who?"

Pierre sucks in a breath, spins on his heel and wraps you in a hug in one smooth motion. You laugh as he lifts you off your feet and presses kisses to your cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" He grabs both suitcases and tugs you aside. His room can wait.

"Tost asked me to come." Your grin is contagious, its twin appearing on Pierre's own cheeks. "He said that since you were flying out from Milan on your own there was an extra seat on the jet, so if I got myself to Nice I could fly out with the Red Bull boys."

"Seven hours trapped in a tin can with Max, Yuki and Checo?" Pierre rubs his chest. "I've got heartburn just thinking about that."

"It wasn't so bad," you say, finally giving him a proper kiss. "Yuki and I just played games on our phones the whole time. And I beat Max at Scrabble."

"How many Dutch words did he try to use?"

"Mmm, about half the words he tried were definitely not English."

"Yep, sounds about right." Pierre throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you back to the reception desk. He pays for an upgraded room when you aren't looking- though when you're assigned a suite there's not much higher you can go- and slips the woman behind the counter an extra bill for good measure.

"I could use a nap," you note, leaning against Pierre like you'd otherwise fall over. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

Pierre checks his watch. "We've got time for a nap."

"We?" Your raised eyebrow is question enough. Pierre smiles and swipes his key card once you're in the elevator with him. He hadn't looked at the price of the room but he was positive it was more than he'd spent on a single night in his entire career, considering it occupies an entire floor of the swanky hotel.

"It's date night," Pierre says simply. Initially his plan had been to invite Charles over for a game of Fifa but the Monegasque wouldn’t fault him for cancelling at the last minute. "We're in one of the most luxurious cities in the world and I'm going to show you off every chance I get. The restaurant down stairs is to die for."

Your attempt at nodding along with what he says is thwarted by a yawn. "Sleep first, eat later." Seeing as it was impossible to deny you, Pierre simply drops a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Wait until you see our room." The way your eyes light up when he says our room makes him want to say it again and again just to see you sparkle.

"I know you upgraded it, Mr. I-think-I'm-sneaky." You uncurl yourself from against his arm when the elevator chimes. "How much did it cost?"

"A few extra pennies."

The stainless steel doors open directly into the suite. The living space is dominated by a curving crescent of full length windows overlooking the cerulean harbor and the jagged steel of the city skyline beyond. Suitcase forgotten, your jaw drags along the floor as you toe off your shoes in favor of sinking onto one of the half moon couches situated around a low coffee table.

"Did you get some sort of bonus you didn't tell me about?" Pierre sees your inner engineer cataloging the chandelier dripping crystals over the carved dining table and the pattern of the black veined marble flooring. "This cost more than a few pennies."

"I didn't really look at the price so it's possible," he admits. In the end it was worth it to see you like this, happy as a pig in mud. Pierre was in his element at the track you were in yours in beautiful buildings. For all Pierre cared you could be sharing a dingy room at a motel; it would still be five star worthy with you there.

Every once in a while though, you deserve a bit of pampering for all you put up with. Late nights and months apart wasn’t easy on either of you, but you stuck by him. And when the day comes that Pierre retires or loses his seat, you would be the one there to comfort him. Spending frivolous amounts of money to see you smile was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

In Pierre’s world, money is temporary, you are forever.

"Well I have half a mind to tear into you for spending so much on a room we won't spend all that much time in," you start, your star-speckled gaze landing on Pierre, "the view is too pretty to be upset about."

"Mine isn't half bad either." You laugh, tucking an errant hair behind your ear. You both know he isn’t referring to the glittering bay or the expensive furnishings.

"Up," Pierre demands softly, holding out his hand. Your hand is warm and dwarfed by his long fingers but you barely seem to notice. The heart in his chest pounds for no discernable reason as he leads you down the narrow hall past doors leading to what he can only assume are bedrooms and bathrooms, to the one at the end of the hall. Based on his mental floor plan this one has the best view, if he's guessed correctly.

Your breezy oh confirms his hunch. You stutter at the threshold, coming up short behind him to bathe in the beauty of the sea, dotted through with white sails. Sunlight twinkles off the waves and if he breathes deep enough, he can almost smell the salt.

"Come on," Pierre says with a chuckle, urging you to fall into the fluffy down of the bed with him. You follow reluctantly, too enamored by the sights to pay any real attention to how Pierre arranges your limbs to his liking, your head resting on his chest and your joined hands laying atop his stomach.

"How about that nap?" He murmurs, running the fingers of his free hand through your unbound hair.

You sigh and snuggle in closer. It was rare that Pierre had the opportunity to steal moments like this during a race week, when he had nothing better to do than tangle himself in you.

"I'll tell you a story."

Just as he expected, you leap at the offer. "Can you tell me the one about the time you and Charles got in trouble when you were karting?"

Normally he opts for something fictional that allows him to embellish the details to fit his narrative. Pierre loved spinning tales rife with laughter and intrigue but he also didn't mind indulging your curiosity.

"Yeah, I can tell that one. Let me set the scene. It's midnight on a Friday at a little track outside Rouen. Two gangly teenage boys, one French and one definitely, positively not French, have nothing better to do than get themselves in trouble…"

**********

Fans began whispering when Pierre set foot in the lobby. The price of stardom was high and had taken years to get used to. Some days the bombardment of people asking for photos and autographs overwhelmed him to the point he was desperate for an out. Most people respected his boundaries and when they sensed it was too much, they backed off. Other days it was simply too much and he would mumble excuses and book it out the door.

The pressure increases tenfold when he steps into the lobby with you on his arm, the pair of you dressed to the nines. He clocks a group of women- clearly tourists based on their body language- perched on a sofa the minute their low murmurs turn into excited squeals.

Pierre mentally braces for you to stiffen or stop altogether but you do neither. You carry on unaffected, either ignoring them or completely oblivious to the women who do nothing to hide their pointed stares.

"Table for two please." You smile at the restaurant host and then at Pierre. You must not have noticed the fans then. You were getting better at coping with the photos and whispers, although your smile usually became forced the longer it dragged on, the polar opposite of you currently beaming at him.

Pierre's shoulders sag a bit when you're led to a secluded table towards the rear of the dining space. Privacy wasn't a luxury he was often afforded. With his back to a wall of windows, there were fewer angles for people to approach from which was a small comfort.

Apparently you find sitting across from Pierre unacceptable because you shuffle your chair to his side of the table before plopping down in it. Pierre shoots you a questioning look but keeps his mouth shut. Inquiring after your motives didn't tend to end well for him.

Instead he leans over to kiss your cheek, relishing the blush his lips coax to the surface.

“It all sounds good,” you say, scanning the menu. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah I have. It’s all wonderful.”

The fans from the lobby remain in the blurred fringes of his vision. Pierre does his best to focus on the waitress explaining the specials. He tunes in automatically to the fan’s heavily accented English as they argue with the host, vying for a table as close to Pierre as possible.

Their phones remain out as an annoyed waiter tries and fails to coax the gaggle of girls into ordering something. Pierre drags a hand through his hair.

Being the center of attention usually doesn't bother him. Coping with the spotlight and the scrutiny that accompanies it is second nature; if the press conferences at Spa in 2019 had taught him anything, it was the importance of a solid poker face. Fame is new to you though and interactions with polite fans make you nervous. Having your picture taken without permission and splashed on social media? Forget about it. Pierre didn't care to find out how you'd react.

"Don't be nervous." You lay a hand on Pierre's thigh. The touch is enough to temporarily pause his bouncing leg. "You're going to do amazing this weekend. All you have to do is finish in front of Checo and you're golden."

How you haven't noticed the girls giggling mere yards away is beyond him. The last thing he wants to do is ruin this perfect, beautiful moment of bliss. You look gorgeous with your painted lips and that sinful black dress that he doubts can be comfortable based on how it hugs your curves like water. To top it off, the pride in your gaze is something to behold, making it impossible to doubt himself when you so clearly and openly believe he can conquer the world.

But it's better to tell you now versus you finding out on social media later. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Oh?" You sit straighter and set the menu down. "What is it then? Because if it's Horner, I have no problem marching in there and chewing him out. Birdy will back me up."

Despite himself, Pierre can't hold back his smile. "Where did all this confidence come from, hmm?"

"I'm learning," you insist, nodding your head firmly. "I'm growing as a person and you should be proud."

"I never said I wasn't." Maybe you'd spent the last month at university interacting with racing fans on campus. Perhaps being exposed to endless questions in a setting you controlled was the key. "Did you take a course in confidence at university?"

You scrunch up your nose and laugh in the most adorable way. Pierre's heart lurches at the sight, regardless if it was him you were laughing at.

"No, but I did make a few new friends that have a habit of pestering me about you." You jab a finger in his side for good measure. "It helped, I think. I don't look for cameras as much anymore. You're my focus now, not paps that may or may not be lurking in bushes."

"I knew it." Pierre is slightly impressed that he'd hit the nail squarely on the head. "I figured there had to be someone at uni responsible for helping you out."

You shrug and purse your lips. "I guess we'll have to see how I handle this weekend. I mean, there's bound to be press trying to corner me, what with the stakes and all. But I think I can take them." You raise your fists in front of your face and Pierre has to laugh.

“Throw a punch like that and you’ll break a finger.” He takes one of your clenched fists in his and untucks your thumb from under your fingers. “That’s how you make a proper fist. And you hit with these knuckles here- make sure you distribute the blow across all four, or you’ll be hurting.”

“Regardless,” you say, jabbing the air a few times, “The shock factor of having little old me in their face ought to be enough to earn me an advantage.”

Pierre finishes the lap to circle back to the topic at hand. "How about we test your confidence?”

"Okay," you say, dragging out the 'a' until it hangs in the air between you like a spider's web.

Pierre rakes a hand through his hair and nods to the girls a few tables away. "They've been taking pictures since we sat down. I'm sure they'll be all over Instagram in an hour, if they aren't already."

You steal a glance at the table in question under the guise of grabbing something from your purse. You hum, contemplating how to go about responding. Pierre is almost certain you'll ask to head back upstairs where it's just the two of you, no cameras or outside influence to ruin your night. His wallet is already out under the table, ready to leave a hefty tip for putting up with your drink-and-dash.

“We aren’t doing anything interesting,” you point out, swirling the knuckle’s worth of whiskey in your glass. “Why do they feel the need to document every passing second?”

Pierre lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just what some people do. If you’re uncomfortable we can go.”

“Who said anything about leaving?” You scoff, the corners of your lips turned up in a teasing smile. “I figure the best course of action is to give them something worth photographing.”

“What do you-”

Pierre’s yelp is decidedly unsexy when you yank him forward by his tie and attach your lips to his. Caught entirely off guard, he flounders for a moment before he catches himself and sinks into you. One hand on your cheek and the other creeping up your thigh, Pierre slides his tongue over the seam of your lips. You don't hesitate to obey the silent command.

He should be embarrassed. He should be contemplating the consequences of this kiss being splashed across tabloids the world over. He can’t bring himself to care, not when you’re the only release he needs and something as simple as a kiss sets his skin alight and causes any sane thoughts to trickle from his head.

Nothing matters. You're kissing him and your hand is a few inches below his hip on his right thigh, burning a brand that he prays leaves a puckered pink scar. Your scent and your mouth and your unmistakable hiss of pleasure saps the worry from his limbs. He's floating up off his chair, lungs filling with helium as you steal every last molecule of oxygen from the room.

Just like that, Pierre is the one that's roaring to leave for an entirely different reason.

Your hand on his jaw keeps your lips a hair's breadth apart as you whisper, "Are they staring?"

A blissed out nod is all he manages. Thoughts evade him and speaking is utterly out of the question when your lips are within striking distance. He surges forward for another kiss, heavier on teeth than on tongue. He makes sure to hold your lower lip between his teeth longer than necessary, putting on a show now that you've given him permission.

"Pierre," you murmur, using the hand splayed on his chest to push him away. The whine that escapes him is wholly unintentional. Thankfully it's low enough that only you hear, pressing a finger to your sinful lips.

"Down, boy." You extricate his hand from the dimpled flesh of your hip and place it chastely in his own lap. "We've accomplished what I wanted to."

Saying you tossing a wink over your shoulder at the intrusive fans isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen would be a lie. Pierre needed to be sure to thank Daniel's girlfriend the next time he saw her for whatever the hell she said to finally bestow you with a healthy serving of self-assurance because this new you is an entirely different entity, one Pierre intends to explore at the next opportunity.

"Problem solved." You brush your hands together and Pierre half expects to see dust clouds in the air like you'd just finished a woodshop project.

Pierre's brain is operating on a ten second delay. So really, normal operating procedure when he was in your vicinity. "I don't think we've accomplished everything I'd like to get done."

"We have a dinner to finish first." You pick up your menu and resume browsing like you hadn't just forcibly ripped his appetite for anything other than you right out of him. "The salmon sounds good, don't you think?"

"You sound good," Pierre mumbles under his breath and picks up his own menu. God, he'd love to let his fingers drift to the apex of your thighs. You’re always cute when you squirm. It was so simple to do too, all you needed was a brush of his knuckle to your center and you'd be gasping.

"Are you ready to order?"

The soft-spoken waitress bursts Pierre's bubble. She brings fresh drinks and jots down an order of two salmon fillets and leaves with a smile.

How Pierre has managed to make it this long without fucking you is beyond him. From the moment you surprised him in the lobby, his limbs have been thrumming with energy. And now your surprise kiss had been the pebble that preceded an avalanche of feverish longing. Those red painted lips would look better wrapped around his-

The pointed toe of your shoe digs into his calf. "Quit staring."

"Either you let me daydream or you let me take you upstairs,” Pierre quips back, licking his lips before he can catch himself.

"Can we get through one date without you mentally undressing me?"

Pierre dips his grin in a vat of lust, his words dripping with waxy promise. "No. Not when I know that as soon as we're alone, you'll let me do what I want."

"And what about what I want?" Your pouted lip does absolutely nothing but push his mind further in the gutter.

"Your wish is my command." His hand floats under the hem of your dress to graze along your core. And there it is, that sound he would swim across oceans to hear, your chastizing gasp of surprise.

The cross way you whisper his name is a thing of dreams. No one else's name sounded like that on your tongue, that honor is reserved solely for Pierre. The two breathless syllables are more exhilarating than standing on the top step. The rush of adrenaline that accompanies them is ten times what he is rewarded with when passing a world champion on track. He'll give it all up to hear you repeat it when you're pissed or lonely or tired- he just wants your voice echoing in his ears like a broken record.

You move his hand a safe distance down your thigh, nearly at your knee. Pierre gives your leg a sharp squeeze. "Can we please get our dinner to go?"

"Not tonight. You can wait, mon amour."

The French rolls off your tongue awkwardly but Pierre will be the last to complain. Your encyclopedic knowledge of which buttons to press when had come back to bite him in the ass.

"That's not fair." His pout is a mirror image of the one you turned on him earlier. "You can't use my own language against me."

You pat your pockets as if searching for something and shrug when you come up empty. "I don't see a rulebook anywhere."

Reminding you what happens when you tease him shoots to the top of his to do list. "I'll play if you wanna play, ma chérie. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"I think you're forgetting who usually wins off track."

Pierre can't help it. He takes advantage of his superior reflexes and surges forward to claim another searing kiss. You did normally win and it wasn't for lack of trying on his end. No matter the tactic he employed, you generally got the better of him. Not that he minded.

"Why don't you come here?" He purposely grazes his lips to your ear as he speaks and grins when a shiver runs down your spine.

"Because we are in public," you hiss back, though the way your head tips to the side betrays you. Pierre's nose touches the underside of your jaw and you struggle to find your breath.

"We should eat." A self satisfied smile splits his face when he notices your heaving chest and wild eyes.

"When did our food get here?" Pierre did that. He got you so worked up that you blocked out your surroundings so thoroughly that you hadn't heard the clink of plates. Pierre wears that fact like a badge of honor.

"A minute or so ago. Remind me again who's winning?"

"We may be even," you relent, adjusting the skirt of your dress. Yeah, even isn't the word he would pick, considering how flustered you are. It's a good thing Pierre has learned to eat with one hand because he doesn't plan on moving the arm currently slung over the back of your chair anytime soon. His finger traces the letters of his name on the bare skin of your shoulder. Whether you realize what he's writing or not you lean into him as you eat, falling in closer with each lemon-scented bite.

"Excuse me?"

You don't bother to look up but Pierre does. Disappointment washes over him when he is met by one of the fans, apparently deeming now to be the appropriate time to approach him, while clearly on a date, in the middle of a meal.

"I'll be happy to take a photo once I'm done." Sometimes passive aggressiveness works best with people like this, who have no regard for personal space. "Right now I would prefer to be alone, thanks."

"Oh, right." The blonde giggles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "You two make a… cute couple?" The end of her sentence turns up and your fork falls to your plate.

Pierre tucks you a little closer to his side, both possessive and reassuring. "We know."

Your discomfort is plain, the way you curl in on yourself making his heart hurt. But you surprise him by taking a deep breath and turning to the woman with a smile.

"If you'd let us finish our meal, I would appreciate it. We can stop by on our way out and chat with you." Sylvie would be proud of that answer. Diplomatically phrased and said with a smile that negates any negative connotations.

"Of course." The blonde's smile is sickly sweet. To Pierre she adds, "Good luck on Sunday."

Pierre nods. The woman's rude behavior didn't warrant a verbal response. She mumbles a feeble goodbye before slinking back to her friends. If nothing else at least their whispers died down, put out by his behavior.

Pierre loves his fans. Without them he wouldn't have a sport to compete in, and of course he appreciated their endless support. Stopping for photos or autographs had gotten him in trouble with Marko multiple times for being late to meetings that usually turned out to be pointless anyway. As a whole, their enthusiasm gives him an extra boost on Sundays and lifts his spirits after a bad weekend.

And then sometimes there were people like the blonde woman that had interrupted his dinner. Those people he has far less tolerance for. Basic manners were imperative to Pierre giving someone the light of day, otherwise he saw no need to waste time and energy on them.

"All good, ma chérie?" Pierre rubs your shoulder, hoping it'll stave off any anxiety.

"I'm good," you confirm with a nod of your head. "Let's finish up and go to our room."

Pierre presses a kiss to your temple and scarfs down the remainder of his meal in record time. He flags down the waitress and hands her his card, leaving a substantial tip when she returns with the check.

“Can you distract that table?” Pierre asks, aware of how unusual the request likely is. “I’d like to get out of here without making a scene.”

“Of course,” the waitress says with a warm, sincere smile. Pierre waits until she loudly announces, “Excuse me? Your card has been declined, do you have another method of payment?”

Neither of you can contain your laughter as you stumble through the lobby. In the sanctity of the elevator, Pierre wraps his arms around your middle and molds himself against you. "You look especially gorgeous tonight."

"You're not too bad yourself." One of your hands finds the nape of his neck, guiding his face to the crook of your shoulder. Pierre takes the invitation at face value and nips at the sensitive skin. Your hum goes straight to his cock, twitching against the swell of your ass.

"I win," you purr, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging.

For once Pierre is glad to be in the world's slowest elevator. Since he's already lost, he might as well lose in style. He spins you to face the mirrored wall. And because he knows it'll make you tremble, he trails his hand lazily over your throat to grip your jaw.

A low moan leaves your parted lips. Pierre studies your reflection, from your hands gripping the railing to the skin dimpling beneath his fingers.

"Fine, you win this time. But I think you and I both know, I'll come out ahead in the end."

**********

Waking up to soft kisses will never get old. Thirty years from now when Pierre was retired and you fell asleep each night with his arms around you, you'd still yearn for the brush of his lips to your cheeks, neck, and shoulders to rouse you from the violet shores of sleep.

"Good morning," you mumble, a sentiment which Pierre echoes with his gruff, sleep tinged voice. "Sleep well?"

"Best sleep I've ever gotten. You tired me out last night." You both grin at the reminder. Fueled by a slight tinge of jealousy after the women at the restaurant made eyes at him, you had refused to let him tumble into bed until well past midnight, when you both were well and truly exhausted. Thursday is press day, nothing strenuous that he couldn't afford to be a little sore for.

Pierre rolls to straddle your hips, lips capturing yours for a proper kiss. The taste of freshly brushed mint makes your skin tingle when he tugs your lip between his teeth.

"It's too early for that." You throw your arms around his neck and urge him to bend his elbows until he falls atop you. It takes him a moment to snuggle in, his head on your chest and his arms sliding under your middle.

You're convinced that ten minutes in this position can cure any ailments, physical or mental. The weight of your soulmate pressing into you, forcing you to focus on breathing instead of whatever might be bothering you. It's easy to forget about the outside world when everything you require to be happy is wrapped around you like a blanket.

You stroke a hand over Pierre's hair until his breathing evens out, only rousing him when the sun peeks over the harbor. Amiable silence fills the space as hues of orange and pink paint Pierre in swaths of color. Suddenly you're seeing him for the first time, completely enamored by the angles of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his stubbled jaw. The golden hour of dawn shines on it's golden boy, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he turns towards the warmth calling him home.

"Pyry and I are going for a run soon if you'd like to come with us."

You cringe. Running used to be fun when you were in school, but seeing as you hadn't properly trained in years you doubted you could keep up with a pair of professionals. "How about you text me when you're back and I'll come to the gym with you? It looks fancy, if George's snaps are anything to go by."

Pierre trails kisses up your sternum, over your neck and only speaks once he's reached your lips. "Looking at other men, are you?"

"Shut up," you laugh, shoving him off you. "I'll have you know it was a rare shirt on picture, thank you very much. I don't need to see George shirtless ever again."

A satisfied, "Good," rumbles from Pierre's chest and he stands to stretch the lingering sleep from his limbs. Clad in nothing but a pair of white four inch inseam shorts and with his back to you, you grin as an idea forms. You scramble forward before he can process you moving and smack his ass so hard he yelps.

"Gotcha!" You devolve into a fit of giggles as he rubs the spot you hit, whining about you taking advantage of his distraction.

"You like it," you tease, and Pierre remains strictly pouty for two whole seconds before he breaks into a grin and nods. "Now put on a shirt and get downstairs before Pyry calls you and you get reamed for being late again."

Pierre leans down for one last kiss before rushing off to the lobby. Waking up before the sun leaves you plenty of time to laze about if you choose to. Kicking your butt into gear seems like the better option so you drag yourself out of the relative warmth of the sheets and shuffle to the kitchen in search of coffee.

Apparently the suite came fully stocked with a handful of different freshly ground blends, and much to your delight you recognize one of your favorites. You scroll through the room service menu on your phone while it brews. Without a doubt Pyry would rope you in to whatever workout he had planned for Pierre, albeit giving you a watered down version of what he gave the driver. Regardless, it would still be grueling and you needed to fuel up.

A hearty breakfast of fresh fruit and cinnamon sugar oatmeal shows up at your door ten minutes later. You're just finishing up when Pierre's snapchat comes through and you nearly choke.

Come on down baby

The sweaty, shirtless selfie that accompanies the caption is wholly unnecessary. Pierre's stupid tongue sticks out and the fingers of one hand are tangled in his hair. The muscle of his bicep is perfectly flexed, an obvious but appreciated attempt to rile you up. You shamelessly screenshot the photo before it disappears to save it for later.

You change into a simple set of leggings and a loose t-shirt and head to the elevator, curating your music queue on the way down.

The outdoor gym overlooks a pool of the same crystalline blue as the sea not far beyond. A few Alpha Tauri and Red Bull team members you recognize occupy a handful of machines. You wave at the ones you recognize, including Alana- she was a sight for sore eyes. You make a mental note to catch up with her at some point today, as you're sure to cross paths again.

Pyry spots you before Pierre does and waves you over. "Start stretching," the fin orders, "I'm glad you dressed for the occasion this time."

"I've learned my lesson." You plop down next to Pierre and lean into a stretch to stage whisper, "He drives you this hard?"

"Get used to it." Pierre shoots you a grin that sets you on fire. He's got a shirt on now, which means he only took it off earlier to send you that snap. Tease.

Any other time you'd chide him for his behavior but this weekend you let it slide. Tension has been brewing since the moment you spotted him across the lobby; simple things tip you off to the stress winding up in him. If flirting could offer him a small amount of release, then so be it, even if it was torturous for you to see him like this and be unable to do anything about it.

"If you two can't get through this without making heart eyes at each other I'll separate you," Pyry warns, pushing at your shoulders and helping you stretch a few more inches. You hide your wince and laugh, leaning into the slight burn.

"Sorry coach," Pierre chimes in, "I'll keep my hands to myself, don't worry." He accepts Pyry's hand to be pulled to his feet. Bouncing on his toes he throws a few punches at the air and catches your gaze over his trainer's shoulder.

"Definitely not you I'm worried about."

As Pyry says it, you blow Pierre a kiss. You quickly tuck your hands behind your back when Pyry's head whips around. Your cheshire grin gets you off the hook and Pyry just points to the stationary bike in silent command. At least he was going easy on you.

Headphones pumping a Pierre curated playlist, you lose track of time as you cycle mile after mile. Pierre sparring on the fringes of your vision helps distract you from burning muscles. Sweat soaks his black tee and is absorbed by the waistband of his oddly patterned orange and white shorts. No matter how incessantly you tease him for his fashion choices, he never fails to amaze you for how well he pulls it all off.

Lost in the music and the incredible view, it takes you a moment to realize Pierre's lips aren't just moving silently. You yank out an ear bud and blubber, "What did you say?"

Pierre's breathless laugh is accompanied by a shake of his head. He half curls in on himself, hands on his hips and mouth agape as he tries to catch his breath. The image stirs memories of the last night, when he was panting just like that but with nothing obscuring you from drinking in his godlike muscled body.

"I said," Pierre starts, walking over to kiss your cheek, "I need a shower before press. I'm going upstairs. You can stay here and Pyry can take you through some more-"

"No thanks!" Pyry shrugs off your immediate refusal. Training top tier athletes and training you sat at polar opposite ends of the spectrum and often times the Fin pushed you farther than you thought capable. You'd like to be able to function tomorrow, thank you very much.

The elevator ride to the suite is filled with salted kisses and wet touches. A breadcrumb trail of clothing leads from the stainless steel doors to the glass encased shower. There's not enough time to worship Pierre like you'd wanted to but he sighs when you run a soapy cloth over his body. Your lips follow the suds, leaving light kisses to the tender muscles. By the time you pour shampoo in your palm and lightly scratch at his scalp to work it into a lather, he's practically purring.

Media appearances are a necessary part of being a driver. Pierre usually handled them well enough on his own and occasionally with Sylvie's help when she could be bothered to get off her phone for a few minutes, but having you with him is different. You pride yourself on reading him well enough to know exactly what he needs. Some days, when the press isn't a pack of rabid animals, he returns to his driver's room and needs nothing more than a quick kiss to have him righted. On days when the pack of piranhas descend to feast on the bones of a bad session or the whispering of drama, a delicate touch is required.

If your suspicion proves right, today would be the latter. Being ahead of the frenzy might take the edge off when Pierre got in the thick of it.

When the tap cuts off, you step out and wrap Pierre in a fluffy towel. His smile communicates how grateful he is- and that he knows what you're doing.

You hand him a stack of Alpha Tauri branded clothes and sit on the foot of the bed. "Do you want me to come to the paddock with you?"

Pierre pauses with his shirt half on. "If you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind." You pluck a few of his rings from the nightstand and hold out your hand. "You have to complete the look."

"What would I do without you," he murmurs, slipping one on his pinky and one on the thumb of his opposite hand.

"Probably be ridiculed for your lack of fashion sense."

**********

As a driver's girlfriend, you had come to grips with being relegated to a background role when it came to team events. You have to ask Sylvie to repeat herself twice before her words sink in.

"Come with me to the media pen," the woman grits out. Apparently Tost intended to have some fun torturing the woman before he fired her at the end of the season. Hopefully whoever Pierre got stuck with next was a bit more personable than Sylvie.

"Pierre told me to wait here," you say, gesturing to the garage buzzing around you. You were a rock and the mechanics were the stream, parting around you without a care in the world. You were barely a blip on their radar, everyone too honed in on their tasks to pay you any mind.

"And now I'm telling you to come with me. The other wives and girlfriends are in attendance and it'll look odd if you're not there too." Clearly, Sylvie didn't like the idea. And any idea that pissed Sylvie off sounded like a good one.

"I know the way," you say and breeze past her. Your feet follow the familiar path to the cluster of reporters crowded around metal gates, keeping the drivers in like caged animals. It was fitting, considering how often people referred to the sport as a traveling circus.

Pierre is already knee deep in an interview with one of the more popular journalists in the bunch, Will Buxton. Careful to stay out of the lens, you lean against the guardrail to listen in. So far it seems to be going well, Pierre's laugh brings a smile to your face.

"So, Pierre." Will shifts on his feet, pausing to create a sense of drama. "Your seat for next year. We know you'll be in Alpha Tauri or at Red Bull. Only a few points separate you from being demoted right back to eighth in the championship, which would officially relegate you to keep your seat at Alpha for the upcoming season. Are you worried about a mechanical problem or an accident stripping you of your chance to prove yourself and leaving you stuck where you are?"

Your stomach sinks. Buxton knew how to phrase a question, you had to give him that. Each word had been carefully chosen to elicit an emotional response from Pierre. You hate seeing him backed into a corner, forced to answer the same questions again and again, helpless to prevent it.

"Well first of all I'd like to stay that I'm not stuck at Alpha." Pierre shifts his weight and you exhale. Buxton's poisoned dart had missed its mark.

"Given a few years of development I know we could have a really competitive car. But it's more so that I'm ready to move up, fight with the leaders now instead of waiting. I'm in my prime and I don't want to let that pass me by.

"So no, I'm not worried about things that are out of my control. My team has given me an amazing car this year and I'm not concerned about mechanical problems. Things out of my control aren't worth my energy. There's nothing I can do about it so I don't even give it thought. I'll focus on my driving and pushing my limit- if an accident happens, I'm just a passenger."

"Well said." Buxton nods and turns away, effectively dismissing Pierre. As soon as he's out of the camera's view he's reaching for you and you meet him halfway. Sylvie trails after you as Pierre leads you through to the Alpha garage.

"Five minutes until your briefing," Alana says the second you enter. "And hey girl. Don't think I've forgotten about that sweater I loaned you. I still want it back!"

Your friend doesn't leave any room for rebuttal before heading for the conference room, presumably to set up whatever presentation she had created. Sylvie had disappeared too, leaving you as the only one for Pierre to focus on.

"You think I can do it?" He asks quietly, playing with your interlaced fingers.

"I don't think." You tilt his chin up so he's looking at you. "I know. And I'll be right here when you cross that line on Sunday and bring home points. You've got this, baby. Don't doubt yourself now."

"Pierre!"

Your grip on his chin prevents him from following the voice, not that he would if he could. You shoot him a raucous grin, "Red Bull colors would look pretty good on me, huh?"

Pierre's smile is brighter than all the stars in the sky. "Anything with my name on it will do.”

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz @xeniarocks @teenwaywardasgardian @saintandrea-droidsmuggler

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future updates!

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 imagine #f1 rpf #f1 #reader insert #pierre gasly x reader #his good sweater

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thedistantdusk · 3 years

Text

Thanks to @jenoramaca @gryffindorhealer and @secretkeeper13 for the quick beta work!

A gift for my beloved @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey.

CW: Language and domestic fluff

______

Trying

From the second he walks through the door, Harry can sense that something’s changed. It takes him thirty minutes to suss out why.

In retrospect, the smells coming from the kitchen probably tipped him off. Or maybe it was Ginny’s distracted hum, followed by the tinkling of plates and cutlery. Perhaps it was the fact that she prepared a full dinner, long before he even got home.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t worry about it too much as he greets her with a kiss, his hands cupping her chin. When he sits across from her at the table, there’s something furtive and curious lurking behind her eyes, but their meal is so peppered with normalcy that he doesn’t bring it up. They banter and laugh about Luna and Robards and wonder what they’ll bring to the Burrow on Sunday.

But when they’ve reached the stage of chasing stray noodles around their plates, Ginny finally clears her throat… and just like that, the nearly imperceptible shift he’d sensed earlier turns into something very perceptible, indeed. “Can I erm. Talk to you about something?”

He pauses, mid-bite, and takes her in. Her lip’s worried between her teeth, her hands fidgeting. Even her hair, normally strewn about her shoulders or parted to the side with a sort of effortless grace, is tied back and resting low at the base of her neck.

Ginny’s not normally this… serious. And he’d be lying to say it didn’t frighten him.

So he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Who died?”

There’s a half-second pause in which his chest clenches, his stomach churns. Could it be Molly? Or Arthur? George hasn’t been great either, not that—

But Ginny just reels back, confused… and it’s not until then that Harry realizes he’s really, really misread something.

“I… w-what?” she stammers, brow furrowing. She peers at him for a pained moment before her face relaxes into a look of understanding. “Oh. Oh! For fuck’s sake,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. “I guess I’m thicker than usual, should’ve known you’d read it that way.”

Harry snorts. “Erm… darling, as many things as I legitimately don’t understand, I’m fairly sure this one isn’t on me.”

Ginny ignores this. “Did you seriously think that something dreadful happened and I’d just spring that on you in the middle of your bolognese?” Her lips twitch into a smirk. “Here’s some pasta. By the way, a fire burned a puppy orphanage to the ground. Could you pass the salt?”

He gives her a plain stare. Nice try. Years ago, he might’ve taken the bait and chased her down that rabbit hole. They might’ve had an hour-long, spirited debate on the existence of puppy-specific orphanages. But after three years of marriage, he knows better.

And she knows he knows.

Ginny finally draws a resigned breath. “No,” she says slowly. “No one died, ok? Or is even… I don’t know, sick or infirmed or threatened.” She waves her hand and continues babbling. “Last I checked, even Muriel’s still going strong, somehow. I’m jealous of that, you know— being old enough to just say whatever the fuck you’d like and have no one question it because—”

“—Ginny,” he cuts across on an exasperated sigh. “As chuffed as I am to chat about Muriel all night, I’d really like to know what’s bothering you. Please?”

There’s another pause as she bites her lip. Then, in one swift motion, she attempts to rise to her feet and push her chair in on her way over to him.

But somewhere along the way, something gets crossed— and Harry watches in bewildered horror as her foot catches on the leg of the chair. Then, right in front of his eyes, she lets out a startled gasp, her arms flailing, before she lands with a thump.

He’s out of his seat and on the floor beside her before he even realizes she’s cried out in pain and surprise. “Are you ok?” he demands, pushing her jeans up around her ankle… her tricky ankle, the one she hurt rather badly at the playoffs last month. Hm. It's a bit red.

Honestly, she hasn’t been this clumsy since she was 10 years old and near a butter dish. This does nothing to alleviate his fears that there’s something Very Wrong.”

“It’s not even my ankle that hurts,” Ginny grits, pushing up on her palms. “Wait— Harry, what are you—”

“Need to ask Gwenog,” he says urgently, running to the other side of the table for his wand. “She said that if anything happens to your ankle to tell her straight away, remember? Better safe than—”

She scoffs. “Seriously, Harry, I’m fine! I didn’t even land on my—”

He arches an eyebrow. “Have you suddenly forgotten the Puddlemere match? When your ankle broke clean through the skin?” Even now, the memory makes him shudder. “You heard Gwenog— without magic, you might not have walked again.”

“But there was magic,” she says, almost pleading. “And seriously, I’m fine!”

Harry finds he has limited patience for her heroics, though, while she’s sprawled out on the floor and nursing a bruise on her arse. “Gwenog’s instructions were quite clear,” he says firmly. “Having a pro athlete as a wife is a group task. It’s taxing on your body. I’ve got to make sure there’s enough of you left to enjoy our lives.”

Ginny clears her throat. “Erm… but what if you… haven’t actually got a pro athlete as a wife. Technically speaking.”

Harry swallows. He’s sure he’s heard her wrong. “What?”

With a wince, she adjusts herself against the wall. “I’m sorry… this isn’t how I’d planned to tell you. I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

Normally, Harry might press a bit harder. Normally he’d demand answers— and now. But as he peers at her on the floor, there’s something soft and uncertain behind her eyes… something timid. So he decides to do something he knows he’s good at— something she doesn’t let many other people do: take care of her.

With a sigh, he scoops her from the floor and brings her to the sofa. Then he props her against the pillows, putting her legs across his lap.

And he waits.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, peering at her downcast face, before she finally says it in a rush.

“Iwanttohaveababy.”

It comes on a whisper. A breathed admission. He knows, just from her expression, that she’s never said it aloud.

But he must have misunderstood. There’s no way he’s not projecting, inserting the reality he wants instead. “Could you… could you repeat that?” he manages, his voice gruff and shaken.

Ginny just sits up straighter; her cheeks as red as her hair. “I want to have a baby,” she repeats, the confidence building with every word.

Oh. Looks like he was right after all.

Harry blinks at the carpet, his head spinning, mortified with the tears that have sprung, unbidden, to the corners of his eyes.

A baby. Their baby. A smile plays at his lips as he stares at her ankle in distracted bliss. He’s been ready for ages… longer than anyone he knows. It’s hard to remember a time when he didn’t want a family with her. When he didn’t want to watch her grow and change. To become more beautiful with every passing day until…

He swallows back another round of tears; he’d never forgive himself if he forced this… if he swayed her, in any way, despite what he wants so badly it squeezes his insides.

“But what about quidditch?” His voice cracks; he clears his throat to cover it. “Honestly Ginny, I’ll wait, as long as you’d like. We’re young. Think of what you’d deal with, loads of assumptions and press and comments.”

She turns to him with an arched brow. “And since when have I ever cared about comments? Since when have you cared about comments?”

He spreads his palms in resignation; it was a particularly weak argument. “I know. I just… don’t want to make your life more difficult.”

“Well...” She draws a deep breath and peers down at her nails. “I’ve erm. Actually quit the Harpies, all by myself.” Her cheeks begin to redden again. “I’ve already sent the owl and everything. Resigned. No intent to return next season.”

Oh.

That’s what she meant, then, about not being married to a professional athlete. Harry blinks a few more times as she plows through an explanation that could honestly be something from a dream.

“I’ve… I’ve just been thinking about it. A lot,” she adds, focus returning to her cuticles. “The Harpies are out for the rest of the season— that fucking Puddlemere match and that bullshit ref.” She glares at the pillow to her right. “Nothing like blind favoritism. Fucking prick should’ve been fired!”

All Harry can manage is a feeble chuckle, his hand moving to caress her knee. This time, he can’t bring himself to stop her spiral.

“Maybe it’s not just that match, though,” she admits, rubbing her ankle. “It’s also just… so much bloody work. I’ve been at it three whole seasons, you know? I’m a bit tired of missing birthdays. And family events. And only dreaming of bludgers and snitches. And attending the mandatory press interviews to avoid getting fined, and then giving polite answers to personal questions when I really just want to hex them, and—”

Harry laughs. “I think Sandra Richardson might disagree about the polite answers bit, darling.”

Ginny gives a dignified sniff and continues as if she hasn’t heard him. “Annnyway,” she says, toying with a piece of lint. “I… feel like I’m ready to move on. So.” Her face splits into a grin as she gestures to the corridor. “On with it.”

He clears his throat. “As much as I’d love to take you up on that, I’m confused about how this relates to quitting your job. You could’ve kept playing. Or—”

“—Why is it so hard to believe this is something I want?”

There’s a beat. He doesn’t have a good answer.

“What if I wanted to quit before I got pregnant?” she continues, her tone growing more demanding. “What if I was done with playing, regardless — and genuinely wanted to have children? Your children.”

She lets out an incredulous laugh, tossing her hands in the air. “I have to say, Harry, this feels an awful lot like you’re doubting what I actually want to fit a narrative of what you think I want.” Her eyes narrow again. “Is that really respecting my wishes?”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. He’d never thought about it like that before… how it might be insulting, really, to question what she’s ready for. He laces their fingers together, feeling properly chastened. “I’m sorry. I never meant to… suggest you don’t know what you want. Or something.”

He hears the timid smile in her voice as she squeezes his hand back. “Do you still want a baby, then?” she asks. “Or are you just in it for the practice?”

A smile creeps across his face, his eyes still focused on her hands. “I… think you know the answer to that one.”

“Well, I’m not sure I do,” Ginny says flatly. “Because I just told someone who wants two million babies that I’m ready to carry his first child. Forgive me if I expected a bit more excited fanfare than acting like I drowned your kitten.”

“What’s with you and baby animals today?” he murmurs, inching her pant leg a bit higher.

“Wonder why I’ve got babies on the brain,” she quips, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe because I want one.”

Harry releases a resigned sigh. She’s clearly done playing. “Honestly…” He bites his lip. “If you’re sure that’s what you want, I’m obviously on board. Obviously.” His eyes flit to hers. “I just… I don’t want to be responsible for something you end up regretting.”

It’s the truth of the matter, really; the thing that tugs at him the hardest. The fear he’d ever burden her… the worry he’d ever make her less than happy.

Ginny gives him a small smile, her hand coming to cup his jaw. “I’m going to take that as a weird, sad Harry thing instead of an attempt to remove my womanly agency.” She narrows her eyes. “But that’s your final warning.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet in a split-second, gathering her into his arms with the stupidest grin he’s ever worn. Trying. Is that what they call this? Are they actually properly trying now?

“Get used to this,” she says as he strides into the bedroom. “Because once you knock me up— on purpose, mind— I’m going to request a lot more transportation.”

“I think I can live with that,” Harry murmurs against her lips, draping her across the bed.

And to avoid a well-deserved slap, he doesn’t say the final bit: As long as you can live with me.

#harry/ginny #harry/ginny fanfic #hinny #harry potter #harry and ginny

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hamliet · 3 years

Text

I highly doubt Cinder is going to be saved/redeemed. The narrative may be set up this way because, traditionally, that is how these kind of stories operate but CRWBY… Cinder isn’t the type of character I feel either Miles or Kerry thinks can be “saved.” I’ve seen this type of character before in their writing watching Red vs Blue. They go out of their way to make a character despicable, and they stick to the characterization to the very end.

Okay, so let me address why I think the narrative is setting up Cinder’s redemption. However, as is uncommon for me if you’re familiar with my blog (and which also differs from most Cinder-redemption theories) is that I think her having a redemptive death is likely as things currently stand. That said, I’m happy to be proved wrong.

I’ve never seen Red vs. Blue, and while we can certainly pick up similar themes and the like in stories with shared authors, I don’t think it’s the best idea to use that as a blueprint for another story.

1) Cinder’s Framing and Arc

Cinder is essentially framed as the protagonist of her own subplot in volumes 4-8. That has to have significant meaning; she is in a sense a sort of “villain protagonist.” The audience both wants her stopped and wants to root for her, especially when she’s stumbling around after her defeat in Mistral. That’s five volumes of this; that is an awful long time to build audience investment in the character. If you want your audience to sympathize with a character and even root for them to do better, it is cruel to then be like “nvm she was just a bad egg siiiiike!” RWBY’s writing is not flawless, but it certainly is not cruel.

Secondly, there is a difference between the framing of Cinder and several other characters. If we want to consider a character who will get worse and worse and will not change, consider Tyrian, who has absolutely nothing sympathetic about him. Or Adam, who was not very well done. But like Cinder, Adam was a victim who became a villain; the difference was that he was never framed as the protagonist of a separate arc like Cinder has been.

But most important in terms of a framing comparison to Cinder is Salem. At first, it looks like Cinder is the big bad, but after season 3, we realize it is Salem. Cinder is working for her, not as a lackey, but also as a victim. Cinder is deferential to Salem and is not nearly as in control as she appears. Salem cursing Cinder with a Grimm arm--a clear parallel to what Salem did to Summer Rose and wants to do to Ruby--is textbook abuse, and also parallels Cinder with characters we love.

2) Cinder’s Backstory and Tone

Volume 8 finally revealed Cinder’s backstory in one of RWBY’s most brilliant spins on a fairy tale reference, and one of its best episodes ever in “Midnight.” It is cruel and heartbreaking and yes, tragic.

I’ve talked before about how RWBY does, in fact, include tragedy. It has since its beginning and it almost certainly will up to its ending. What RWBY does not do, however, is pessimistic nihilism. Fairy tales and pessimistic grimdark nihilism could not be more opposed. There is always hope.

Showing that Cinder, who was abused her entire life, just ends up "put down” as the worthless person everyone in her childhood thought she was, ends up dead because nobody helped her, ends up dead because she fell out of one abusive relationship into another... that is so not hopeful. That is tonally pessimistic, nihilistic, dark as hell.

Cinder’s breakdown during her “arc” as a villain protagonist shows how lowly she really feels about herself. It does not seem like a fitting narrative choice to affirm that.

3) Themes!

Cinder believes her goal is to become a servant of Salem and a villain. She believes no one will ever show her empathy. People have dehumanized her, so she dehumanizes. Generally, you should prove your villains and their worldviews wrong.

Not only that, but a major theme of RWBY’s is breaking the cycle of abuse. Now, let’s look at this two ways: Cinder as a victim of the cycle of abuse, and a perpetrator. She’s a victim of the madam’s, and of Salem’s. She is drowning in it. But she also abuses Emerald and Mercury by taking vulnerable children and exploiting their trauma to get them to do something to her. The difference is that Emerald has broken away for better and Mercury--well, he’s currently fallen into worser abuse with Tyrian (the subtext of how Tyrian treats Mercury is not subtle and is not good), but Merc also has no respect for the man and is less psychologically trapped than, say, Cinder is with Salem. If Mercury gets a better offer, he’d probably take it. Cinder is both Emerald and Mercury, as @aspoonofsugar has written: she’s psychologically dependent on her abuser (Salem), yet also continuing to spiral by tumbling into worser and worser abusive circumstances.

We know Salem cannot be killed and that thus, the way to defeat Salem is not through violence. Why would it work to have Cinder be put down by either our heroes or her abuser? How will that open Salem’s eyes, considering Salem has constantly put down those loyal to her (like her own children)? How would Cinder not breaking free reinforce the themes? You may cite Ironwood as an example of tragedy wherein a character becomes the worst version of themselves, but there are very different circumstances here: Ironwood’s tragedy is centered on the theme of fear vs. risk, not the cycle of abuse as Cinder’s is. Not only that, but Ironwood starts the series as a hero, and it’s that he is so capable of good that makes his tragedy resonate. Cinder has never been a hero, and her dying as a villain would not have any thematic impact.

So that’s why I think Cinder is set up for some kind of redemption. The reasons I’m skeptical of her survival are as follows:

1) Set-up

There is no “save the cat” moment for Cinder. Mercury and Emerald both have those moments; Cinder does not. Not only this, but Cinder dramatically rejects every opportunity to “save the cat” she’s given. Watts tries to get through to her, Neo teams up with her, and she stabs both in the back and murders (or attempts to murder in Neo’s case) them. That’s not good. She learned the opposite lesson of the one she should learn, and choices can and do matter.

2) Coding/Framing

Cinder is adult-coded, not child-coded like our main cast (and like Emerald and Mercury). She perpetuates abuse on Emerald and Mercury and is older than them, even if she is not that much older. They clearly depend on her, with Emerald clearly looking up to her as an authority figure and Mercury revealing he once did see her as an authority figure when he tells her off.

But wait, you say, you just said she is revealed as a hurting child! Well, yes. As of Volume 8. There is a huuuuge difference between framing villains as victimized kids by season 2 and 3 (Emerald and Mercury) and framing it that way for the first time in season 8. Of course this is also just opinion, but based on the trajectory of the story (and how most adventure/hero journey stories tend to end the second act of three in utter despair, plus alchemy’s emphasis on the number 12) it seems likely to me that we’re at the very least over halfway through the story. That doesn’t give me a optimism re: her chances to overcome her flaws, be a hero, and survive. Of course, I’d love it if it could be done, but I’m skeptical that’s the intent.

3) Themes/Set up

I’ve talked before about how RWBY is alchemical, and a basic tenet of alchemy is that from death comes life. Killing our heroes doesn’t work, because they are kids and the point is that kids are having to save things because adults failed. A kid dying at the end would cast the entire story as a tragedy, and that doesn’t work.

RWBY is also not anti sacrifice. I do not understand where this take (I see it a lot in fandom) comes from, because it has never been anti sacrifice at all. It shows people mourning those who sacrifice their lives, suffering because they’re grieving, but it doesn’t condemn the sacrificers; it upholds what they did as right. There’s nuance there, but the question of what RWBY thinks of heroic sacrifice really should have been answered with Pyrrha’s statue scene in volume 6. Not to mention Penny, Hazel, and Vine in volume 8.

@aspoonofsugar has spoken about this before, but basically, to sum up an alchemy trope: there is often a major death at the end of a specific phase. Black Death, White Death, Red Death. Sometimes yellow, but that’s usually subsumed into another stage (red or white). I think it’s very obvious Pyrrha is the black death, Penny is the white/yellow (the name of Jaune’s sword--Crocea Mors--which kills Penny literally translates to “yellow death”), and that leaves a red one to happen. Who is associated with red, fire, and rubies? Cinder.

Again, this is just speculation, and far-out at that! We will see. But if she does die, I think it would come after Ruby has saved her from her Grimm arm, and that it would be doing something that, while it costs her her life, saves the entire world.

#ask hamliet #rwby meta #rwby theory #cinder fall #cinder redemption

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loudlytransparenttrash · 3 years

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It's been embarrassing watching this latest political narrative about America reeling from the latest expression of white supremacy: Anti-Asian hate. The shooting in Atlanta had the media in desperate spin mode to declare that the root cause of the shooting was a white male perpetrating a supposedly all too common hate crime against Asians. And of course, the reason for the shooting and all this anti-Asian violence is... Donald Trump, because he referred to a virus which originated in Wuhan, China, as the ‘’Wuhan virus’’, or ‘’China virus.’’ There is nothing at all to connect this shooting to the practice of naming a viral outbreak after the location of origin. The shooter also had no history of animus towards Asians, and authorities have found not a single piece of evidence to suggest the victims were targeted for being Asian. The loser had a sex addiction, for which he had already been in rehab, and had frequented the same massage establishments he targeted which he blamed for contributing to his addiction problems. Yet the media still continue to push the “blame Trump” and “white supremacy” narrative, as they have done from the moment they started reporting on the tragedy.

We heard repeatedly how this shooting was an extension of the steep rise in anti-Asian hate crimes, a figure said to have spiked by 150 percent last year. While that 150 percent rise sounds jarring, when looking over the figures, it’s appropriate to point out the numbers were significantly low to begin with. This ‘’spike’’ in hate crimes has been described as ‘’soaring’’, ‘’jumping’’, and any other dramatic adjective. In 2019, the nationwide total was 49 anti-Asian hate crimes, which includes using “racist words,” while last year it soared to an additional 79 cases. While of course that’s concerning, it’s hardly a national epidemic, let alone a product of “white supremacy.” In the latest recorded FBI statistics of victim/offender race, it was black Americans (at just 13 percent of the population) who committed the large majority of violent crime against Asian Americans. Wouldn’t white Americans, being the majority of the population, be the greater violent offenders against Asian Americans, if the media were telling the truth about Trump and “white supremacist anti-Asian racism”?

They rely on us going blindly along with whatever they tell us. The only examples of violence against Asians the media can use to prove “white supremacy” and “Trump bad”, are assaults and murders against Asian Americans committed by black Americans, the media just leave the race of the perpetrator out of their story to keep the narrative alive. Look at this New York Times article: “The videos are graphic and shocking. In January, a local television station showed footage of a young man sprinting toward, then violently shoving to the ground, a man identified as Vicha Ratanapakdee, 84, who had been out for a morning walk in the Anza Vista neighborhood of San Francisco. He later died.” The Times piece never reveals the name or race of the perpetrator: Antoine Watson, a 19-year-old black man. Look at some other of the most recent violent attacks on Asian Americans: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Who’s really behind this anti-Asian hate? The evidence is the complete opposite of what we’re being told. This is standard social justice practice in today’s clownish journalism.

In Boulder Colorado, where ten people were killed, these same race-baiting assumptions were prevalent early on. A huge tweet thread was made laying out a lengthy list of certified accounts who jumped at the chance to call the shooter a ‘’white man’’ and justify their own hatred and racism. Then the bad news landed - the shooter was a Muslim migrant from Syria. You could hear the deafening sound of disappointment, deletions and abandonment. It once again exposed the depth of the depravity seen in our media complex today. If you are outraged at the actions of a man who would take the lives of strangers because he is a different race to his victims, why would you not be equally outraged when the same thing happens to victims of a different race, committed by a person of a different race? Why does the media fabricate evidence from thin air of victims being targeted for their race in one shooting, while completely ignores the evidence of victims actually being targeted for their race in another shooting?

This is one way the press has been exposed as craven opportunists in the treatment of the victims. In the Atlanta shooting all we heard about was the racial makeup of those who died because that led to some form of proof of racial bias. The media could then demonize the shooter accordingly, and likewise Donald Trump, by extension. But note the stark shift in the Boulder case. We have heard very little about those all white victims. Now that the killer is known to be Arab and Muslim, identifying the racial makeup of those he killed is notably avoided and is unlikely to ever be mentioned. This means the press is extremely selective in their recognition of those killed and in how they report that information. If their race interrupts the narrative intended, they are not worth mentioning, and if their race fuels a scripted reaction, then those deaths are to be exploited for the intended political hit. In both examples, you have heartless efforts behind the treatment of those lost in these violent events.

Our media is evolving more and more into a degenerate industry, one willing to use victims in any way they see fit to drive forward a false narrative. The less afraid we are to hear and speak the truth, the less they can get away with it.

#politics #atlanta #boulder #democrats #trump #stop asian hate

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thoughts-on-bangtan · 3 years

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Tbh i find it rly funny how other shippers have started to feel threatened ever since lets bts and have started camping on vminie twts. Like it was a sincere statement from tae and even us vminies wont take it as a love confession or anything. But these other shippers, i get feeling threatened or sad but how does attacking other shippers make their ship anymore real. I m also seeing some toxic taejinners which i m shocked i didnt know they were like that. Anyway i guess even vminnies need to be

More level headed and not go into delusions. Yes it was a very sweet and very genuine statement but that doesnot prove that vmin are a real couple. It jist proves what we always knew that vmin are precious to each other and have a very deep bond. So i hope vminnies wont become cocky and be toxic to other shippers. Please do consider posting this ask bcoz i m seeing some vminnies getting swept up in their own thoughts.

I do mostly agree, and I’ve also seen this new very aggressive wave coming at vminnies from other shippers in the last two days, though admittedly that wave has been steadily building for quite a while now. I’ll never understand that mentality, since ship w*rs are one of the most pointless things you can engage in since, like you pointed out anon, even if one shipper camp “wins” against another, that won’t change reality and their ship won’t magically become real or more valid or anything like that. As ARMY we should appreciate every bond within BTS, regardless if it’s a bond we think has potential of being romantic or is “merely” platonic. All their bonds are wonderful after all.

But, what Admin 2 and I find even more alarming in all of this is the literal tsunami of hate and toxicity that’s been happening against Tae since Let’s BTS. It’s happening on all sns platforms and it’s just truly vile and crosses all the lines and then some. When you check the profiles to which those posts belong, it’s quite easy to tell that they are either solos or “believers” of other ships who very much did not enjoy Tae’s words, or Jimin’s to Tae.

What can we do? Well, we can’t police how people will behave on sns, can’t police and watch every Vminnie and somehow get them to “behave”, that’s simply not realistic. The bigger a “fandom” grows, the harder it becomes to control it and make sure everyone stays rational and doesn’t get swept up in petty fights and other stupid things. The bigger the “fandom”, the more likely it is that you’ll find a few bad apples even if the bigger part of it all is rational and chill. The only thing we can do, realistically, is pay attention to our own mindset, to not allow ourselves to drift off into delulu land in such a manner that we, too, turn into “believers” preaching conspiracy theories and spinning crazy speculations. If we want to be delulu, we should always remember to put our hats on (just in case), make that clear to the people reading our posts/tweets, and remember that none of us, regardless of whichever ship we like, will ever know if any of our thoughts are true unless the members themselves tell us.

As long as we remain rational, stick to facts and quotes that we have sources and actual, factual “evidence” for, instead of just making things up to fit our narrative, we should be okay. Besides, even just taking Tae’s words to Jimin about how he likes him the most at face value is overwhelmingly sweet, genuine and impossibly sincere, and shows how beautiful their bond is.

The only true advice I have is this: don’t give in to any ship w*rs. If other shippers come into your space and try to mess with you, ignore them. The block button is truly your best friend, or if too many come at you, go private and wait it out. Don’t try to argue or reason with them because regardless of what you’ll say, and how solid your “proof” is, they won’t care. They just want you to react, want your attention. They want to feel powerful by seeing you bow down to them, by getting you to eventually give up. Or, which I’ve also seen, they’ll take your observations about vmin and make them their own, claim their ship does that, too, or that they’re the only ones with which that’s true. Even if it isn’t. And if you see something that crosses the line into pure hate, or purposeful(ly) misleading/misrepresentation of things in a way that is really harmful, report it.

Eventually, if you don’t give them attention, they’ll give up because it’ll stop being entertaining.

A little addition from an anon we just received and I agree with:

what is saddest for me is how those people who claim to be fans do not accept tae’s sincere words and decide twist it to fits their narrative. for how many years tae and jm have been talking about how they like each other. Are they calling them them false and liars? it’s unhealthy. it's about respect. people are crossing boundaries. If vmin are all over the place is their choice. The same goes when they keep their private time to themselves.

Or when tae and jm are “always” with other members. And what we as vminie do? We respect that. Why people think they can decide what the members should or shoudnt feel about each other. They know each other for 10 years while those people claim to know them better lol. People should think more how that is insane. Anyway let’s enjoy VMIN they want us to enjoy it. because tae said 95z are love so let’s love and ignore the rest 🥰

#answered ask #answered ask by admin 1 #vmin

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mggpleasedontlookhere · 4 years

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it should’ve been you pt. 2

summary: after getting suspended after the incident on the jet, y/n has a hard time dealing with the aftermath of the situation, only then she realizes that her and spencer are one and the same

word count: 3,825 reading time aprox: 14 mins

masterlist

part 1

3 months.

It has been 3 months since Spencer had been charged with suspension in participating in any cases. In regards to the reprimands brought upon me by Hotch, I had received a mere 1 month of suspension for my violent act on the jet.

Truth be told, the 1 month was worth it

The words that ardently escaped Spencer’s lips that day sat perpetually ingrained on my mind, next to the lingering memory of his belligerent eyes. Despite my indignation of Spencer’s behavior, his words added to the ever growing grief of Ryler’s death, self reproach fueling my mind.

But at the end of the day, some of the blame could be brought on Spencer. He should’ve spoke up sooner if he had clue that I wasn’t efficient in the field. He should’ve done something to prevent Ryler’s death.

Right?

I had just gotten back from my suspension, completing the final reports of a case and handling the tedious paper work that nobody wanted to deal with. I wasn’t permitted to investigate any cases with the team yet considering that I was still under surveillance. But I kept my distance from them, especially Hotch, knowing his attention would linger on me slightly longer than the other agents.

I sighed, finishing up the latter of reports and standing up to submit the files to Hotch. As I ventured through the lively commotion of agents and supervisors, I spotted the team near the kitchenette of the bullpen. They were all in a fit of laughter, a sight that was infrequent with the career we possessed. A bubbling sensation burned in my stomach as I watched their faces contort in bliss. I clenched my fingers around the reports, creating small indents on the corners of the files, while a grimace replaced the once nonchalant expression I displayed. I shook my head in disapproval, then trudged off to get my task over with.

They should be working, not fucking around. If only I were there, maybe things would get done faster

Barging into Hotch’s office, I discarded the work at the front of his desk, muttering a small sentence that indicated I was finished. I didn’t dare to entertain his unrelenting scrutiny, knowing well that he was already halfway into profiling my demeanor. “If that’s all, I can go back to my desk...” I said, the tone of my voice monotonous and lifeless. “Sir” I nodded, using his silent response as a signal to leave.

“Agent Y/L/N” He interrupted, setting the paper work I finished aside along with other files that camouflaged the surface of his oak desk. “Take a seat please” He suggested, gesturing to the two office chairs that faced him. I complied still not meeting his gaze, settling down in front of him, as I fiddled with the threads at the ends of my blazer.

“Y/L/N” He repeated, only this time I looked straight into his eyes. “We’re happy to have you back in our unit” He began, a sense of sternness in his voice, similar to one a parent would use to scold their child. “I hope you took this opportunity as a break away from all the chaos we deal with” He lightheartedly joked, an amiable smile apparent of his face.

Despite his change in demeanor, my feelings of resentment coexisted beside his expressions of colloquialism. “Me, taking a break from work or was it so the team can take a break from me and Dr. Reid?” I challenged, folding my hands on my lap.

“Y/L/N” He disrupted lifting an apprehensive hand. “I’m aware of the tension between you and Reid ever since what happened back in New York, so I made the decision to give you and him the opportunity to-” He justified.

“No sir, with all due respect, your agents are out there laughing their asses off instead of working. Yet I’m the one who’s being put under scrutiny for being human?” I asserted, standing up from where I sat. “Yes I made a mistake. But for months Reid has done nothing but bludgeon everything I work for in the bureau and none of you have ever done anything about it” I scoffed as I paced in front of his desk.

“Y/L/N I’d have you know that me and the team have had numerous conversations with Reid about what hap-”

“YES THAT’S MY POINT!” I exclaimed, raising my voice slightly, although that didn’t last long due to the cautious stare I received from Hotch. “You’ve always checked up on Reid, but what about me?” I spit, narrowing my eyes at Hotch, noticing the discernible silence I received as a response. “Aren’t I part of this team? Because frankly ever since that case in Manhattan it seems like everyone can’t decide whether to blame me or pity me” I admitted, looking over to the window where I had a clear view of the people of my unit.

“Y/L/N please take a seat” He commanded, but I declined standing my ground. He sighed, tucking in his blazer as he stared at me in disbelief. “Y/L/N I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt like that but you’re on this team as much as Reid is” He claimed, an empathetic tone surrounding each word that emitted from his lips. “You’ve made a mistake and yes, it’s affected a majority of the team, but take this opportunity to grow from that mistake” He consoled, his eyes softening back into a lamentable gaze. “Use this to be a better agent” He stood up, walking over to where I was positioned and placed an affable palm to my shoulder.

Vulnerability is often used as a bridge between the connection of others. It’s used to initiate an understanding bond, to break people down to their foundations, and to help one to recognize that people aren’t alone when it comes to implications in life. Although vulnerability wasn’t the theme of mine and Hotch’s interaction.

It was pity

“Is that what you think will make me feel better? T-to make me feel accepted into this team?” I ridiculed, snatching my shoulder away from his overbearing touch. Incredulity seemed to fuel the words leaving my mouth as my glare advertised bitterness. “Do you think I’m that incompetent? That a few appraising and heartfelt words are going to make me fall in line?” I challenged.

“Y/N, please don’t make this diff-”

“DON’T ‘Y/N’ ME, HOTCH” I warned, knowing I set off an alarm inside of him as he backed off in reluctance. I knew I had attracted a few curious ears from outside of the office, but I was too blinded by my oncoming emotions to act with clarity and reason.

“YOU K-KNEW” I stuttered, my hands beginning to tremble at my sides as I wiped the sweat accumulating on them. “You knew that I wasn’t r-ready. I WASN’T READY!”.

My mind had accelerated to a thousand miles per hour, I felt numb at every word I had verbalized as if my cerebrum had malfunctioned. I hadn’t even noticed the tears that had dampened the apples of my cheeks. “Y-you knew I-i wasn’t ready, a-and you...let me go in” I sucked in a staggered breath, feeling my esophagus cinch up at the sudden inhale. “You k-killed him” I whispered through my gritted teeth, feeling all loss of competence. At this point my hormones were driving my actions, “You KILLED him” I accused, flailing my hands at his direction.

“Y/L/N go home, you’re not stable enough to be back here yet” He stated monotonously, striding back to his chair in a collected manner.

“What?” I spewed.

“Y/L/N it’s obvious that you need more time. I’m giving you a 2-weeks-leave, and I suggest you take it” He replied, taking a moment to look up at me. “I can assign you the bureau’s therapist, Dr. Montgomery, if you would like”

“N-no Hotch, are you kidding me?” I scoffed in defiance.

“Y/L/N I will have you escorted out of the building if you don’t follow my direct orders, understood?” He threatened, peering into my eyes. “Now go home” He sighed, looking over some files without giving me a second glance.

I huffed in disbelief, pulling open his office door to make an exit, ready to dash out of the room, until his words broke my stride. “Oh and Y/L/N” He spoke up, making me spin around to look at him one last time.

“While you’re on that break...learn to forgive yourself too”

From the time that phrase came out of his mouth to where I stood now seemed like a blur. The autumn drizzle trickled from my forehead to the base of my chin as the sky darkened; an omen to the place where my feet had lead me.

Spencer’s apartment

Stepping a foot into the complex, the coldness of the water droplets on my skin masked the fear that hid behind the many layers of antipathy, turbulence, and helplessness.

I felt paralyzed, contrary to my feet that continued to venture through the halls to find Spencer’s residence, my unconscious mind remembering the very dinner party the team organized months ago to celebrate the new addition to the BAU: me.

My range of emotions had thrown me into a downward spiral, feeling everything then feeling nothing simultaneously. It was as if I was drowning then pulled up to be given air, only to repeat the process continuously. I knew to blame myself, but I couldn’t help but bear to place the accountability to the members of my team because the weight was too heavy for me to hoist.

I am selfish, I am weak, and I hate every part of that.

My anger became the device to alienate myself from others. My loss of control lead my impulsivity to fester and lash out on the ones who only wanted to help. Finally, my ignorance costed me my impartial and sensible mind. It allowed me to turn a blind eye to any impurities that didn’t corroborate with my narrative.

I twisted the facts to match the theories, rather than twist the theories to the facts.

At the foundation of it all, the matter derived from my inability to conquer my grief in a sufficient approach. Although at that affair, I remained alone...almost. The only other creature who had endured more than they can handle was Spencer.

Despite out disagreements, we held one thing in common: the event that defined our declarations of hate towards one another.

So here I have my feet planted complementary to his front door, my arms glued to my side, and my head hanging low as I raised a skeptical fist to knock.

With the first attempt to gather his attention, the was no response except the buzzing of the radiators that hummed throughout the building’s halls. With another set of knocks, scuffling feet could be heard coming closer to the entrance and every thud against the floor, elevated my heart rate. When the door had flung open, it wasn’t Spencer that I had witnessed.

It was a ghost of him.

At least that’s what it had looked like to me. Spencer sported his head of hair like a bird’s nest, his clothes looked besmirched, his silhouette appeared scraggy, but most of all his face looked inert and lacked pigment.

In spite of my initial impression, his emotion ridden expression gained it’s flare back at the acknowledgment of my appearance. He was about to turn away, pushing the door closed when I stuck a foot in the crevice of the door frame, causing me to wince in agony.

This caused Spencer to return his focus onto me, fixating at my foot that obstructed the door. “If you think that hurts, try getting stabbed” He mentioned maliciously, referring to the death of his comrade. I ignored his snarky comment, pushing the door ajar to face him. “What do you want Y/L/N?” He deadpanned, holding an emphatic countenance.

I composed myself, sighing as I explained that I wanted the opportunity to discuss the latter with him, and to my surprise he obliged, diffident to let me enter.

I took in the unveiling of his home. The walls were lined with bookshelves that contained a copious assortment of books that ranged from education to recreational. Renaissance art was found in between some of the shelving units, but the one thing that caught my attention were the various frames that surrounded Spencer’s childhood pictures. Although, the majority of the portraits were only of him and his mother; his father only making a debut in earlier pictures.

“I thought you were here to talk, not profile where I live” Spencer commented, interrupting the inquisitive observations I’ve made of his place. I mumbled a quaint apology, finding myself a chair to sit on as Spencer did the same.

Apprehension preoccupied the silence that followed after we took our seats. I fiddled with my hands, running over my lines and organizing my thoughts as I thought twice about my presentation.

“It wasn’t my fault”

“What?” Spencer spoke, tilting his head at me in bewilderment.

“It wasn’t my fault that Ryler died...It was my choice” I began, pushing the loose hairs behind my ears as I sat up straight. “I made that choice to follow through and go in, knowing I was going against Hotch’s warnings and that-” I paused, gazing into his emotionless stare.

“Killed Ryler” Spencer deadpanned, continuing off where I couldn’t finish. I nodded in compliance, the same feeling of dread creeping up my stomach, similar to how I felt on the crime scene.

“There’s no amount of ‘sorrys’ I can say that will ever fill that void that’s in-bedded in the team...but at the same time, th-there’s nothing I can do to bring him back, Reid” I declared.

He wore a tight-lipped grimace, staring at the wall behind me coldly. “Yeah, there’s nothing you can do to bring him back” He scoffed. “You’re wasting your time being here” He professed, shaking his head with hostility.

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I bent over to place my head on my hands, feeling the overbearing sensation of frustration bubble over the sentiment. “Yes I know Reid” I disclosed, animosity slowing slipping into the enunciation of my words. “I just- I don’t always want to be in quarrel with you whenever we’re at work” I confessed. “I just need you to-”

“To what?” Spencer cut me off mid sentence. “To forgive you?” He jeered, narrowing his eyes at me in vengeful amazement.

“Spencer-”

“You want me to FORGIVE you?” He stood up from his seat, walking over one of the bookshelves adjacent to the window. The faint sunset beamed an orange tinted glare through the drizzle and into the living room, giving pigment to Spencer’s skin as his back faced me. “Am I just supposed to forget about him like everyone has already, am I supposed to pretend that everything’s back to normal without him?” He questioned, running his finger along the spines of a select novels.

“I’m not telling you to forget Ryler, and it’s not like the team doesn’t honor-” I began, but was cut off abruptly by Spencer’s spiteful words.

“Are you fucking kidding me Y/N?!” He exclaimed, turning around to glare at me. “For the past couple of months, no one- and I mean NO ONE has mentioned Ryler. I-it’s as if NOBODY CARES” He shook his head in frustration, running his hand through his curls.

“That-s not tru-”

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” He blurted out, an incredulous expression planted on his face. “Name one person, aside from me that had thought about Ryler in the past month” He challenged, making determined strides towards where I sat.

Veins began protruding on his forehead as he came closer, the wrinkles on his forehead became indistinguishable, despite the sun masking his face in an angelic light. “I- um” I gulped, unable to recall any mentions of the agent.

“Exactly” Spencer deadpanned, walking back over to the shelves.

“But that doesn’t give you an excuse to berate me” I uttered quietly, feigning a collected composure where the confidence lacked. I pushed myself up from my seat, promenading up to where he stood. “You can’t assume the future of my career based on a mistake I made” I stood parallel to his back, reaching a hand up to place on his shoulder, but proceeded to hesitate, leaving them at my sides. “You don’t have to forgive me Reid, but at least forgive yourself” I spoke, reiterating the same words Hotch passed onto me before leaving the office.

I saw his shoulders lose tension as he sucked in a breath, his fingers unraveled from his balled fists while he hung his head low. On the cue of his sedated composure, I placed a decided grasp on his shoulder in attempt to soothe the rigid atmosphere.

Unbeknownst to my perception of the situation, Spencer suddenly grabbed a hold of my wrist, flipping me over to where my back hit the bookshelves with immense force, sending a painful chill down my spine. I winced as the rivets of the metal screws scratched the soft skin of my lower back. Although this didn’t prevent Spencer from further pinning my body into the shelves while his firm fingers dug into my wrists. “What makes you think you can tell me what to do or what to feel” He whispered darkly, a menacing grimace taking it’s form on his mouth.

I resisted against his grip, but his strength proceeded to show itself through my inability to overpower him. Fueled with frustration, I bore at him with a vindictive sneer. “Reid, fucking let me go” I muttered through gritted teeth. “I swear to fucking god Reid, let me the FUCK GO!” I challenged, pushing harder against his tall frame.

He responded to my catty reactions with an arrogant smirk. “Look at you writhing under me” He patronized, his face shadowing over mine as his breath fanned over my own. “You’re a weak bitch Y/N” He continued, his eyes lingering on my bottom lip. “You’re an even worse agent” He inched closer at an achingly sluggish pace. I felt my lips twitch in anticipation as his mouth hovered over my own.

So, I took the opportunity to spit at him.

He stumbled back in surprise, wiping my saliva that landed inches away from the bridge of his nose. “What the fu-” He spewed, looking at me incredulously. But I took no hesitation to make determined strides at him.

“You have no right to call me a bad agent. You have no right to call me weak” I heaved, shoving him at his shoulders. “Especially when you can’t even face your own feelings” I verbalized, glaring at him. “You’re a coward” I muttered, glaring up at him as we were chest to chest.

Both of us stood in our own heated ambiance, the silence amplifying the intensity of the circumstances. I could feel the sweat dripping off of my forehead as I witnessed a crack in his arrogant countenance. His hard features relaxed into a woeful expression as the fight of reason in his mind intensified. But I didn’t have the time to wait on his judgement. So with a novel sanguine air, I began marching right up to his front door with the persistence to leave all the negative energy behind me.

That was until he spoke up

“Y/N I-”

I shook my head, resting my hand on his doorknob. “No Spencer, you listen” I turned around to face him, leaning my back on the oak surface of the door. “You don’t get to defame my career, I’ve worked too hard for this and out of all the people in the world, I thought you’d understand” I stated, pushing myself up the door so I was no longer leaning on it.

“Y/N-”

“I made a mistake, but that mistake’s going to make me a better agent. I can’t take back his death and I can’t make it up to you, but all I can do is make his death count” I persisted, my legs venturing back to where we stood prior to my attempted exit. He stared back at me with an afflicted gaze that hid behind a feigned emotionless expression. “I’ve spent months blaming myself for his death...” I positioned myself across from him, reciprocating a compassionate expression that contrasted from his own visage. “And I think you do the same too” I remarked, taking my bottom lip between my teeth as I expressed my concerns.

For the first time, Spencer didn’t know what to say. Not statistical fact or analytical approach would resolve the woman that stood confidently before him.

“You’re right” He admitted, sighing as he combed the back of his head. His eyes flickered to the prominent features of my face, then back to the apparently interesting view of the floor. He shut his eyes in defeat, dragging both of his hands over his face as if it was to bring clarity and closure swiftly to him. “I-i didn’t how to...th-then everyone started forgetting- and I couldn’t” He desperately was at a loss of words. “I’m sorry Y/N” He repented, laying a hesitant yet tender hand on the side of my arm.

“As much as I appreciate you apologizing to me Spencer-” I laid my hand over his own, clutching onto it in a solacing grasp. “You seriously need to figure yourself out first” I sighed, using my fingers to tilt his chin up to disrupt his forlorn expression. “You need to learn how to forgive yourself Spencer, and I’m not the one to say because I’m still figuring that out myself, but that’s the only way you’re ever going truly move forward”

He cringed at my mention of the future. I noticed the cogs running in that brain of his, unable to process his grief. I could tell he was still holding onto a lot of baggage, the pained look he wore revealing it all. “I shouldn’t have told you that it should’ve been you back there” He apologized, referring to the whole conflict that unfolded on the jet. “I don’t know how to do it Y/N” He confessed. “I c-can’t just move on like that”

“Nobody’s asking you to Spencer” I consoled. “We can never really be able to move on completely. But that’s a part of living, it’s remembering that gives our life meaning”

“Well actually, traumatic occurrences can actually be repressed by the unconscious mind in order to dissociate th-” He rambled, a faint smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

“Don’t ruin the sentiment Reid” I laughed, nudging him playfully. He reciprocated the same gesture, reverting back to a more relaxed visage.

“Thank you...Y/N” He spoke passionately, pulling me into an amicable embrace. I breathed into his shoulder, taking in the seldom occasion as all the hatred that existed in the room previously, dissipated.

“You’re always welcome...Spence”

A/N:

that’s a wrap, im actually really proud of this so i hope you all enjoy it. tell me whatcha think about it after :)

i honestly was struggling with how to end the whole thing, so i compromised on an angsty-fluff/platonic but not really ending, if that at all makes sense lmao, anyways have an amazing day

taglist: @a-dorky-book-keeper @ilovespencereid @fancystarlightpirate @aperrywilliams @liaabsurd @thatsonezesty13 @ashwarren32 @ithinkilovetruecrimetoomuch @yoongi-holland @guessthatswhyiliveinhell @peterspickledpepper @tiktokslut @britishspidey @marciscaspar @ tteessaa13 @marylanddgirly @todaynotseen

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blackjack-15 · 3 years

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No, the Creature’s name is Fraulein’s Monster — Thoughts on: The Captive Curse (CAP)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE, CRY, VEN, HAU, RAN, WAC, TOT, SAW

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraphs above, along with my list of previous metas.

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: CAP, mentions of SAW, mentions of ASH.

The Intro:

The obvious Frankenstein reference in the title of this meta is the only one I make in the whole meta, I swear. It was a mistake to make the monster look like Frankenstein’s Monster, but I’m not gonna drag you guys or the meta down with that.

We’re professionals here.

This is a game with rather big shoes to fill, to be honest — it’s our first game in Germany, comes right after a very well-received “haunting” game and has shades of being a “haunting” game itself, its (small bit of) marketing played off Grimm’s Tales, and Savannah’s comment about staying in a castle where she discovered that the real monster was human cruelty is directly pointing towards it. CAP and its story could have crumpled under the weight of high expectations like MED, MID, and (in a slightly more controversial opinion) SEA did, but instead it did the opposite: in nearly every way, it improved on the Faerietale Formula that SAW inspired, and added to it.

Rather than a spooky haunted faerietale with a Hidden Villain, we have instead a monster — out in the open, even — as our main villain. The difference between ghosts and monsters isn’t really important in, say, a “Scary Stories to Tell In The Dark” or “Goosebumps” book, but it’s fairly important in a mystery, and even more in a Nancy Drew mystery.

As I’ve said a few dozen times in this series — and if you’re not tired of it yet, you will be soon — ghosts are a Reality in the Nancy Drew universe; they exist, they cause trouble, and they sometimes even help the living (or at least coexist with the living).

Monsters, on the other hand, never really exist — not banshees, not werewolves, not malicious wolves with opposable thumbs and the ability to cook poisoned foods, and certainly not monsters that in no way resemble the main villain from a Universal classic horror flick. Monster in the Nancy Drew universe is a Title, not a type of creature. Whenever there’s a monster on the loose, it’s a sure sign that there’s a bitter individual somewhere looking to hurt someone — usually for a personal grudge.

Which, as it happens, is exactly what happened here.

We’re still firmly in a Faerietale game — the ‘Nancy’ games start with ASH — but I do think it’s important to note here that the girls in this game (the victims of the monster, Renate, Anja) are all shadows of Nancy. The previous victims, sharing the designation of the Girl in the Dress with Nancy, are shadows of what could happen to Nancy if she doesn’t change the fate that’s been designated for her — down to the red hair of the original Girl.

Renate is a type of detective, trying to solve the mystery of the tragedies that strike the castle through the actions of the past. And Anja — well, let’s just say that Anja and Nancy have a lot more between then than the first glance might show.

The two women are foiled, especially with their love lives. Nancy’s dating a good man — despite the obvious, glaring problems in the relationship — and so their argument (and her own selfish behavior) isn’t the end of the world, nor the end of the relationship. They stop, they assess, and — with a little help from Anja — Nancy’s determined to try a little harder, leading us straight into ASH. The big thesis statement of the game is delivered, like last game, by our villain — “There’s nothing like love to bring order to a scattered world”. Anja gives Nancy good advice: communicate, and work for what you want.

Anja, however, was not dating a good man; she encouraged him, much like Ned does with Nancy, to be better, to try harder, to really reach for what he could be — only to be cast aside as soon as all the hard work that she had put in to supporting him led to good results. Her world was not scattered before — but after Markus, there was nothing that could put it back together again.

There’s nothing like love, indeed, but when it’s the wrong kind of person…well, the message that Anja took out of it was that somebody, somewhere, should care about her. And if they weren’t going to…well, a tragedy necessitates the force of Fate, and we know what Renate says about fate:

“Fate has a habit of digging in its claws when tempted.”

The last thing I want to touch on in this introduction — which I realize is a bit heavy on themes, but so is the game — is the importance of Titles within this game. The Bürgermeister, The Castellan, The Monster, The Girl in the Dress — this game operates a lot on character tropes, like any self-respecting faerietale, and the titles go a long way to showing who each character is. Karl feels dwarfed and inadequate next to his title; Anja wanted hers so badly that she was willing to lie; the title of Monster strikes fear into the heart of the vast majority of our cast.

And the Girl? The Girl in the Dress is a symbol of helpless fate, a sacrifice to propel the narrative forward. Remember what Renate tells Nancy? “The monster, he is here for you.”

Tellingly, it’s Nancy’s changing of what exactly it means to be The Girl in the Dress that allows our faerietale to meet with a happy ending, rather than a tragedy (the ending normally brought about by Fate, in Renate’s words). In keeping the title but changing the scope of the title, Nancy figuratively beats the Monster, and saves the memory all the Girls that came before.

The Title:

The Captive Curse is, as far as titles go, a masterclass. Nearly all the titles of the 20+ numbers are fabulous, but CAP’s title is a shining star even among them. Let’s talk about the important word in the title — “Captive”.

There are a lot of things that are “captive” in this game. We have the captives of the monster, to start off with, but there’s a lot more where that came from. The residents of the Castle and the castle’s town are also captive — they’re held captive by fear, as evidenced by the doors that refuse to open even when Nancy begs them to.

Shrugging off the idea of keeping this meta even a little bit spoiler-free, I’d also add that Markus is a sort of captive of Anja — there under false pretenses, drawing a web around him to finish him off — and equally that Anja is a captive of Markus’ — the shadow of her dick ex-boyfriend hanging over her dream job, watching him profit off of being a truly terrible person.

Renate and Nancy get in on the action, too. Renate is a captive of guilt, returning to the castle to try to prevent further deaths, haunted by her sister’s early death. She’s also a storyteller — a profession famed for having a “captive audience”. Lastly, Nancy is forced into the costume rather than her own clothes — a captive of the tale that’s being spun by our major players.

The Faerietale

In SAW’s faerietale, Nancy was the visiting prince, the Knight in Shining Armor to look after and save the kingdom. In CAP’s faerietale, however, her role gets changed around — not the least of which because we discover what an actual Knight in Shining Armor really is, courtesy of Renate:

“A knight in shining armor never did nothing for nobody. He never fought. A knight in dented, scraped armor - now that’s what you want.”

This isn’t the cynical take that some might spin it into — the Nancy Drew universe is not and has never been a Nolan-style grimdark-fest, skeptical of any good deed or honest inclination — but instead a declaration that it’s what people do that makes them heroes, that makes them good, that makes them who they are, not what they are (or what they seem to be).

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that, in a game exploring what good a Knight in Shining Armor might be, that the series’ resident Knight appears within the context of his fight with Nancy.

Ned in the video games series is the closest to a Knight that we really get; he doesn’t make mistakes, he’s always patient and kind and understanding, and helps out the best he can without being actually on the scene. In other words, his armor has no dents, nor scrapes, not so much by his choice (excepting possibly CRY), but by Nancy’s. By constantly leaving him behind, she’s cast in him his role as Knight in Shining Armor — but, as Renate points out, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Ned has the potential to be and do more — as ASH will show us.

And yes, there’s someone in the series that fits the knight in dented, scraped armor, but this is not the time for a Francy meta. If ever there is a time for Francy meta.

The biggest thing that changes from SAW to CAP is that Nancy’s learned from last time, and starts trying to figure out the faerietale she’s in the minute it starts in earnest. When she hears Renate’s tale, she’s sure she’s figured it out — guessing it was about Renate’s sister — but we’re shown that her perception is a little off (as the girl was Renate, not her sister). This shifting up of the roles is crucial thematically to our ending, where Nancy gleefully assumes the role of the Girl in the Dress as the hero of the piece, rather than the victim that the Girl had always been.

What Nancy happens upon here I’ll cheerfully call the Power of the Storyteller. All faerietales shift and change depending on who’s telling the story — look at the thousands of versions of Cinderella had all over the world, all too old to just be a knockoff of their geographical neighbor’s story or (yes, I’ve heard this) based off the Disney property.

With Anja telling the story for the majority of the game, it’s a tale about how sometimes the “monster” (and her version of a monster, specifically) wins — and how sometimes they deserve to win, to perpetuate the faerietale as it always has been; as Renate reminds us, “when death goes to take a ride, he follows the road that serves him best.” In Anja’s mind, there must always be a Monster, and there must always be a Girl in the Dress. With Nancy taking over the story, however, it’s about how the victim doesn’t have to be the victim, and that they have the power to assume their own destiny.

In other words, they’re playing out the central conflict that Renate outlines in her first discussion with Nancy: “If our time together is a comedy, then I was brought here by coincidence. If our time is a tragedy, then it must be fate.”

Coincidence and fate are also, coincidentally (heh) the driving forces in a faerietale — except that fate is also a driving force for romance. And because romance is our Chief Concern in CAP’s story, a lot of the story is about fighting against fate. In the end, it’s a coincidence that Nancy arrives, but Anja tries to spin it into fate by making her the Girl in the Dress. It’s only when Nancy takes charge, not letting fate have its say, that she arrives at the ending and is able to best Anja.

One of the great questions that this faerietale presents is about the Monster is whether or not it ever existed. In a Faerietale, the Monster nearly always exists in some form or another, needing to be drawn out and killed by our hero(es) before the day can be saved.

Indeed, in Anja’s modern-day retelling of the faerietale, the monster doesn’t exist — at least, not in its Monstrous form. In her story, Markus is the monster, and she must put on the guise of a monster in order to defeat him — in other words, if a monster is going to win, it’s going to be her.

To quote Ned’s astute observation, “[Castle Finster] has too many monsters.”

But it’s Savannah’s words that we should look to, as she’s a Storyteller just as much as Renate is. Savannah, heavily implied to be speaking of Castle Finster, says that the monster she found wasn’t a ghost — it was human cruelty that made the castle and its history so terrifying.

So we’re faced with the question: did the monster ever exist, or was it solely bad people, stealing cattle and sheep and young girls away for their own wicked purposes? Was there truly an amorphous being roaming the countryside, or was it just a clever way to shift blame from those who would do evil unto others? Remember what Renate tells us about monsters:

“The worst monsters are self-made. They are people like you and me, but they have taken a terrible turn. They let everything awful, everything sad, take up all the breathing room in their hearts, until all they know is revenge.”

The answer I would give is that, for this faerietale, it doesn’t matter if the Monster is real or not. The concern is not the nature of the monster, it’s the people’s reaction to the idea of a monster, real or imagined, that sets off our faerietale and provides the stakes. The fear is real and palpable, and the ends of our villain, while understandable and perhaps even praiseworthy, require some downright dastardly means.

The Mystery:

We open first on a look back at a young girl in an Era Past being captured by an unseen monster in the woods near a castle…only to have Nancy drive up on the Castle Finster itself in the modern day. Nancy’s been called in by the owner of the castle, Markus, who wants any troubles with the legendary monster cleaned up before he and his Rich Investor Friends arrive.

Rather than a welcoming piece of history, Nancy is greeted with a scared, unwelcoming town, the fear of the monster looming large and cutting deep — and that’s before the Curse itself turns its eyes on Nancy, forcing her to play along as the Girl in the Red Dress, the favored victim of the monster. Those in the castle are kinder than those outside of it, but there’s still the sneaking suspicion that someone is up to no good, using the guise of the monster to wreak a little havoc of their own invention — and time is running out before the monster claims yet another victim…

As far as the mystery goes…I don’t like to use words like “spectacular” because let’s face it, every game has its holes, but honestly CAP’s mystery is pretty spectacular. Attention-catching, a bit sad, a bit horrific, and loaded with faerietale tropes, subversions, and themes — there’s honestly just not much wrong here, especially given the limitations of, well, making a Nancy Drew game in the first place. The writing does a masterful job at hinting at horrors that, given the rating, they can’t say out loud, while still telling a fully cohesive story that even the young players will be able to grab at and understand (if not to quite the same extent)

The Suspects:

The game begins with Lukas Mittelmeier, so perhaps we should too. Lukas is the rather precocious son of the head of security of Castle Finster, as well as being Anja’s nephew. Bright, mischievous, and a huge fan of games and pranks, Lukas makes the castle a little more interesting — as well as making Karl’s life a bit more hellish.

Unlike another youth living in a castle (coughJanecough), Lukas is bright enough to be a competent culprit…he just isn’t malicious enough. Sure, he’ll play dress-up, spook Karl a bit, and stall Nancy outside the gates of the castle, but that’s really as far as he goes. He would have been an especially poor culprit, thematically speaking, and so it’s a good thing that the game never really attempts to lead you there. Even his dressing up as the monster is more meant to lull the player (and Nancy) into letting down their guard so that the real monster is a bit scarier.

Next up is the Bürgermeister and bad-luck-magnet himself, Karl Weschler. Having encountered his doppelganger as a small child, Karl has expected — and received — bad luck for the rest of his life, and lives in fear of being the cause of unhappiness to those around him. He’s also a board game enthusiast, having developed the (incredibly fun, it should be noted) board game Raid! and enlists Nancy to help him polish it while she solves the “huge monster problem” that Markus hired her for.

As a culprit, Karl would have been interesting, but thematically a little off. It would have had to be a situation where enough bad things happened around him at the castle to make him want to shift the blame, dressing up as the monster in order to throw the punishment off of himself and onto a nebulous force. An interesting plot to be sure, but not one that fits the more sinister nature of the game.

Our charming castellan and cunning culprit, Anja Mittelmeier is next on the docket. Incredibly good at her job, polished, polite, and fiendishly dedicated, Anja keeps the castle in good running order, gives Nancy advice, and is a doting aunt — all while secretly sabotaging Markus by acting as the monster.

I have a lot to say about how good a character Anja is — which I’ll cover more in the next section — but she’s also the perfect villain. All the information you need to figure out who she is happens to be presented to Nancy pretty quickly, but none of it is in the proper context to make it obvious. Even her line — “there’s nothing like love to bring order to a scattered world” — is sweet and romantic at the time, and rather chilling and menacing when you have the whole context of exactly what Anja is doing to ‘bring order to a scattered world’.

It seems only fitting that after Anja should come Markus Boehm, the owner of the castle and the ex-boyfriend that Anja is working for revenge against. Markus is snappish, short-tempered, obnoxious about his money, and rather boorish — though he has some of the funniest lines in any Nancy Drew game — and is guilty of a lot, though not of haunting his own castle.

Casting Markus as the villain would have made this game an entirely different faerietale, one that would have necessitated Anja becoming The Girl in the Dress rather than Nancy. It might have been a more stereotypical Nancy Drew story, but it also would have been weaker – after all, a lot of the horror in this faerietale comes from the curse having its eyes firmly on Nancy, rather than on her watching it unfold.

Finally, our most divisive character is probably Renate Stoller, a cake-loving storyteller bound to Castle Finster by a mixture of fate and history. Personally speaking, I’m a total fan of Renate; she has a lot of freedom to liken the situation to stories and to spell out the fact that all stories are ambiguous without being morally relativist or faux-deep.

As a villain, Renate would have been interesting — set to haunt the castle that has haunted her for so long and caused her pain — but it would have removed the Storyteller archetype from the game, causing the player (and Nancy) to doubt everything she’s said, which would have been a shame.

The Favorite:

There’s a lot to love in CAP, both big and small, so I’ll try to tackle this section with some sort of organization, rather than just gushing from point to random point.

My favorite moment in the game is (in a stunning change from 90% of Nancy Drew Games) tied between the beginning and the final confrontation. The old-time film style beginning (a great example of a “cold open” of a type of horror totally distinct from SAW’s brand of horror) through Nancy’s first discussion with Karl is tightly paced and incredibly well done, introducing our main problems, a few characters, and how Nancy is stepping into this faerietale that’s been all but prepared for her. Special shout out to Karl’s “huge monster problem” dialogue, and Lukas’ getting caught at the castle’s gates — just some really great, distinct character writing that we normally don’t get this soon into a game.

The confrontation, which is normally somewhat cheesy, sometimes awful, and nearly always ill-supported (HAU being the best/worst example of this) in a Nancy Drew game, here instead shows off Nancy’s quick thinking and almost triumphant, smug nature when she figures it all out and traps the villain. The games coming up, as I’ve mentioned above, I refer to as “the Nancy games”, as they give us a lot of insight into who Nancy Drew actually is, aside from an amateur/burgeoning professional detective, but SAW and (to a larger extent) CAP really start giving us peeks at Nancy’s character — not as an infallible main character, but as a girl with an actual personality.

My favorite puzzle in the game — and I realize that it barely counts — is quite honestly Raid. Normally, the games that HER comes up with as minigames within their games are lackluster at best and criminally annoying at worst, but Raid (along with the games in ASH which are particularly enjoyable) is fabulous; it gives us more of that faerietale vibe that the game runs on, brings in Germany’s well-deserved reputation of being the King of Board Games, and actually contains a few moments of good characterization for Karl as well.

And I’m a sucker for getting to create your own card for the game. That’s just stupid cool.

One of the things that CAP does particularly well is its characters, so let’s talk a bit about them here.

Renate, a common favorite, mostly lives up to her hype, due to her storyteller’s dialogue, status as a Sage (slightly different from the usual Sage in a Nancy Drew game, due to her backstory), and intense relatability with falling asleep after eating cake.

Lukas is one of the few child characters in the ND games that actually feels like a child, so he gets points there automatically, even without noting how charming he is. Having Nancy talk to him under the table is also gold, even with the sense that she’s just humoring him, and having him dress up as a monster in a fake out that fools nobody (and even better, is not meant from a writing standpoint to fool anyone) feels perfectly in character for a relatively unsupervised rapscallion like Lukas.

Last on the favorite character list is Anja, a character done To Perfection. It breaks my heart sometimes that she’s the villain, but her character also wouldn’t be complete without being the villain — nor would I love her so much. Anja is patient, loving, a great aunt, friendly, gregarious — and a villain. Her line when she’s talking to Nancy about how she was honest and worked hard every day, and no one cared hits me every time. Anja’s a perfect example of a character who is intensely sympathetic and quite relatable without ever having the thought that her scheme involving Nancy was even a little bit okay. She’s a villain that I’d love to have come back, whether as a villain again or as a begrudging helper.

Finally, let’s get down to the miscellany.

The dialogue in CAP is pitch-perfect, from the distinct way of talking that each suspect has, to Markus’ insults, to the one-off phone call with the pamphlet company. The game in part is so fun because the dialogue is so fun, walking the line between faerietale-style narration (Anja, Renate) and almost Buffy-speak modernity (Karl, Lukas, Markus).

The last thing I want to touch on it — yes, you knew it was coming — the fight between Ned and Nancy. Yes, I’m a Francy shipper, and I do love that Frank is the one Nancy turns to for help with the fight, but that’s not what this part is about.

First off, I love that problems that would /necessarily/ come up in a relationship like Ned and Nancy’s are brought up here; Nancy’s constant jet-setting, while a common side effect of the job she does, is also something that would cause tension — especially considering that Nancy doesn’t really tell him when she sets off for another state/country at a moment’s notice.

A thing that has become Increasingly obvious over the entire series is that Nancy is, let’s face it, not gonna win any awards for Girlfriend of the Year, and in fact might win the opposite award. Ned is constantly giving her attention, validation, helping out when she calls him, and is understanding when she cancels; for her to not give the same amount of care to him (in different ways, as everyone needs different things, of course) becomes more and more glaring as time goes on.

My firm stance on being a bit anti-Nedcy comes from the belief that Ned deserves to get as much out of a relationship as he puts in, and Nancy, as the person she is and even as the best person that she can be, just can’t provide that. Their needs as people are just too different for a relationship to be fair for either person – and, as this game demonstrates, though Ned has the shorter end of the stick, it’s not fair for either one of them.

The Un-Favorite:

There’s not a lot that goes into this section, to be perfectly honest.

The forest is probably my least favorite section of the game — the part that I consider before starting a new game over — but besides tweaking it slightly to help navigation not be quite so frustrating (see below), even the forest is a pretty good puzzle.

The bag puzzle — especially if you, like me, forget every time that you can rotate the objects in Renate’s purse — is the only other annoyance in the game, and ranks as my least favorite puzzle over the forest simply for the fact that you can use a walkthrough to navigate the forest, while you can’t use a walkthrough to do the bag puzzle for you.

Other than that, CAP is just a wholly solid game — no least favorite dialogue, no awkward moment, no point where I turn down my brightness to make it seem like This Isn’t Happening.

The Fix:

So how would I fix The Captive Curse?

Honestly, the first and only change I would make is to fix the forest just slightly. I get that it’s a puzzle, but it’s not quite visually distinct enough to make it feasible for a lot of players to learn how to navigate. To fix this, I wouldn’t take out the forest, I would just make each piece of it a little more visually distinct, with more markers so that players couldn’t lose their place as easily.

There’s nothing other than that worth fixing. Even my dislike of the bag puzzle isn’t strong enough to suggest scrapping it, and it’s a type of puzzle that many people like and are quite good at — not to mention the fact that it’s not at all gamebreaking in its difficulty.

The Captive Curse is often sort of a “top middle” or just “middle” ranking for a lot of players due to the fact that it’s not quite as showy as a lot of “favorite” games, and thus can get lost in the fandom shuffle. But looking at it as both pieces and as a whole proves that this game is one of the most solid in the series sporting a great mystery, fantastic characters, and more than a little faerietale wisdom to carry to the next story.

#nancy drew #nancy drew games #clue crew #CAP #the captive curse #nancy drew meta #my meta #video games #long post

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untamedunrestrained · 3 years

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Moral of the Story

I was scrolling through the WangXian tag on Tumblr when I came across a post that I eventually scrolled past but it seems to have planted a germ of an idea that I just can’t shake loose and I tried and I tried and then I procrastinated some more for good measure but it didn’t work. So, here I am trying to present my thoughts with some degree of coherency.

The post that was the impetus for this post, talks about LWJ’s punishment after the events at Nightless City just before WWX’s death. That post raises the question of how LWJ could forgive his uncle and brother for a punishment that would have killed a lesser cultivator.

The moment I read the post I disagreed with it but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why but since I have been thinking about it for the past few days, I now know exactly why I disagreed with the post in the first place.

Before we proceed, I would like to make it clear that while what I’m about to say tracks across every canon of MDZS, I’m going to pick the details from the novel verse because it’s more detailed with regards to this particular aspect of the story, and also if you have only watched The Untamed/CQL and not read the novel (albeit only in its translated form) it might be easier to fall into the type of thinking that lead to the previous post in the first place.

Ideally, I should just link to the original post but since I found the post while I was scrolling through Tumblr’s tag for WangXian and initially tried to ignore it completely because I didn’t quite understand why that particular idea was troubling me, I don’t think it would be easy to find it again and since I’m disagreeing with the post I don’t want the author of the post to find this because even when we try to be rational our first response to being disagreed with is hurt or anger and I don’t want anyone to feel that way. These are just my thoughts and you might agree or disagree with them but I feel like I should put them out there since the idea will not leave me alone.

So, let’s get into it.

LWJ is given thirty-three discipline whips for each of the thirty-three GusuLan elders he gravely injured to protect WWX.

When WWX sees LWJ scars in the novel these are his thoughts-

Usually, with only one or two strikes of the discipline whip, it would already be enough of a punishment for the bearer to remember it for their whole life, never to make the same mistake ever again. The amount of scars on this person’s back accumulated thirty at the least. Just what sort of monstrous crime did he commit for him to be whipped so many times? If it really was a monstrous crime, why didn’t they kill him?

As we will later learn LWJ’s punishment is a little more detailed than just whipping he was also made to kneel in front of the “Wall of Discipline” following the whipping.

It’s a barbaric punishment and of course, the ones ordering it are his uncle and his brother who have both been established as characters who truly do love LWJ. So, why? Why is LWJ’s punishment so severe, well there are two reasons for that and I will discuss the lamer one first.

His punishment was severe because by this point we know that LWJ is probably one of the best cultivators of his generation if not the best (I could definitely argue for the latter, I mean this guy can fight Xue Yang wielding his sword with one hand and keep an entire horde of zombies at bay while playing his guqin with the other. And, did I mention this is happening at the same time, he literally managed to fight a horde of zombies and Xue Yang with two different cultivation methods being practised simultaneously and of course, he won but not only that there wasn’t a moment during this entire fight when that wasn’t the expected outcome). So, of course, if you want to really punish this guy the punishment has to be on par with his own physical and spiritual strength, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment he was able to do it without even breaking a sweat. I told you it was a bit lame.

Secondly and more importantly, the punishment should fit the crime. If the crime is particularly grievous, the punishment must be as well, it must be severe and in this particular story, depending on the individual’s spiritual strength a severe enough punishment might be different for different levels of cultivation. So, the real question is did LWJ deserve the punishment and the answer is an unequivocal YES.

LWJ grievously injured thirty-three GusuLan elders who were looking for him specifically so that they could find him before the other clans did because if the other clans did find him first they would kill him. After all, he saved WWX and kept him alive. The same WWX who at the Nightless City declared war on the combined might of the Cultivation World and then proceeded to kill thousands of Cultivators and then when they died he resurrected them to fight their very own comrades, that WWX.

Now, we might all argue he only fought the Cultivators because they killed all the Wen remnants and that only happened because he killed Jin ZiXuan who he technically didn’t kill but he definitely provided the opportunity and the weapon for his death because his ego couldn’t let Jin ZiXun go. At this point, we don’t know that there is another player in the mix but both these fights that ultimately take the lives of Jin ZiXuan and Jiang Yanli respectively were both started by WWX and even if we forget about the inciting event (Jin ZiXuan’s death), WWX still killed thousands of people from all clans. But, we only know these intricacies because the story is told from WWX’s perspective. LWJ doesn’t know this and neither do most of the people in the Cultivation World.

What they do know is that LWJ took WWX after he had killed thousands of cultivators and depleted the remaining Cultivators of their spiritual energy so thoroughly it took them three months to recover enough to mount a second attack. No matter how you spin it WWX is responsible for those deaths and LWJ is responsible for saving an outright murderer and then he further cemented his crimes by fighting thirty-three of his own elders and grievously injuring them in defence of said murderer when it seems like they largely made the journey to protect LWJ's life and his reputation and not with the primary purpose of killing WWX.

So, yes he deserves his punishment and as he himself believes this -

But he (LWJ) said… that he could not say with certainty whether what you (WWX) did was right or wrong, but no matter what, he was willing to be responsible for all of the consequences alongside you.

The reason LWJ could forgive LXC and LQR for his punishment is because he didn’t need to. He understood exactly why he was being punished. At the end of the day, LWJ didn’t actually protect WWX thinking that he might be right, he protected WWX because he was intensely and irrevocably in love with him and he is ready to stand by his love right or wrong.

While these are all very valid points the real reason that post caused this disquiet to appear in me was because it was trying to paint LXC and LQR’s actions in a bad light with the power of hindsight completely forgetting that their actions were relevant in the context they happened in which brought me spiralling back to the story as a whole.

The story firmly tries to tell you that what you see and what you observe might paint a very clear narrative in your eyes but there is always a possibility that the narrative we feel is so immutable can completely change its structure if we were just able to see it in a different light as is beautifully illuminated by this story.

The other thing that we don’t realise is that in this story we aren’t depicted by LWJ or WWX or JC or JL or LSZ or even NHS and JGY for the matter. We are the mob, we are Sect Leader Yao, we are the people who are told stories that paint people in a certain light and then we can’t see them in any other light. In our very upbringing, some prejudices are a staple and we still harbour them and these influence how we interact with the world and more specifically how we judge people and their actions. This story urges us to remember that while things might seem black and white maybe unearthing the reasons behind them might make the story more grey, so the next time you decide to paint a group of people or even a particular person as wholly bad no matter how egregious their actions may seem remember the moral of Mo Dao Zu Shi, remember that there might be more to the story than meets the eye and more importantly remember that something in the future might make a success of today look like a blight on history.

If I have to be more precise, I would say the moral of this story is to be open to the possibility that we might not know the whole story and we might be wrong even when we are a 100% convinced we aren’t.

#mo dao zu shi #wei wuxian #lan wangji #lan xichen #lan qiren #wangxian #myposts

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yolkyeomie · 3 years

Text

Trade Off of Gifts | Bang Chan

summary — no one knows the world of an artists as well as you do, at least that’s what you thought until he decided to show up one day

word count — 1.7k words

pairing — chan x gender neutral!reader

genre — fluff, artist!reader with a tiny hint of musician!chan (even tho he’s already a musician???)

disclaimer — just something tiny for all your fast and short topher needs !!

Being someone who is artistically gifted has its perks, leaving you to be more creatively thoughtful than most of the people around you.

The world and its people was one big incomplete painting to you, splashes of colors being splattered into its surface as you began to maneuver through it. You were the artist who determined what colors were allowed to stay and what colors no longer fit the narrative you were trying to create. It was a tiresome and even lonely job when you had to pick up a brush and bring a new color into your final masterpiece, but it was a rather exciting process nonetheless.

Different colors meant different things and different shades indicated different tones. Sometimes they’d change meanings and sometimes they’d stay the same, it always depended on how you felt that day. You could never explain exactly what everything meant to you, thinking of it as some innate feelings you were born with.

You never bothered trying to help outsiders comprehend what you meant either, as it was easier to keep it to yourself instead of giving your thoughts and feelings for the world to see.

But then somehow, you were stumbled upon by someone who shared the same views as you. Someone who saw the world in a rather similar artistic and dreamy light as you did, and they weren’t even an artist who puts pen to paper.

“That’s a nice drawing,” the stranger told you, hovering over your shoulder like a hawk to its prey. You scrambled to your feet almost immediately, pressing your art to your chest in a defensive manner. You didn’t like it when people hovered over you while you were drawing, entranced in this magical world of fantasy and possibility when you doodled on whatever surface you.

Usually, people would interrupt you when you weren’t finished, commenting on how odd everything seemed and how empty your art looked.

But then it clicked in your head, the stranger didn’t make any sort of ignorant comment on it. He simply said it was nice.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, your eyes darting down to the sketch you had created.

It wasn’t anything special, a half-done headshot of one of your friends from memory. It didn’t really look like any of your friends at the time either, there wasn’t enough detail on the features for it to be recognizable of who it was. “I mean, it’s not really done or anything so it’s not the best I’ve ever created but—“

“Really?” He questioned, his eyes widening to show off the little twinkling stars in his eyes and his mouth gaping open at your response. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his expression, nodding your head as an answer. “You’re a really good artist, you know that? Not many of my friends can even pick up a pencil if we really wanted to, but I guess that’s not really a compliment. Is portraits the only thing you draw?”

You lifted an eyebrow as he spoke, cautiously eying him and the choice of his words. He definitely wasn’t new to the whole artist thing, there was no way he was that knowledgeable on what artists liked to hear and what they didn’t like to hear and wasn’t an artist himself.

He even called you an artist instead of a “drawer”! If that wasn’t a dead giveaway of the fact that you were in the presence of an artistically gifted person then you don’t know what was.

“Not always,” you answered him, shrugging your shoulders as you tried to come up with a decent answer. “It really depends on my mood, but I like drawing portraits of people more than anything. It gives me an excuse to look at others without seeming… creepy? You know?”

“Oh…,” he nodded, a smile donning his face as he looked up at you. “So you’re a people watcher?”

“Not exactly,” you corrected him, “I just enjoy looking at people’s faces. You know, to catch every little detail that makes them unique to themselves. Everyone’s got something about them that’s different from everyone else and drawing lets me capture their uniqueness in a form that can be treasured forever.”

“That just sounds like an over-exaggeration of people watching,” the boy insisted, a laugh escaping his lips when he caught your frustrated glare digging daggers into his skull. “I’m kidding I promise! I completely understand what you mean. So who were you drawing just now then?”

Your expression immediately falls into a grimace, hesitantly peering towards your unfinished work to your friend. “Ah… this?” You ask him, trying to stall time from explaining your latest creation to him.

Through when you looked up to the boy he only nodded at your question and gave you the brightest smile he could. “It’s… it’s a drawing of a friend. He didn’t ask me to make this or anything, but I was just using him to practice faces.”

“You’re only practicing?” the boy gasped, scooting closer to you to steal another peek of your sketch from before. “That’s crazy, I would have thought you were working on an actual project and trying to get to the final piece!”

“You flatter me too much,” you joked, giving your sketch a half-smile. You appreciated the compliments he was showering you with, but there was no way you were actually living up to those expectations in your head. Being artistically gifted had its perks yet also had its more major downfalls: creating unattainable standards for yourself that you constantly set yourself up for failure was one of them. “I still have a long way to go before I can get anywhere near where I want to be.”

“I think where you are now is a great place, you should help yourself to the compliments when you get them. You deserve them,” he commented, a wide grin stretching across his face. Watching his lips turn into a smile made you so do the same, the atmosphere around him too addicting to go to waste. “Plus, I can tell you like it when people praise you.”

“Shut up, you ruined the moment,” you hissed, jumping to your feet to shove him out of your range of sight. The boy giggled at your reaction as he forced himself to stay put, not moving a singular inch no matter how hard you pushed him. “Leave! I don’t want you around me anymore, you ruined the moment!”

The boy thought about your words for a moment, as if he was trying to determine whether or not he wanted to leave you alone. “How about this,” he offered, spinning on his heel to face you. It caught you off guard for a moment, stumbling back on your feet as he shined that same smile from earlier on to you. “I’ll leave you alone now, but you have to let me come back and talk to you about your art more.”

You snorted, “I don’t even know you, why would I do that?”

He nodded in understanding, considering your comment before holding his hand out for you to shake. “Okay then, hi! I’m Bang Chan and I want you to let me come back another day and talk to you about your art. Does this make up for the lack of acquaintanceship?”

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you humor him, shaking his hand before sliding out a slightly impolite question from your lips, “Is Bang Chan asking to hang around me because he wants me to give him a free drawing? If so I’m sorry but I’m not confident enough in my skills to even make you anything if I wanted to. There’s a reason I’m practicing here you know.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he clarified, slumping back onto the ground and laying back with a content smile. “I don’t want free art, I just want to hear you talk about your art. Maybe people watch with you from time to time.”

“I’m not a people watcher.”

“Sorry,” Chan nodded, “maybe not-people-watch with you then.”

You went silent for a moment, looking down at the sketch in your hands and glancing back towards the boy. “So that’s all? You just want to… hang out with me while I draw? No strings attached? You’re not going to ask me to draw you for free in the future or make fun of my unfinished work at all?”

He nodded in response and pointed a finger at your head. “The mind of an artist is a very interesting place to explore because not every artist has the same thought process when it comes to their creations. I want to see how we differ from each other.”

“So you’re an artist as well?” You question, your eyes widening as you slowly began to realize what he had said.

“Wouldn’t exactly say an artist,” Chan laughed, downplaying his statement as much as possible. “More of a… musician? I guess? I make songs, but that’s nothing compared to being someone who puts a pencil to paper.”

So your hunch was correct, Chan was artistically gifted! Of course, it wasn’t exactly in the way you had thought before but the mere fact that he was like you made much more sense now. “A musician is still an artist,” you tell him, “just because you’re not creating art in that sense doesn’t mean you aren’t an artist. Art comes in many different forms you know, you can’t limit it to one medium.”

“Well my form of art isn’t very… how do I say this, it isn’t—“

“—You’re embarrassed.” You finished. As expected the boy came up with as many excuses as possible, trying to drill the false act into your head but utterly failing. All you could do was laugh as you spoke, “don’t worry! It’s normal to be closed off about the things you create, I’m embarrassed to show off my art to people all of the time.”

Chan nodded, nervously fidgeting with his hair as he tried to play off his flustered actions. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common right?”

“Make that two things,” you corrected him. He turned to you with a confused glint in his eyes as you held up two fingers and grinned at him as you explained, “we’re both artists and we’re embarrassed to show people our creations. Oh the woes of being artistically gifted, am I right?”

He nodded in agreement, a cheeky smile appearing on his face once again as he repeated, “oh the woes of being artistically gifted.”

#stayhavennet #kpop imagines #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop fluff #kpop au #stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids chan #skz imagines #skz fluff #skz chan #skz #bang chan imagines #bang chan #chan x reader #bang chan x reader

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