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ren-c-leyn · 3 years

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FNF Story: Betrayer

Another tale for @promptsforthestrugglingauthor‘s Friday Night Fights event. This week’s prompt is here, additionally, I used these 1,2,3 other prompts from their collection, this prompt by @thependragonwritersguild, this prompt by @clean-prompts, and this prompt by @corvidprompts.

Warnings: This piece is a heavy angst piece that mentions death in passing, some alcohol use, a curse, fighting, some blood, but nothing graphic or in any particularly descriptive detail.

“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it!” I stumbled forward, the world wobbling around me. My companion lay on the ground, breathing in shaking, labored heaves and surrounded by so, so much red. “You have to be fine, you have to!”

But he wasn’t fine. the crimson pool grew and grew as the breathing slowed. No matter how much pressure I put on the wound, it wouldn’t stop bleeding. All the while, I heard a chorus of whispers surrounding us.

‘Why?’

‘Why did you betray us?’

‘What have you done?’

‘Why did you do it, why?!’

‘We thought you were our friend.’

I blinked back tears, trying not to listen, trying to stop myself from shaking as I focused on him, focused on trying to save him. Both those pale green eyes were going glassy.

“Please don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t!” I begged, but they closed anyways.

The whispers burst into hideous laughter and then it all went dark.

I jerked out of bed, drenched in enough sweat that I may as well have just been caught in the rain. I clutched my own arms, breath ragged, trying to expel what I’d just seen. His hands fell on my shoulders, touch gentle and light, reminding me I was not alone.

“You’re gonna be okay. It was just a dream. I’m here,” he said.

And I froze. My mind reeled, trying to figure out exactly when this... this creature got in here. It was hard to think with the pounding headache and blurry tears, so I just shoved him away and stumbled out of bed and downstairs.

Bits of memory faded in and out as I wobbled closer and closer to the bottom of the staircase. Right. I was drunk. He helped me home. I was sobbing, something about the curse.... The curse.

I stopped on the last stair before sinking down onto it. There was the obnoxious pounding of footsteps as he came down after me. He sighed.

“You’re not ready to be up, yet,” he said gently before carefully grabbing my arm.

“Get your hands off me!”

“You’re sick, I’m not gonna just leave–”

“I would sooner crawl back up these stairs on my hands and knees than lower my pride enough to ask you for help–so, again–hands. Off.”

He let go and held his hands up.

“I don’t understand why you won’t just let me help this once.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good. I don’t trust me, either.”

I groaned at the sarcasm.

“Infuriating as ever.”

“Guilty as charged.”

A tense silence passed between us as he stepped passed me and sat down on the rug in front of the stairs.

“It’s only going to get worse,” he ventured after a few minutes went by. “And alcohol isn’t going to help.”

“Don’t lecture me, I know. And...” flashes of the dream danced through my head, “I know what I need to do to fix it.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“To undo what has been done, I have to undo my betrayal. And I don’t need you getting in my way.”

His expression soured.

“Your death won’t undo it if that’s your plan.”

“I’m not planning my own death.”

He sat there blanked faced as I stood and slipped around him, heading to the kitchen. It must have clicked somewhere between my first glass of water and the second because I heard him screech in a way only he could.

“You can’t do this!”

“You can’t stop me.”

“It’s stupid! You’ll die before you kill him! And another one will just take his place, that’s how power vacuums work!”

I listened to him rant and rave for a few moments. Ironic that the traitor who helped the Empire take over was being advised by a traitor to said Empire now. We were always enemies, always on opposite sides, no matter who we decided to serve we were always against one another. Even now, even after he decided to pity me, we were still on the opposite side.

Around the third glass of water, I felt alive enough to pass by him again to collect my weapons and armor. He grabbed my wrist and I ripped my arm away.

“Touch me again and see what happens,” I growled.

He threw his clawed hands up in the air.

“Fine. But please take a moment to stop and think about this, think about it seriously. He’s guarded, he’s living in what is essentially a fortress, there’s magic on his side, and he’s only half mortal. Half mortal. Killing him is damn near impossible for warriors who have kept up their training and aren’t being slowly consumed by a curse.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve been using my downtime to think of smarter solutions than a duel, then, huh?”

He shook his head, white hair fluttering about.

“You’ve always been impossible.”

“As have you, my old enemy,” I mumbled as I resumed walking to my little armory. ‘As have you.”

He stopped protesting after that, just sat sulking on the bottom step of the staircase. Instead, he merely watched through silted eyes and a stony mask. Gargoyles, didn’t they have anything better to do than sit and judge?

It took me the better part of the day to finish preparations, but I had ample time before the main event. I paused by the stairs, meeting his solemn gaze.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“You rarely do. Act impulsively, yes, but change your mind after deciding to do something?” he snorted before his shoulders sagged. ‘I wished you would, though. There might still be other ways. Ways that you might, I don’t know, survive?”

I shook my head.

“Tried already. No. They won’t forgive me, not while my betrayal still stands.”

“And so you rush to your death. Go then, my old enemy. I will bury you when it is over.”

I couldn’t find any words. Not a snarky reply or even a simple thank you. Instead, I gave him a nod and started walking to the door.

It was my last chance to make things right, my last chance to be honest. Better late than never, I supposed, but given how slow traffic was, it was looking like it might be never. I had hopped onto the farmer’s cart, thinking it’d be a faster trip. Turns out, it wasn’t. Horses and wagons filled the road to the city gates for as far as the eye could see and showed no signs of moving forward.

A sigh escaped me as I felt another throb in my bones, another pulse of a headache. I know, Renard, give me a little more time. I’ll avenge you. What I helped them do to you. It didn’t change anything, but I felt better for the thought.

Slowly, I forced myself out of the back of the wagon and began making my way forward, cutting passed farmers and merchants and travelers of all kinds until I was up at the front. Looked like the guards and some foreign nobles we arguing. I didn’t have time for it. Any of it.

So, with a light push, I started a distraction. A brawl between the noble’s guards and the city guards would get ugly, no doubt, but who would notice me slipping by? No one. That’s who noticed me slipping by.

The palace, or perhaps fortress was a better description of it, was also fairly simple. I just stood slightly behind and to the side of the first official looking person heading inside, and pretended to be their guard as we walked in together. Then, I promptly slipped away from him before he could notice we were being followed.

The palace was at half staff, thanks to battles up north, so now was the best time to catch him. Risky and probably going to get me killed, yes, but the best time all the same.

Finding the evil son of a lake serpent that killed Renard, that caused me to be cursed, proved to be the actual challenge. I listened around the servants, eavesdropped on the throne room, and just wandered around, searching for him. Eventually, I came across the war room and heard the unmistakable, booming voice of the Emperor. Wonderful.

Terrible, I corrected myself as I realized that this was where most of the palace guard had been hiding. And they had spotted me.

“Who goes there?” the woman demanded, scowling at me from beneath her spiraling horns.

I blurted out my name. My full name. And she stood there, staring blankly at me. I smiled.

“I come bearing critical information.”

She opened her mouth, but the booming voice echoed out of the war room.

“Let the spy in.”

She looked back at the door and then back at me before making a sweeping gesture towards it. Not questioning my good fortune, I made my way inside.

He stood tall, a hulking figure over the rest of the forms in the room. All were armed, but all made a conscious effort to keep their hands above the table. It would be a bad idea to get into a fight here, I assumed.

How unfortunate.

I placed myself right at his side, craning my neck upwards to look at him. He was as captivating as he had been back then. Quietly fierce and striking. His armor shined in the light of the crystals above his head, and his green eyes glowed ominously as he stared down at me.

“It has been a long time.”

“Indeed. Seven years to be exact.’

“They have not done you well,” he noted.

“But they have served me well,” I replied with a dip of my head, “and you as well.’

“The information?”

I grinned with a nod.

“Yes, allow me to get the point, then. You’re true enemy is not in the north.”

There was a collective of whispers and snorts from around the table, but I kept my eyes on him.

“Interesting accusations. Show me your proof.”

I gestured to the table and watched him lean over it again.

“Look at the table, My Emperor, and see for yourself. Notice something odd about the attack patterns? How they all seem to conveniently benefit one person?”

I didn’t know what the sea I was talking about, but it certainly seemed to get his attention as he leaned further down, inspected the placements of their colored flags with more scrutiny. I could almost reach it, now, that fabled soft spot.

I slid a little closer to his side, making a show of gesturing to the flags.

“If you look at where the boards of these territories, and the placement of the blockades, you’ll see that it seems to greatly benefit you’re general over there, as anyone moving through his land has to pay the fee....”

“How dare...”

“Silence.’

The general shrunk down as the Emperor leaned a little closer to my direction, paying closer attention to the general’s boarders. Slowly, I raised myself onto my toes and reached for the dagger in my sleeve. He turned his head to look to me, to ask a question, and that’s when I struck.

My dagger found that soft spot, but his hand also found my arm. I had just barely, barely broken the skin. I shook. So close. I had been so damn close....

There was silence in the room. A thick, suffocating one as all stared at me in shock. As I stood in front of him, barely able to conceal the tremble of my legs, I wondered what made me think I was strong enough to challenge him in the first place. I guess the gargoyle had been right. I had sentenced myself to death, not freedom.

His eyes burrowed into me, staring with that same intense glow and power that had convinced me to switch to his cause to begin with.

“I always wondered when you’d do it,” the emperor said at last. “I always wondered when you’d turn on me, betrayer.” He twisted the dagger out of my hand and it clattered lifelessly to the floor. “It’s all you are in the end, all you’ll ever be, a betrayer. No loyalties, not even to yourself. The first opportunity to drive the knife in, you’ll probably take it.”

“I should have taken yours sooner,” I tried to snarl, but it just sounded hollow.

“So you could avoid your curse?” He clicked his tongue. “Wouldn’t have worked. It wasn’t Renard who cursed you. Wasn’t any of your old allies. No. You are you’re own curse. You always have been, always will be. No one hurts you more than yourself, but you only care now because there’s a physical manifestation of your corruption inconveniencing you.”

“Killing me,” I corrected.

“Betrayer, you’ve sentenced yourself to death, not the curse.” He swung me around by my wrist, handing me over to the guards. “Take the betrayer to the dungeons.”

I didn’t fight them, didn’t have the strength too. And as the iron door swung closed, the words echoed around the inside of my skull.

It’s all you are in the end, all you’ll ever be, betrayer.

Story taglist (ask to be added or removed.):

@nemowritesstuff , @likelyfantasywriterspsychic, @hannahs-creations, @writer-candy, @kaylewiswrites, @tenacious-scripturient, @ofinkblotsandscript, @mischiefiswritten, @kespada, @silvertalonwriteblr, @inspiring-prompts, @greenwood-writes, @elkatheinkstained, @n1ghtcrwler, @writingiswilde, @say-no-to-negativity, @wordshavings

#friday night fights #short story #fiction #fantasy #original story #my writing #a story by ren #angst

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the-l-spacer · 3 years

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(Ch 1) (Ch 2)

Summary: Lloyd wakes up one morning to discover that, on a whim, the Metaverse had decided to release him and Raven from the Lovers archetype they had been locked in for as long as either could remember.

In the process, however, reality became… just a little screwed up.

Now, Raven is gone, and in his place is David Adams. David Adams, who had never left Ashland, working middle-management at Justacorp. David Adams, who had never heard the anvils, never jumped off Warner's Peak.

But Lloyd remembers everything, and he makes it his personal quest to win back the love of his life.

...No matter how many 'strictly professional' coffee dates it took.

I started a (hopefully) multi-chapter, Raven-kind-of-has-amnesia fic! Title and everything's still very much a work in progress, and this chapter is more an introduction than anything, but I hope y’all enjoy reading anyways!!

The last thing Raven says to Lloyd before he (quite literally) vanishes the next morning is a semi-conscious, “Good night, my love,” mumbled into the latter’s chest as they both fall asleep.

Not that he knows of his boyfriend’s disappearance just yet, of course. For now, Lloyd Allen is asleep. Well, half-asleep, roused from a dream he can no longer remember by a rather odd sensation in his chest, a sensation that he promptly attempts to shake off, willing himself to sink back into slumber.

He succeeds with the former, though the Metaverse always finds other ways to keep him from the latter.

This time, it’s the mid-morning sun that does it, filtering in through a gap in the bedroom’s curtains, casting a single, warm beam of light across the bed. When the light reaches his face, Lloyd shuts his eyes tighter, burrowing deep under the covers.

“Mmmmfgh,” he groans. “Ravey, draw the curtains.”

When he doesn’t feel the responding shift in the mattress, nor hear the sounds of curtains being pulled, shielding his precious eyes against the sun, his half-conscious mind is consumed by halfhearted annoyance. He really didn’t know what else he expected, considering Raven was always the heavier sleeper.

Eyes still closed, he stretches out his arm, meaning to rouse his (presumably) unconscious partner. Instead of feeling Raven’s telltale warmth, however, his hand connects with nothing but an empty expanse of bed.

Fully awake now (and against his will, too), Lloyd sits up and stretches, preparing to give Raven — probably up and outside without having the decency to give his boyfriend his precious five minutes extra sleep — a good telling-to. He swings his legs to the edge of the bed, and at long last, gets up with a final, drawn-out groan.

He first realises that something is decidedly off when that strange feeling in his chest returns full-force as he’s brushing his teeth.

“This again?” He aims the question, garbled through foam, at his sleepy-eyed self in the mirror.

Spit, rinse, close the faucet, done.

He regards his reflection once again. “No response, hmm?”

More silence.

“Well, I’ll just have to work this out for myself. No thanks to you, and no thanks to Ravey, apparently. I have no idea how he’s up before I am.”

He goes through a mental list of everything that could have possibly gone wrong. Heart attack? No, there would be other accompanying signs. Some other heart condition? Impossible, at least not if the folks who built his body on the Singularity had anything to say about it.

Anxiety? It is a possibility, but what does he have to be anxious about? Compared to where he was a scant year ago, his current position of ‘Carnival Co-Runner, Trainer of One Not-So-New-Now Post-Human, and not to forget, Possessor of an Actual Living, Breathing, Positively Spry Human Body’ is downright enviable.

Perhaps it’s simply dehydration, he decides. He and Ravey did have quite a bit to drink the night before, nothing a quick trip to their small, cosy kitchen couldn’t solve. Plus, he hasn’t quite ruled out the anxiety option. Maybe, in the haze of alcohol and festivities (yesterday being their time-is-fluid-th pre-anniversary, and all), his boyfriend had talked about pulling yet another zero-gravity, hair-whitening stunt. He swears to question him once he finds him, probably in the kitchen nursing his morning hangover over a cup of strong coffee.

But when he doesn’t. When all telltale signs of life in the kitchen — the smell of cooking, of roasting coffee beans, of a chair askew or messy countertops — are simply nonexistent, that’s when Lloyd knows that something is very, very wrong.

Because the kitchen isn’t just empty, it’s as if no one but him had occupied it ever since its construction. There is one, lone kitchen chair tucked neatly at the table, a single mug, one set of silverware, and when Lloyd dashes back to the bathroom to confirm that he isn’t just hallucinating, one toothbrush, his own.

It isn’t just these rooms either. The living room coffee table, which Lloyd is certain would be filled with bottles and wine glasses in the wake of the previous night, is completely empty, and gone from various surfaces are the framed photos of him and Ravey at the carnival, at the Second Playhouse’s opening night. Even their wardrobe isn’t spared, devoid of the violent splash of purple brought by his other half’s various coats, vests, dresses, shirts and heels.

The sensation of wrongness doubles in intensity, made worse by the rapid thump-thump-thumping of his heart. Lloyd’s shaking knees give way, depositing him onto Raven’s side of the bed, cold and bare.

It is then he finally realises exactly what he’s feeling. The sensation is his heart is emptiness, something alien to him ever since he had gotten his body back and returned home to nothing but light and love (and a near-death experience, though that was an accident and hardly counted), even the memory of his hilariously disastrous homecoming sending another icy knife through his chest.

Raven is gone. With it, a piece of himself has been ripped away, and all Lloyd feels is empty.

The rest of his morning is spent in a daze, running around the carnival, asking every worker, Floozy, honorary Floozy and Hell Hag he passes if they had seen his boyfriend.

“Nope, sorry Lloyd.”

“Haven’t seen him. Isn’t he usually with you?”

“Sorry sugar, No sign of Raven Baby ‘round here just yet.”

A flurry of activity — people setting up booths, clearing the last of the previous day’s detritus, cranking the ferris wheel in preparation for the guests who would arrive from wherever the Carnival decides to park itself for the day — swirls around him, but Lloyd registers none of it. He runs and searches every corner of the place, until his hunt takes him to the last stop, Han Mi’s trailer.

Han hears the feeble knock on her door, and decides not to say anything when she opens it to a panting, wild-eyed Lloyd, who promptly proceeds to wobble past her, collapsing onto her couch, head in his hands.

“Okay, so you didn’t remember to take your shoes off before coming in, I assume you’ve got bad news.”

Through the gap in his fingers, Lloyd mutters a soft, “Shit. Sorry, Han,” before kicking his shoes off and toward the half-open door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Han sighs, and slides a chair over, taking a seat opposite the man. Not beside. They aren’t quite there yet.

A brief moment of silence passes, before Lloyd speaks up. “This is probably an exercise in futility, but. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Raven around this morning, have you?”

Letting out a sympathetic whistle, Han says, “No dice, sorry. I woke up, like, fifteen minutes ago, and I think I’d know if Raven was in my trailer. He isn’t with you or the Floozies?”

Lloyd deflates, letting his head fall backward to rest against the wall behind him. Addressing the ceiling, he says, “He very much isn’t. I checked everywhere, and this was my last stop.”

“Maybe he’s running a quick errand in another narrative,” Han offers.

“No. It’s not just that Raven’s gone from the carnival, he’s.” Lloyd scrubs a hand across his eyes, and rests his gaze on her. “He’s vanished completely. All his clothes, his personal items, his photos. It’s like he had never even existed.”

“Wait. What?” Han Mi’s eyes go wide. “Does everyone else know about this?”

“They only know that I can’t find him. You’re the first person I’ve told about… the rest. And there’s more.”

“Wait. Before you tell me, have you eaten yet? Drank anything? You look like a wreck… no offence.”

“None taken, and no, I haven’t. There hasn’t been time to, with,” Lloyd vaguely gestures, “everything that’s been happening.”

“Well, if he’s really up and disappeared, a little time taken to catch your breath couldn’t hurt, could it?” Sure, she was still mad at the shit Lloyd pulled as the writer for the Cabaret, but she didn’t hate him. And she knew painfully what it was like to lose someone she loved.

Lloyd begins to protest, but Han silences him with a glare. She’s persuasive like that.

“Are we doing carrot cake?” He manages feebly.

Han nods. “We’re doing carrot cake.”

#shaperaverse #new albion #Paul shapera #im working on the next chapter aaaaaaa #writings

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xiubaek-13 · 4 years

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Case File 01

A/N: This is a continuation on the AU I created for Case 99. It is a standalone one shot but there is background info that you’ll pick up on more if you’re read the first fic. Let me know what you think :)

Pairing: Suho x Reader

Warnings: Supernatural themes, violence, angst, stockholm syndrome, gaslighting, manipulation etc. This will deal with some darker themes but there is some light hearted fun in here too, kind of.

Genre: Fantasy/Supernatural

Word Count: 8,488

Summary: Sometimes people are not who they seem. Sometimes the harbor secrets that they would take to the grave. Sometimes people play with your heart on purpose in a sick and twisted game purely for their own amusement. When they think they’ve won you strike, because only you decide what breaks you.

One stupid mistake led you here and now you can’t escape. For a time you were happier than you’d ever been, but then there are times when you remember who you were and where you’re from. Will you choose to stay or will you find your way home?

I wonder if they’ll bargain with me? Do they even do that in this city? You stared at the small fruit stall, filled with it’s overpriced produce, then back at the small pile of coins in your hands. After a few days of greasy take away and dull looking food your body was craving something healthy. It just so happened that you strolled past a fruit store on your way towards the center of town…well what you assumed was the center. You’d decided that the giant casino was the middle of the city but you could be wrong, not that you really cared. This place was just a pit stop on your way to the coast. You grew up in the mountains and always dreamed of a trip to the sea. You wanted to watch the sunrise over the ocean to make a brand new day and to feel the cool water and sand between your toes as you did.

Your parents had always turned their noses up at the idea of a seaside holiday, the air was too salty down there apparently. Try as they might, they never dissuaded you from your dream holiday and as the years went by, your desire to visit the ocean only grew. Your parents did their best to try and change your mind (not that you ever understood what their problem with the ocean was), always telling you horror stories of the city that you’d have to pass through before you could get to the coast. A city that would corrupt and deceive you. A city that was full of dark alleys and people with secrets. These stories had the opposite effect than what was intended - now you wanted to spend a few days in this supposedly evil city. The storied made you interested in the corrupt nature of man and made you wonder about the cityfolk. Would they be cruel and jaded or kind and misguided?

Above all your father had told you never to trust the people you met between the city and the sea. He told you that they would manipulate your kind heart and twist you in ways that you wouldn’t realise until it was too late and he would not be able to protect you. If wasn’t for the worried look in his eyes when he spoke you would have thought nothing of his warning but something about the way he spoke and looked at you in that moment made you treat his words with the seriousness they deserved.

After three days in the city you could definitely agree with your parents about the cruel nature of man but not in the ways they might think. The residents of the town, as far as you were aware, were an even mix between the hardworking, honest folk and the scheming degenerate and power hungry rich who ruled the place. You’d seen things you couldn’t explain, things you couldn’t unsee and heard things you never wanted to hear again as long as you lived but even with the hidden dangers, the city had charm. It lured you in and made you want to stay just one more day…which is how you were still here after three days.

In the mountains you bartered with farmers and traded goods with neighbours but down here haggling was a much more intricate sport. Still, you were going to try with the fruit store owner because of how good those cherries looked in the front window, and the peaches. You passed through the door causing the small chime to sound as you entered. A short woman with kind eyes emerged from the back of the store and asked what you were after. You complimented her on the quality of her produce, chatting about where she sourced it from since there were no farms in this urban jungle and she was more than happy to chat away to you about the lovely gentleman who grew all sort of produce in his orchard between the city and the sea. When you told her of your childhood in the mountains she took great interest in learning about why you have strayed so far from home and if you were safe in this city. She reminded you a lot of your parents with her concern for your well-being and cryptic messages about the unsafe parts of town.

“Girl, I will make you a deal,” she began. “I will give you some of my fruit free of charge if you tell me two things.”

“What things?” You asked, puzzled by her odd question.

“Why you dream of the sea and what your name is.” He responded, her expression giving away nothing.

“That’s all?” You asked.

“Yes dear.”

“You can call me Jan-” You coughed midway through saying your name. Something told you not to give out your real name and before you could ponder your reasoning you found yourself giving the kind old woman an alias. “Iseul, you can call me Iseul.” She smiled. Then you proceeded to tell her about why you so strongly desired to visit the sea. True to her word, she gave you a small basket filled with peaches, cherries and apples.

“Go my dear, thank you for brightening my day with your stories and remember, though darkness may lurk around every corner it’s the man in front of you that you should be wary of for sometimes the wicked will say things just to confuse you.”

You left the little shop with your fruit basket, waving to the owner as you closed the door behind you. What a strange woman you thought to yourself. She had been kind but she had said many confusing things that now replayed through your mind.

As you made your way back to your hotel you were so consumed by your thoughts and the old woman’s words that you didn’t hear the man from the casino calling out to you until it was too late. The fading sound of “Watch out! Hey! Stop!” and the blurring image of the seaside and the casino and blonde haired man who tried to get your attention brought you back to your senses, only to make you think you’d been drugged.

The world swirled around you until you were engulfed in salt water. The floor fell out beneath you as you struggled to stay afloat. You’d never learned to swim - you’d never run the risk of drowning in the ocean up in the mountains after all. You gasped for air as you felt yourself slipping beneath the water. How the hell did this happen? Did that old lady drug me? Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming… and if I die in my dream I’ll wake up right? Your mind was racing as your lungs started to burn with the need for oxygen but you couldn’t get back to the surface no matter how hard you tried. When you had sunk further down your foot and somehow become stuck. You let go of the fruit basket and tried frantically to release your foot from the net it had become stuck in before you drowned, the very real fear of dying finally settling in.

Nothing worked. Your lungs felt like they were on fire as you tugged at the net, trying to loosen its hold on you. You knew you wouldn’t be able to prevent yourself from trying to gulp in a breath, which would only serve to fill your lungs with water and bring you closer to drowning to death. This was the exact opposite of your dream of being in the sea. This was a nightmare.

Realising that there was nothing more you could do you thought of your parents, of how you’d miss them and the little home you grew up in in the mountains. You’d miss your father’s lame jokes and your mother’s persistent nagging about how you should really hurry up and pick one of the farmers sons to wed. None of that would occur now, not when you were second away from blacking out from lack of oxygen. Unable to hold out any longer you open your mouth and water pours into it as you try to breathe, knowing full well that it will not work. The last thing you feel is the burning of your lungs and the salt water as your whole world fades to black. A glint of gold is the last thing you see before you bid the world adieu.

***

“Find out how she got here.” A voice commanded. The voice was male, that much you knew, but it had that tone that people in power get. Unrelenting and lacking in empathy. “There must be a tear near the border.” What the fuck is he talking about? Is this the afterlife? I sure as shit hope not because this guy sounds like a jerk and I do not want to be stuck with him for all of eternity. Your thoughts raced as you slowly regained consciousness, remembering walking on a street…then water, lots of water… then drowning? You were pretty sure you’d drowned and it had been awful. “She appeared in the East Sea and I do not want to see either of you until you find out where that tear is in the city. For all we know spies have been getting in again.”

Whoever it was that he was speaking to mumbled their response, making it too difficult for you to hear but you caught every second or third word. “Prince… Court… hunt… soon…”

This seemed to please the first man for a few moments. You decided it was as good a time as any to let them know you were conscious. You coughed and very slowly sat up, rubbing your eyes before opening them and looking around the room, if you could even call it that. It was a massive sprawling room with ornate carvings, there were windows all throughout the room that allowed the sunlight and pleasant sea breeze to flow through. You had been lying on the floor at the base of a small set of three stairs that led up to a dias. On the dias was an incredibly intricate wood and coral chair that could only be described as a throne. There was a man standing next to you and another man seated in the throne. You blinked a few times and shook your head, not believing the sight in front of you.

Before you could open your mouth to speak the seated man spoke. “How did you get here girl?” His demanding tone grating on you.

“I don’t even know where I am so how am I supposed to know how I got here?” You responded curtly.

“Who are you? Surely you know that much.”

You bit your tongue because whilst this guy seemed to be a grade a jerk, he was sitting on a throne so you figured you’d give him a few minutes before you gave him a piece of your mind. “My name is Ja-. Iseul. My name is Iseul and I’m a tourist. Who are you?”

The man next to you scoffed. “You should address the Prince with more respect human.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I forget that humans are slower. I. Said. You. Should. Address. The. Prince. With. More. Respect.” He enunciated each word as though you hadn’t heard him the first time. You rolled your eyes at him before speaking.

“I heard you clearly the first time, there’s no need to be a dick about it. I said what because I clearly just gave my name so I have no idea why you decided to refer to me as human…like who does that? Weirdo, and secondly, Prince? Of where? Of what? I just told both of you I had no idea where I am.” You snapped.

The man next to you turned away from you, staring daggers at the supposed Prince. “Are you just going to let this…this human disrespect you like this?!”

The man on the throne couldn’t look less interested in the scene playing out before him if he tried. He lifted his gaze to the man and spoke in that flat commanding timbre. “D.O, I believe I gave you a job to do. Did I not?”

“Yes.”

“Then go do it.” When D.O doesn’t immediately take his leave he adds “Unless you want to answer to me when more strays or enemies come through into my land.”

With a hasty bow he takes his leave.

“I apologise for my emissary. He can be quite,” he paused. “hotheaded.” The man turned his gaze to you, his gaze pinning you to the spot. “Now. Do you truly remember nothing about how you got here?”

“This room? No I don’t. I remember going to the fruit store and talking to a strange old lady. Then I was walking back to my hotel along the street when everything swirled and then I was drowning. That’s all I remember.” You weren’t lying, you really had no idea how you had gotten here. You were sticking with the being drugged explanation because honestly? Nothing else made any sense or even seemed possible.

He sighed. “Which city were you in?” You described the city to the best of your abilities, which was mainly surface details since you were only a tourist - hotel, fruit store, odd streets, the casino… There wasn’t really any way you could know the truth of the city.

“Lankhmar? I think that’s how you say it.”

Upon hearing the town name the prince held up a hand to stop you speaking. He then called out for a messenger. When one appeared, bowing and gesticulating far more than was necessary, he gave them strict instructions. “Go to my emissary before he leaves and tell him to check the mortal plane as well, the tear must join to one of the districts in Lankhmar. One of my brothers must not have properly sealed the rift upon his return.” The messenger resumed his excessive bowing as he backed out of the room, you could hear the quickening of his footsteps as soon as he was out of sight. Seriously who in the hell was this guy and why was everyone treating him like he was the ruler of the world?

“Who are you?” You asked.

He raised a brow at you. “Very bold of you to ask me questions like that.”

You were growing exasperated with this pointless exchange. “Listen. I’m thankful that you didn’t let me drown but I honestly have no idea where I am or who you are or why everyone is walking on eggshells in your presence. Give me something to work with here. What do I even call you?” You needed something tangible to cling to, anything to keep you from thinking that you’d either died and that this was the afterlife, which if it was - it could do with a severe attitude adjustment, or that you’d snapped and gone crazy.

“You fell through a tear in reality,” Ok so you’d gone crazy, at least you could come to terms with that now. “And you appeared in my court, Luskan, though it is more commonly known as The Summer Court,” You’d gone crazy and fallen into one of your childhood fairytales. It could be worse, at least the weather was pleasant here, like a beach holiday… maybe this was the old woman’s fault after all, she’d banged on about the sea and been all weird and cryptic after all. “If I’d allowed you to pollute my pristine waters I’d have hell to pay with the seafolk.” Did the mania induced creation of your brain have to be such a dick though? “What’s with your face Iseul?”

You froze when you heard your name. Looking up at him you noticed the perplexed look he had on his face. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had to interact with mortals, is something confusing you? I forget how simple your kind are.”

You scoffed at him. “You’d think you’d be more relaxed given you live in paradise but so far everyone I’ve met here is a complete jerk. And what’s with this mortal crap anyway? We’re all people. Or are you some sort of elitist rich jerk who thinks everyone is beneath him?”

“This is going to sound crazy to you, but it is not my fault that your parents decided to shelter you from the truth. It’s actually a miracle that you’ve survived this long while being this blissfully ignorant. Humans make up roughly 60% of the world’s population. The remainder are improvements on the species.” The way this man could say so many words without providing you with any answers was starting to piss you off.

“Is this your way of telling me that magic is real? Summer Court? What are you, a fairy prince?” You scoffed.

Your words must have hit a nerve with him since his next words were ground out through gritted teeth. “Do not call me or my kind fairies.” He took a shuddering breath to try and regain his composure. “The supernatural are real. The books you were read as a child about fantasy lands and monsters? Those are history books, dumbed down for your kind to understand.”

“What?” Surely he was lying. Magic wasn’t real. Fairies weren’t real. No, all of that was from your bedtime stories. This was all in your head, it had to be. Why would your parents hide this sort of information from you? They wouldn’t lie to you, you knew them, trusted them. This man, however, you absolutely did not trust.

“I don’t have the time for this. Follow me, and keep up.” He turned on his heel and briskly left the room. You scrambled to follow. He weaved through the outdoor corridors of what you could only refer to as a palace because, it was fucking huge and well, there were servants so you had to assume he was royalty of some sort. You followed through the terraces that were lined with plant life and glittering lights, silk draping from gazebos, flapping in the light breeze. Truly, it was like a little Mediterranean fairy tale come to life and you could only compare it to the images from your storybooks but you didn’t dare use the ‘f’ word again since it got his hackles up last time.

He came to a stop in front of a set of double doors made of driftwood, held together with golden twine. “In here is my library. You will remain here until I send my emissary to fetch you. I would suggest that you use that time to educate yourself on the working of the world that you live in. I’ll provide only one hint. My kind never lie, but we don’t always tell the whole truth.” With that he ushered you in and closed the doors behind you. You didn’t hear them lock but they wouldn’t budge when you tried to open them.

Resigned to your current fate you decided it couldn’t hurt to sift through some of the books. Books were friends, they never led you astray. It was people you’d always had issues with, never books. You wandered through the library, awestruck by its beauty. It was a mixture of ornate fixtures, gold threads and salvaged wood and plant matter. It was unlike anything you had ever laid your eyes on before.

“A Brief History of Everything” seemed like as good a place to start as any. It started much like the stories from your childhood, only with more war and bloodshed. It spoke of a great war between humans and the supernatural. The war was multifaceted, with the supernatural beings also fighting against each other. Vampires, demons, fae, changelings, ghouls, elementals, witches and wizards were just a few of the mentioned species, it was a lot for you to take in. If this information was to be true then you had to question your whole upbringing. You closed the book and searched for another. “A Breakdown in Species - The Complete Beastiary” was your next pick. This one told you the features and builds of each race and how they most commonly fit into the mortal world. Unlike the fae, most of the supernatural resided in the human world, only the fae and elementals could exist between the planes. Demons still had the netherworld but only the highest ranking could travel at will.

You continued to look through tome after tome, collecting as much intel as you could. It didn’t matter if this world was real or not, you decided, you just had to play by its rules in order to survive and if there was one thing that you excelled at, it was research.

***

“Why is the human still here?” D.O asked when he brought you down to the edge of the palace, to a small pool that met the ocean.

“The human is right here, and she has a name.” You bit out.

He ignored you as he waited for the prince to respond. You almost laughed at how frustrated he was at not being answered immediately, the prince was otherwise occupied. He was waist deep in the water, tending to a turtle. He might be a jerk but you could not deny that he had a nice back, not that you were staring. “The human shall remain in the palace until we can determine the source of the tear and patch it. I’ve yet to determine if she is a threat to the court.”

“Why not throw her in the dungeons if you think she’s a threat? Why treat her like anything that has worth?” You were pretty sure you hated this emissary. Out of the two of them, he was the bigger jerk. He seemed to want nothing to do with you and you were pretty sure if the prince was distracted long enough, that he’d kill you. Somewhere along the line he’d either been taught to hate humans or one had hurt him so much that he felt the need to take it out on every other human he ran into.

The prince turned to face the two of you, and if you thought his back was pleasant to stare at then the sight of his chest and torso was a delight. Focus. The sunlight reflected off the water, highlighting the droplets of water glistening on his skin. Focus of his face, not his abs, focus on his fucking face! He looked calm as he stood before you, as though the water was centering him. “Until I decide that she is to be treated as a prisoner I will keep her in the palace, where I can observe her. Did you know that her parents neglected to inform her of the existence of any other intelligent life?” He smirked at his emissary who scoffed and continued to look as though he wanted nothing more than to dropkick you into the ocean and never look back. “Was your time in the library enlightening?”

You nodded. “Yes, I think I’ve learned the basics. It seems there has been a lot omitted from my understanding of the worlds history. There is a lot to catch up on.”

“Su- Your Highness, can I take my leave? We have a lead on the whereabouts of the tear and I need to gather the team so that we can patch it.” D.O waited for the prince to respond.

He nodded. “You may go. Report back to me when you return.”

The emissary wasted no time, you weren’t sure if he was just eager to do his job or if he hated being around you that much that he had to disappear that quickly. “So,” You started. You’d decided you were going to attempt to breach this topic the next time you spoke. “You’re Fae.”

“Rudimentary deduction darling. Did my books not teach you anything of worth?”

“Cut me some slack, I’ve only been learning for a few hours.” He cocked a brow at you, waiting for you to continue speaking. “There are seven courts in the Fae lands. There was conjecture about the number of princes, some texts cite seven while others cite nine, though from what I could work out there are seven princes and two emissaries. Each prince has an elemental affinity, though the true nature of those affinities is not recorded but they require you to attune to the land and your presence helps it to thrive. You rule the Summer Court, and since you rescued me from drowning plus the whole expensive seaside palace aesthetic you have going on here, I figure you have a water affinity. How am I doing so far?”

“So far it would appear that your time was not wasted.” He replied as he lowered himself in the water up to his shoulders. “The texts don’t include much information on the affinities because they differ for each prince. Attuning to the land can be done in multiple ways as well. For example, I’m attuning with the land right now, as I was earlier when you startled the turtles in their nesting grounds when you appeared, and did your very best to die.”

“Hey! I had no choice in the matter, you know this.” You huffed.

“I do, the turtles however, did not. I’ve since explained the situation to them so that they could shift their nesting spot until we repair the tear that you fell through.” He dove under the water, a tail, shimmering and covered in scales that glittered in the sunlight, appeared, shocking you. It must have been written on your face as clear as day because when he surfaced much closer to the edge of the pool that you stood at, pushing his wet hair back and resting on his arms against the side of the pool, his tail shimmering beneath the surface, it was like a slow motion scene from a movie and you had to shake your head to bring yourself back to the present, he smirked at you. “What?”

“Get fucked. How can you be fae & a merman?” You blurted.

He laughed at your outburst. “It’s part of the affinity. I can change shape at will in a large enough body of water. I’m not one of the merfolk, they live on the outskirts of my court, odd bunch. The tail is simply more practical for me to move around the aquatic areas of the court.”

“Show off.” You muttered as you sat down by the edge of the pool.

He grabbed your legs and pulled you into the pool, pinning you between the wall and his body as he glared at you. “I’m showing leniency since this is your first day knowing about the existence of supernatural creatures but don’t be fooled into thinking that you can be so cavalier with me in the future. I am the ruler of this court, you’d be wise to show more respect.”

Your brain told you to shut up, baiting him further would likely result in him drowning you and you’d had more than enough experience with that for one day. You hated the way he and his emissary spoke to you but your sharp tongue wasn’t going to keep you alive if you let it get the better of you. He trailed his finger down your cheek, under your jaw and lifted your chin, tilting your face up towards him. “I think for now it would be better for you to be a little more subservient.” He leant in, his lips pressing against yours as he kissed you. All logic told you to pull away but something about his lips was intoxicating. You gave in to his kiss and felt a pulse wash over your body, leaving a strange tingling feeling. If you were smarted you would have known that the fae could control you in many ways, intimate contact was just one of the more enjoyable ways for them to do so.

***

Days blurred together after you kissed the prince. All you wanted to do was be near him, please him and make him happy. You didn’t even think about returning home. You were blissfully ignorant of the dangerous situation you’d gotten yourself into. He’d held back from further physical contact after that first day. He saw how instantly devoted to him you were and he relaxed, you would not be something he had to worry about for the time being. Unless he gave you a task to do you would follow him around like a lost puppy. He tested you by having you sit with him during one of his meetings, telling you to remain next to him but to keep yourself amused while he worked. Afterwards he questioned you, happy when you admitted that you hadn’t paid attention to the meeting, on the verge of tears when you thought that admission would upset him.

You played along as the spell wore off, keeping up the charade as best you could while you learned about how he truly felt about you. He didn’t care for you, he hardly even thought of you. No, you were simply a new toy for him to play with and you knew that you needed to find a way out before he grew tired of you. Things went swimmingly until he noticed you becoming more aware of your surroundings. He couldn’t have you learning too much about him or his court, not that you would ever leave this place alive. He thought that after the initial kiss you’d remain under his spell but it appeared that he would have to reinforce it for it to last. That night he’d brought you to his chambers and made you cum so many times you forgot your name.

When you dreamt at night, your brain would try to remind you of the life you’d left behind, of what you needed to return to and the dangers of the prince’s court, but by the time you awoke he washed those memories away as he made your body sing in ecstacy. You spent most of your time wrapped in bedsheets, writhing beneath the prince as he used your body for his own pleasure. You learned his name was Suho, he got off on hearing you beg for him. You were addicted to his touch, eagerly awaiting his return to his chambers so he could have his way with you again. You were certain that he craved you, that the sweet nothings he would sometimes whisper in your ear were true. After all, he had told you that the fae can’t lie. You were too drunk on him to realise that these words were not romantic, they were simply appreciation for how your body felt and reacted to him, nothing more.

When you had to leave the bed you loved so much you were barely dressed in anything that could be referred to as clothes. In your mind you felt liberated and sexy, desired and loved when in reality he was parading around his plaything for the rest of the court to see. The sheer pieces of fabric he adorned your body with left little to the imagination. He didn’t care for you but under the haze of his spell, one he made sure to strengthen every night, you truly thought that he loved you. He hadn’t had a human plaything before, he’d alway thought it was beneath him but his brothers had often insisted that having one was an immense amount of fun.

He was beginning to see the truth to his brothers words. He recalled the words of the Autumn Prince “When you grow tired of fucking them, the new game is breaking their minds and watching them beg for death. They are truly pathetic creatures.” He’d remembered how his brother had laughed at how one such pet had begged for the mercy of his fire to end her life, because if he didn’t love her then how could anyone?

“Suho, I have an update for you.” D.O’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“What is it?” He replied.

“The tear has been patched, it was located in the demon district, right near The Cardinal. The seven deny any knowledge of the tear but unlike our kind, they are well known for their lies.” He paused, sneering at the mention of the demons. “Regardless, it is sealed and warded on both sides of the tear. I sent word to the other courts to see if any of our brothers had visited the area but everyone who has responded has been less than polite about telling me that they would not be stupid enough to jump planes in any district other than the fae controlled one. Sehun & Xiumin were most recently in the mortal realm but they both used the bar as their means of travel.”

“Who hasn’t responded?” He asked.

“The solar courts. I sent word via their emissary but Baekhyun, Chen & Lay have not answered us. I’ll check in with Kai tomorrow. Until then, is there anything you need?” He asked.

“If they don’t answer by tomorrow we’ll have to pay them a visit.” He had no desire to see his brothers from the solar courts, they were much more eccentric than the seasonal court princes. “I’ll have you visit Chen. I’m not in the mood to be electrocuted again, no matter how funny he thinks it is.I’ll see to the other two.”

“I would normally object to setting foot in the Night Court but Chen is the least bothersome when compared to the other two.” He shuddered as he recalled his last encounter with his Day Court brother. “Will you be bringing the human?”

Suho pondered bringing you along. He was pretty sure his spell over you wouldn’t wear off before he returned, and as much fun as it would be to distract his brothers with his human plaything, he needed them to focus. “No, she’ll be too much of a distraction for them. I’ll never get an answer out of them if she’s there.”

“I’d say she wouldn’t survive Lay, but we both know that he’d restore her physical body once he finished having his sadistic brand of fun.”

“His gifts come in useful during times of conflict.” Suho reasoned.

“You’ve never had to be healed by him have you?” D.O asked. His brother shook his head in response. “He can heal all wounds in a matter of minutes, that much is true, but he can only heal wounds that, if left untreated, would kill you.” He paused, taking a breath to calm himself. Suho waited patiently for his brother to continue speaking. “In order to heal me, he had to bring me to the brink of death first and he gets very creative in how he does that.”

The two brothers continued to plan out their potential journey. Agreeing that if they had to visit the solar courts, it would be smarter to visit Day & Night separately and tackle Dawn together. Without the help of their other emissary travel would take longer. By the time he got to bed that night Suho was too exhausted to be bothered with using you for pleasures of the flesh, sleep sought him out the moment his body connected to the mattress.

When no world came from Kai the following day they wasted no time in preparing for their journey. Suho had far too many things to organise before leaving, ensuring the palace ran smoothly, leaving instructions with his second in command to leave you in his room. He was sure that his spell would not wear off in the two to three days that he’d be gone.

What he was unaware of, due to his ignorance, was that the influence he had over you would normally take weeks to wear off, given how often he had been fucking you, but it diminished at an accelerated rate the further away from you he was. The first day he was gone you did nothing but roll about in the bed, imagining the ways in which you could service him upon his return but as night crept in you started to waver, finally feeling curious enough to wander back to the library.

In there you found books on fae spells and how they had a long history of toying with humans. It made your skin crawl. For the first time in weeks you started to think that maybe he didn’t care for you, maybe he was just using you. The thought was too depressing for you to dwell on, after all, you were stuck here, and if you were going to be stuck here you might as well believe that it was by choice.

You tossed and turned all night, dreaming of home and of the strange woman you had encountered all of those weeks ago. She’d asked why you dreamt of the sea? Now the thought of it made you sick. You needed to explore, to find the one area of this court that was not by the seaside.

In the early hours of dawn you fled the palace, thankful that all of Suho’s guards paid you no attention, thinking you were wandering about in a haze. At least he’d had the decency to tell is guards that you were off limits. You were his plaything and he did not like to share. You wandered down corridor after corridor, weaving your way down to the ground, then begun your journey West. To the East was nothing but ocean, and you figured if you headed West you would eventually find a spot where you couldn’t hear the sea or taste the salt in the air.

You hadn’t realised how weak you’d become, but the lack of proper nourishment made itself clear the further you trekked. You felt dizzy and hot but you pressed on until your body gave out on you, collapsing into the soft grass at your feet. Grass, not sand. If you’d had any liquid left in your body you could have cried. You never thought you’d be this happy to see grass again, it was almost sad. You curled up, hoping that you were safe, though not really caring, and waited for some of your strength to return. You knew there was no way you’d make it back to the palace before Suho returned and once he worked out that you’d strayed from his bed… well you couldn’t be sure how much longer he’d keep you around. You’d like to think that if he cared at all he’d forgive you and let you visit home but you would be foolish to believe your own lies.

***

“You look like shit.” The voice startled you. You couldn’t even pretend to still be asleep because you’d felt your body jump at his words. Slowly you opened your eyes, expecting the worst. What you hadn’t expected was to see that it was now night time and that a short, but respectful distance from you sat a man draped in an intricate robe, tending to a small campfire. He tossed a blanket towards you as he began cooking something over the fire. Your stomach grumbled at the sight of the meat roasting. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for a human to be out all by herself in these lands?” He asked.

You sat up, wrapping the blanket around yourself as the thin flimsy fabric of your clothing no longer felt liberating but rather, you felt too exposed. You stared at the man, trying to work out what he was and if you could tell him the truth or if that was just likely to get you killed. His eyes met yours but you did not see any malice in them. All you saw was kindness and wisdom. This man had to be older than he looked but you got the feeling, one you had no way of reasoning out logically, that he would not harm you. “I had to leave the palace.” You started.

“The clothing, or lack thereof kind of gave that away. I am not here to judge, and I am not a member of this court. I’m only here because certain plants grow here and I needed to restock my stores. Will you tell me your story in exchange for a meal and advice?” His tone held no judgement and you felt oddly at ease. It could be another trick but you were just so tired of having no one to talk to that you decided to throw caution to the wind and accept this strangers offer.

You nodded and moved closer to the fire to warm yourself. “I was visiting Lankhmar, I don’t even know how long ago… it feels like months now, and I was on my way back to my hotel after visiting the market when I fell through a tear. I landed in the ocean to the East, near the palace and started to drown. Something or someone saved me and when I came to the prince and his emissary questioned me.” You paused, unsure of how much to tell, unsure of how much you wanted to have to admit was true. “I was kept by the prince, I thought… I thought that he cared for me b-but now I’m not so sure. I left the palace. I don’t know why but I just needed to find somewhere that didn’t smell of salt, somewhere I couldn’t hear the waves crashing.” You were shaking by the time you finished telling him your story. He’d go back and ask further details as he slowly pulled the whole thing from you.

“The fae are tricky creatures. The princes especially. Some are twisted beyond repair, using and discarding human playthings with ease. Others, like the Summer prince, have not been known to use humans so for him to have kept you, he must have felt something for you. Now this is not to say that he hasn’t abused his power over you or that he has treated you with care, because he hasn’t. He has used you to satiate his own needs but clearly he did not realise that his influence over you would wear off faster when he was away.” He sat back and handed you a skewer of meat. You waited a few moments before you gave into your hunger and began eating, careful to not burn your mouth on the food.

The meat was unbelievably delicious and tender, you only wished there were like ten more skewers. The man handed you a bowl of broth and tore you off some bread to have with it. As he ate he ruminated over your current situation. “I can offer two options to you, but ultimately, the decision is yours to make. One, you can stay here and leave with me tomorrow. I can return you to Lankhmar and you can adjust yourself back into life there, or, option two, I can provide you with a charm that will negate the princes hold over you. It will not last for more than a few days but it will show you if he truly cares for you or not. I will only be in these lands until the sun sets tomorrow, after that the tear I came through will be sealed.”

“Who are you?” You asked.

“I’m just an old mage who isn’t a half bad cook.” He chuckled. “You can call me Siwon.” He smiled warmly at you.

***

You trudged back through the hills the following day as you tried to keep your tears at bay. You’d been stupid, hoping that if you gave him a chance that he’d tell you all of the things you longed to hear. The mage’s charm worked and for the first time you truly saw how Suho treated you behind closed doors. He was not soft or loving, he was selfish, taking what he needed and not caring about your desires. You’d made one simple request and he had denied you. You knew that you needed to leave, this place would be your grave otherwise.

You arrived at Siwon’s campsite with moments to spare. The sun was beginning its descent in the sky, casting a pinkish glow across the sky “Please,” you puffed, having pushed your body to its limits to get here in time. “Take me back, I can’t. I can’t. I ca-”

“Shh child. I understand.” His voice was calming. He took a step towards you and wiped the tear that had started to fall from your cheek. He spoke gently. “I’ll return you to Lankhmar but understand that it will take time for you to readjust. Food will taste bland, the colours will seem dull and you will feel empty. Time heals all wounds. I’ll ward your room against danger and I’ll leave a protection charm with you in case they come for you. I might be old but I’m not useless.” He held out his hand and waited for you to take it before stepping back through the tear.

***

Either Siwon’s protection spells had worked or no one had bothered to try and track you down because after a month of constantly looking over your shoulder as you wallowed in your heartbreak, you’d finally started to move on. You weren’t expecting the heartbreak, especially since you knew he’d used you but regardless of the spell you’d been under, you’d fallen for him. There had been moments, fleeting moments but still, the existed, where he had shown kindness to you. It was those moments that you struggled to let go of, hoping that there was a shred of decency in him.

You’d been gone for a little over five months, and when you returned you’d viewed the city in a completely different way. Before he’d left Siwon had told you how to spot tears so that you didn’t accidentally fall through one again.

You’d caught wind of a local P.I who took on cases that were too odd to be real. Most people thought she was a shark, taking hapless fools for whatever money they threw at her for their unsolvable cases. Some people even thought the cases were made up. When you heard of the disappearances of young women your interest sparked. How many of them had fallen to a similar fate as you? You spend weeks trying to find the P.I’s office, less than impressed to find it right at the border of the demon territory. You had been avoiding them almost as much as you’d been avoiding downtown. You were never going to set foot there if you had any say in the matter.

The fact that the door was unlocked should have been your first warning sign but at the time you figured if a human was investigating the supernatural then standard human locks weren’t going to be high on her list of things that would keep her safe from danger. Sophrosyne - Private Detective. No case is too strange or deranged. You chuckled as you passed the bold lettering on her door.

The office was empty, which wasn’t necessarily odd. She might have been out on a case. You wandered about, trying to find a business card to at least get a phone number so that the trip wasn’t an entire waste of your time. You just wanted to help shed some light on the missing girls. If they were taken by the fae then you might be able to provide valuable information that could help get them back. You were proof that people could return from the fae lands and you refused to believe that you would be the last.

When you couldn’t find a business card you amended your search, trying instead to locate scrap paper and a pen. You’d leave an email address, a phone number was too traceable and you didn’t want to leave the hotel’s number in case any fae were sniffing around for you.

You were so absorbed in your search that you didn’t notice the blonde man enter the office. He leant in the doorway, watching you for a few moments before deciding to make his presence known. “What are you doing here?”

You jumped, almost hitting your head on an overhead cupboard. You turned and watched him carefully. He wasn’t human, no, there was something other about him. Power seemed to ripple off him, a kind you hadn’t felt before but had been warned about. The flash of black in his eyes confirmed what he was to you. “Demon!” You exclaimed.

“I have a name for fucks sake.” He growled before straightening up and plastering a fake smile on his face. “If you’re here you’re looking for a P.I. What seems to be your trouble, I’m sure I could be of assistance. For a price.” His tone dripped with honey, meant to draw you into his web of deceit before tricking you out of your soul. Siwon’s charm had little effect here but it did pulse as a way of warning you against the danger you were stepping into.

“Please, drop the act. I am not in the mood. If the P.I isn’t here then I have no business with you.” You turned to leave, not willing to engage with the demon further. You only hoped that he was a standard demon, if he was one of the Seven then you might not leave here unmarred.

He stalked towards you, each step smooth and calculated. Like a lion stalking its prey. “Well aren’t you just no fun. Honey, no one makes the trip out to Syn’s office just because they want a chat. Only the desperate come here. Why not reconsider my offer to assist?”

“Sometimes the wicked will say things just to confuse you.” You deadpanned.

“At least you’re not as dumb as you look.” He sighed. “If you’re looking for Syn, she’s not in right now. She’s busy being a martyr, or a fucking idiot, who knows. In the meantime I’m here.”

“And what do I call you?” You asked hesitantly.

“Avarice.” He grinned, setting all of your nerves on edge.

A/N: Thank you for reading, comments are always appreciated! They keep me going, I’d love to hear from you.

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fablesrose · 4 years

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Of Kings and Shadows XIII

Chapter XIII

Description: Y/n, a girl who seems to have found her calling. Being a SHIELD agent is like a dream come true. With a friendship starting to form with the Avengers, she’s the Queen of the world! What could go wrong?

Pairings: Avengers x reader, Loki x reader (eventually)

Notes: On Wattpad –> Here

Warnings: gore, pain, torture

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, how I wish to go back.

The only way I can is to go through the memories. The good times. The only way to pass the time. It's both the most and the least painful way to stay sane. It took a very long while to figure that out. It feels like it's been forever, for all I know maybe it has been. I'm glad I do have some good memories to look back on, a few more before the terror starts.

You don't know what a blessing it is to have your voice go hoarse. When you're crying, screaming, talking, and you can't go anymore. When you're trapped in your own head, you don't have that. Just the sound of your own voice and the darkness, and that's on a good day. The outside world? What I see through my own eyes? It is so much worse.

I don't even see the full picture anymore. It's like looking through binoculars. Everything is slightly blurry unless I focus and I can't see anything that's not in my direct sight. Not that I really want to see anything that my body is doing. What Noxy is doing. Of course, I can't be sure it's really her that's behind the wheel at this point, but I do know that outside of the little corner of my mind I'm trapped in, there's a dark cloud pulling the strings. Noxy is the closest thing I've known to this dark cloud. It doesn't talk to me. If I wasn't here, silence.

I got pulled from pleasant flashbacks with screams.

It's always the screams. This time it was a prisoner. They train me with the prisoners. It's always the same bargain. They gave it to me too, but I was a special case. It wasn't anything new or different, the same old 'fight to survive' bargain. This one didn't last long, they weren't even a challenge anymore, I was the executioner.

It brings back unpleasant memories. So many experiments, lab tables, shots. It all blended together in a horrid ball of terror. I can never seem to stop them from coming through, always being replayed. It's gotten easier, but not by much.

I remember waking up slowly strapped down to a table. I was weak and disoriented. Doctors, if I could even call them that, scientists, tormentors, take your pick, were standing to the side discussing what I assumed was me.

"Her body is too weak, it won't hold up against the formula," one said. He looked tall and skinny, bordering malnourishment.

"We can replace the parts that whither." I already hated the other, short, plump to say it nicely, and very bald.

"The formula doesn't work through metal, it must be flesh. Besides," I felt his slimy eyes look at me but didn't catch my gaze, "he thinks she's special. He wants her intact."

"For himself."

"Do you really want to risk the wrath?"

"What do you suggest then?" The fat one looked annoyed, and I didn't feel bad at all for it. My brain was still fuzzy enough that I couldn't connect the dots on what they were going to do to me. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't know beforehand.

"We must give her the serum."

"Fine, do it quickly."

I could barely turn my head enough to see the slime-balls and I couldn't see what everyone else was doing. I looked back at the ceiling and the bright white light shining on me. I yanked on the restraints, but I didn't have the strength.

"Sedate it."

I flinched at the sudden needle in my arm. The same fuzzy feeling came back in layers, meaning I must have woke up from the same drugs. I didn't have time to fully process that connection before a bigger needle entered my other arm. I clenched my teeth when the liquid entered my body, multiple times more painful than any other vaccine. I relaxed briefly when the syringe exited my arm, but it didn't last long.

I felt like I was consumed by fire. It traveled through my bones, burning through any imperfection. It evaporated the blur of my mind and I cried out in pain. It was a sensation I couldn't describe properly. After the initial flash of agony the pain... it faded. Slightly. It changed into a different kind of burning, the only way to describe it would be a good pain.

It was the feeling of cleaning a wound, stretching an extremely sore muscle, and then mildest was the burn of Solanpas. My breathing became heavy; a large amount of energy was used. A whine would occasionally escape my lips at the residue pain. I felt exhausted, and the effects of the drugs started to take effect again, clouding my mind, my limbs starting to go limp.

They were talking around me, but it sounded foreign, alien, fuzzy. Hands grabbed at my restraints, loosening them. I tried to move, but I couldn't even think straight, let alone lift a finger to fight back. Funny how in a mission you're supposed to fight, yet now I can't.

I was still semi-conscious when they left me in a cell on a mattress. The room was all white. It looked like there were scratches on the walls and ceiling revealing grey cement. Gentle hands arranged so all of my limbs were on the cot and that I was situated comfortably. I was too exhausted to turn my head to see who was my comforter.

It was many hours later when the effects of the drugs wore off. I struggled to sit up to clear my head.

"Woah, woah. Take it easy. They medicated you good, hon." The same gentle hands helped me up paired with a smooth voice.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes, struggling to clear my vision so I could see her properly. Once I was steady on the bed my companion sat on a cot opposite of mine. She was beautiful. She looked soft and kind, with a dark edge to her features that told me she's seen horrible things. She had thick box braids framing her face, looking a little frizzy due to having them in for a long time and not tending to them.

I noticed her grey jumpsuit contrasting with her dark skin leading me to notice my own replacing my Shield uniform I was wearing when I was last fully conscious. It was scratchy and loose with an elastic cinching it to my waist.

The woman looked at me sympathetically while I tried to connect all the pieces in my brain. She offered me a hand, "My names Jasmine, it looks like we're gonna be roomies in this hell hole."

I huffed, "Well that's encouraging..." I shook her hand, "Y/n."

"It's nice to meet you, but I wish I didn't."

I nodded at her, "The same to you." I ran my hands through my hair, "do you know where we are?"

She shook her head, "exact location? I have no idea. I do know that this is a Hydra base though."

I sighed, "I was worried about that..." I decided to think about my kidnapping and the person responsible later, save myself the worse headache. "How long have you been here? Where'd you come from?"

She raised an eyebrow at me, "Well since you asked so politely, I know I've been here for months, but how many? I lost count. I could be bordering a year by now, but I really don't know. As for where I came from..." She lied down on her cot making it squeak, "I used to be an MI6 agent."

I was surprised, "MI6? I didn't peg you for a Brit."

She halfheartedly glared at me, "what? Cuz I don't have that posh accent?" She put on a thick accent to mock me at the end. "Yeah, moved around a lot. Talked to a bunch of Americans, lived there for a long time. Never really picked the accent up again."

I lied down on my cot, looking at the ceiling, "no judgment here. I'm-- I used to be a Shield agent."

"Oh yeah? All the Avengers and that crap?"

I chuckled, "yeah, something like that." We lied there in silence for a while, the grim reality too fresh on our minds. I finally got the courage to ask a depressing question, "how many people have you seen pass through."

"I've lost count. All I know is I've been the longest lasting."

"I'm sorry."

"Just focus on surviving, hon."

I rested my hands over my stomach casually but found it more muscular than I remembered. I quickly sat up making my head spin a bit. I unzipped my jumpsuit to the waist revealing a sports bra and tank top equally grey. I lifted the tank top to show rock hard abs.

"Ho ho, would you look at that! I've always wanted abs..." I had been working on getting them for as long as I could remember, but they never quite got there. My core was strong, but I could never get it to look it.

Jasmine rolled her eyes, "you're acting like you didn't have them before."

I looked at her dead serious, "I didn't."

She sat back up slowly, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I had moss soft flabs however long ago, they took me, slapped me on a table giving me who knows what, and now I have these freaking rock hard abs and..." I looked at my arms, "these killer guns."

She looked thoughtfully at the wall, "It was a shot?"

"Yeah."

She sighed and rubbed a hand over her whole face, "Then they've got plans for you, hon. I pray for your soul."

My heart dropped. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. It didn't matter that I was strapped to a table a couple of hours ago. The reality was just setting in. I was going to be a science experiment. Knowing Hydra, I was either going to die or become a deadly weapon.

I was trapped. And I was going to be left with a horrible fate.

I swallowed deeply, "Ma'am?"

"You call me ma'am and I'm gonna beat you to a pulp, what they want you for be damned."

"What would you like me to call you then?"

"Call me Jasmine. When we're friends you can call me Jazz." She looked into my eyes from her nails, "if you last that long."

I smiled bitterly. "Alright, Jasmine. I intend to earn that nickname, so what can you tell me about surviving in this hell hole?"

She looked at me deeply, searching my eyes for something, "You have an advantage now if they gave you what I think they gave you. You're stronger now, and they want to keep you. How it works here is they weed out the weak ones."

A chill went down my spine, "How do they do that?"

"How much do you know about the Romans?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stood in the corner of a white concrete room. It was a little bit bigger than me and Jasmine's cell, but other than that and the beds, it looked exactly the same. In the opposite corner a man with crazed eyes. He was skinny, but for some reason, I didn't think he was going to be weak. He had on a matching grey jumpsuit. The look in his eyes told me the only reason he wasn't attacking me was because of the rules they gave us before-hand.

Don't start until we give the go-ahead. If you start before you will be punished, but you won't automatically lose, so beware.

Fight like your life depends on it because it does.

Two rules. Anything goes. We were just staring at each other, waiting to be released I guess.

"So, dude, how long have you been here?"

"Doesn't matter, I'll be here longer than you little girl."

I took that as an end to the conversation and started to stretch my limbs. I didn't take my eyes off of him. I was acutely aware of the cameras looking at me, my gut was twisting, but I had to ignore it. No good could come out of it, only distraction. I was gonna beat this punk. I had no other choice.

"Attention."

I let go of my foot and set myself in an athletic, ready stance.

"Begin."

I felt like I was in the Hunger Games all of a sudden. The squirrely guy launched himself across the room at me. I dove and rolled away, my socks slipping on the painted floor. He lashed a hand toward my face, wanting to scratch me. I didn't know my own strength when I grabbed it and heard a snap.

He howled but didn't hesitate to kick my leg out from under me. I kicked him off to stand up again. I punched him in the face, but it didn't slow him down. He ducked his head down and plowed me into the wall causing me to grunt. There was no strategy, no skill. He was utterly unpredictable.

Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I don't know when, but at some point, there were enough injuries to be dripping blood over my face. I wiped it to not get in my eyes and somehow he got behind me, tackling me to the ground. He sat on my back and held my arms behind my back. I didn't have enough leverage to use my strength to get him off. I turned my head so I could breathe, but it wasn't going to matter.

He grabbed onto my hair and ear and began pounding my head repeatedly into the ground. Pain shot through me and I struggled to get out from under him. Nothing was working and I began to fall limp, my eyesight growing black.

I lost.

The door burst open and guards pulled him off of me. The ground was swaying, and my head felt like he had never stopped pounding my head against the ground. I watched as blood started to pool in front of my eyes. I couldn't bring myself to move, my vision still fizzling out.

The intercom clicked on and a vaguely familiar voice tsked at me, "you're better than that. I need a strong Queen."

My vision finally faded with the man kicking and screaming, "I won! Get off of me! That's not how this works!"

I lost consciousness, my only thought being, "I've gotta get out of here." A tear fell from my eye.

Please find me.

TAG LIST: @nightrose64

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki #Avengers #avengersfanfiction #avengers x reader #torture #capture #pain #fight #blood #Of Kings and Shadows #chapter 13

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yeoldontknow · 5 years

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Bloodletting: 4 (M+) (FINAL)

Author’s Note: for @ditzymax | this story includes graphic and extremely triggering content including but not limited to: predatory/dominating language, themes of gas-lighting, explicitly graphic violence against women, graphic depictions of blood and torture, and character death. please take every single warning on this chapter seriously and absolutely do not read if you are under 18 or uncomfortable with these warnings. | i absolutely do not condone any of these themes or actions, and all content below is written with creative license. none of these are a reflection of my character. Pairing: Taehyung x Reader (oc; female) Genre: Vampire!AU; horror; thriller; suspense Rating (this chapter): M (for violence) Warnings: predatory/dominating language; themes of emotional manipulation and abuse; explicit language; explicitly graphic violence against women; graphic depictions of torture; graphic depictions of blood; themes of gas-lighting; entrapment; character death. please take absolutely every single warning on this chapter seriously and do not read if under 18 or uncomfortable with these warnings. Word Count: 5,976

masterlist

It would be utterly ignorant to assume that I remained at your bedside while you slept.

Perhaps, even more so to assume that you were the only prey I had focused on. Fidelity or monogamy, whatever human word that could be applied to the theory of singularity, means little to me. No human is so unique: all will bleed the same, all are so painfully, achingly alive, and each is comprised of their own cadence of taste written into their DNA.

In the endless, limitless length of my existence I have found that many are more delicious than some, but you, my darling, were the flavor upon which all palettes were meant to be based. I wonder now if you knew how drunk I was on you, my mouth still tingling with your taste long after I had departed from your spent body. Could you feel me as I felt you? The iron richness of you keeping my mouth wet and cock hard for hours. Yes, there was something special about you, but it would be a lie to define myself as picky- to deny that I was, in fact, the embodiment of greed.

I always did want to tell you that I was a lush for bodily fluid. And so, it was my lack of inherent selectivity mingled with your beautifully flawed human trait of curiosity that lead you, quite gloriously, to your death.

If I had learned anything about you in the months I had spent studying your shape and mind and person, it was that indolence did not suit your character. As a natural force of habit, you always had to be moving or in the process of completing a task, otherwise the very shell, I believe the very chemistry, of you would quake with an anxious sort of boredom. After only two short days of resting in a paralysis not unlike death, you pulled yourself from sleep and began to move through the house as though your body and limbs were trapped in a sensory fog.

I was lounging in the library, reading a sixteenth century German medical text with pages still silky and waxen, when you slid into the room. Your feet hardly touched the floor, gliding, as one would believe, over the floorboards in a semi-conscious state. You were sluggish and barely lucid, eyes struggling to focus and I daresay this amused me. It was rare to see you in a state so unaware and bleary. An unusual sort of terror filled me, wondering what exactly it was about you, a mere woman, that meant you could be strong enough to even walk so soon after our joining, and I watched you with a calculating gaze in an attempt to see if something had gone wrong.

‘How long was I asleep?’ you asked, voice thick and heavy. The words rolled off your tongue at a too slow pace to even be considered coherent, and I suppressed a chuckle. So unlike you to be slow and indelicate with your speech. Gravity took hold of you as your lowered yourself into the chair opposite me, sinking and dropping into the leather like you were being molded to fill it, boneless and inelegant.

I smiled, keeping my features cordial if unable to be truly concerned. ‘Two days.’

‘Jesus,’ you sighed, closing your eyes from the effort of existing. ‘I feel sick but I didn’t think I was that bad off.’ Leaning your head back against the chair, you pressed the back of your hand to your forehead, feeling your skin and seeing that it was dry. At this, you grimaced, feeling feverish without your adrenal glands helping you through the illness.

‘Are you hungry? You should eat.’ I said the words with a powerful sharpness I knew you would be too dazed to recognize or question me on, my quizzical brow remaining unnoticed.

‘Honestly, if I eat I feel like it’ll just...come back up, you know?’

Your lack of hunger eased the nerves that arose at the sight of you on your feet. Still, you were fading, and it was working. I fought past the urge to smile and morphed my face into one of mild tenderness, mimicking the shades of worry I had noticed over time on concerned mothers.

‘Are you sure?’ I kept my voice low, though far from soothing. The rumble of it would convince you these things were one and the same.

‘Yeah.’ You paused to breathe deep, the damp sheen of your skin glistening through the effort of being alive. ‘How are you feeling? I probably gave you this or was contagious.’

I snorted, a harsh sound that echoed around the room, and I did not bother to mask its cruelty. ‘I’m fine. Perfect, really.’

‘Yes, you are,’ you breathed, somehow finding the energy to provide me a lewd smirk. ‘That was the best orgasm of my life’

Death, though many would never know or allow it to be, was perhaps the most sensual and erotic experience imaginable. The total collapse and liberation of the soul from its bodily chains is, indeed, orgasmic, and it was no surprise to me that you would have found your brief encounter with the true essence of finality absolutely breathtaking.

Thinking on this, I offered you a grin, a face I had spent decades learning how to make without the natural malice I felt it deserved.

‘Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better.’ I kept my words slow, knowing you would mistake the pace for gentleness.

You proved me right not seconds later. Even though they contained the barest hint of a command, an edge to my voice that would normally have made you shiver but instead, you blithely ignored my warning as though it were merely a request.

‘No,’ you said, heaving a shaking breath that rattled in your lungs. Shaking your head, you gripped the arms of the chair with vigor. ‘I’ve been sleeping for days. I need to move around, get my mind off how I feel...if I can.’

Grimacing, you closed your eyes and brought yourself to a stand, the action itself looking slow and painful. The anguished creaking of your bones rattled in my ears, a symphony. It would be a lie, a consideration, to say you walked away from me, legs heavy and hardly carrying you away from me. Lumbered, I think, would be the more accurate word, and I smothered a smirk that dared to pull at my cheek.

Frowning at the sight of you, I remained silent, keeping my expression placid. Your body was withering, trapped in a slow decay that would slowly consume your senses, and soon enough your limbs would give out beneath your weigh, entirely overcome. Throughout the endless and innumerable years of my existence, my engagement with the element of surprise had been reduced to little more than a slight raise of an eyebrow. And the number of times I had seen a mortal try, exert their most treasured effort to the act of living bordered on insufferable.

I’d grown used to the frail monotony of human survival and will, bored by its absurd lack of creativity. Oh, they would fight, gloriously attempt a triumphant battle that offered little sport beyond coy entertainment, but the body would never support the mind and soon they would surrender themselves to defeat.

But I had not ever considered that, perhaps one day, I would be able to surprise myself.

You had affected me, somehow brought me inches closer to humanity than I had been since, perhaps, weeks before my turning. Like a diamond stone to a blade, you had sharpened my cruelty, smoothed the edges of my glacial heart merely by turning the act of hunting you into a gleeful game of simplicity. And so, when I heard the weary, slow footsteps aimlessly drifting through the house, barely awake or even aware of your surroundings, I found myself willing you towards the attic.

How strange of me, honestly! To silently will a human towards their death days before it was truly meant to occur! But you sauntered towards your doom like a cat in heat, positively eager for it - just as you had been so wont to do from the very moment I laid eyes on you. Who was I to resist or deny the finality you so obviously craved? And you did, oh you did, even if you could not sense it, even if, when confronted with the truth, you would have combatted my every word, you inherently were called towards the majesty of it.

Just minutes after I began mentally guiding you, I heard your feet come to pause outside the attic door.

Again, I surprised myself, hearing you easily turn the knob and open the door to ascend the stairs, running the pad of my index finger over the supple flesh of my lip in thought. I had left it unlocked, such an out of character thing for me to do that it became clear to me I had been subconsciously aware that it was time; the death of a human is exquisite, but the death of a human whose face is painted with betrayal and shock is something biblical.

There was a childlike excitement to the way I leapt from the chair to reach you, the kind of excitement I reserved for silent kills and the erasure of a person's identity to hide the nature of their death - that slow, intricate peel of their fingerprints from their skin. You were slowly making your way up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing for purchase. It felt natural to follow behind in the shadows, to lead without the obvious exertion of power. This is was my purpose, the subtle control of a person's fate without the influence of their creator.

You reached the landing and stared ahead, the muscles in your back tensing as your mind, your heart, and your soul sobered to process the sight presented before you.

The attic was a large space, one that covered the majority of the top floor of the house. At some point during the 1940's, I had it renovated to become a fully functional room, moving in the excess furniture I acquired throughout the years of my diligent collecting. Over time, I arranged the pieces and placed them specifically to act as an extra sitting area and dining area, a sort of retreat for myself should I require the dark or the solitude. The walls were lined with bookcases, featuring items not suited for my library: empty wine bottles with labels dating back to the 1700's, various vials of herbs and poisons I had been making since boyhood, the occasional skull from precious kills - a relic of the sort of young man I used to be.

The overall decor of the room was cluttered, yes, but I imagine had there not been a naked woman bleeding on the dining table the most unusual or, perhaps, eye-catching aspect of the space would have been that it was carpeted with a fifteenth century oriental rug.

Paralyzed in a state of shock and confusion, you became a more perfect version of yourself. There was an otherworldly quality to the ugliness of your panic. The way terror and anxiety seemed to grip you, course through you at a rapid pace that was at once both arousing and grotesque. I reveled in the sound of your racing heart, battling mightily against your chest as the whole of you began to swell with adrenaline.

It was a test of my will not to laugh at the way you took her in. Lingering behind you as I was, I could sense your face had mutated into a grimace of disgust at the sight of her waxy skin, glassy eyes open wide - vacant and unseeing, the pretty pink of her lips open in a silent gasp. Perhaps what horrified you most was the sight of several slits along carefully selected points of her skin, arms and legs splayed to hang over the edge of the wood. She was bleeding into crystal glasses, the blood trickling in lines down her skin to linger on the tips of fingers or toes before dripping home into the pool below. But then, that is just my guess.

Having looked your fill, you turned quickly - the fastest you had moved in days - prepared to leave or to run, only to rear back and shout at the sight of me, barely visible in the shadows.

'What the fuck is this?' you croaked, voice strained and panicked and positively erotic in your horror.

I stepped forward and sighed, my footsteps impossibly light in comparison.. 'Oh, darling.’ I sighed. ‘I know you dropped out of university, but I refuse to believe you are truly that stupid. Surely,’ I began, gesturing vaguely towards the general atmosphere of the room, ‘this is self-explanatory?'

'I-wha-who-'

You were stuttering and I was bored of your sudden dalliance with mental failure. 'Spit it out.'

'I have so many questions I don't know where the fuck to start!' You were shouting, truly frightened, but the rage within you. Oh, if you could have seen how magnificent you were.

Cocking my head to the side, I breathed you in, taking the ambrosia of your perspiration deep into my lungs. 'Why not start with the most obvious.'

'You're a murderer.' It was a statement that came without a moment's pause, confident and accusatory.

I chuckled. 'Well, that's one label I've heard for it.'

'"IT?"' you exclaimed, eyes wide. 'What the fuck do you mean "it?"'

‘Child, use your eyes and assess what you see before you. This is not a difficult test.' I pointed over to the woman, prompting you to turn for a second look.

Had you been unwilling, I’d have never known. You took everything in, consumed the details with a voracity that mirrored my own hunger and studied it with a reserved eye as your body cowered as far away from the light as you could manage. You were repulsed and I was drowning in the thrill of witnessing your mental process.

'The glasses,' you breathed, finally turning back to me with a pallor in your cheeks that turned your skin ashen.

I nodded, fingers twitching with excitement. 'The glasses.'

'Why are -’ Cutting your mumbling off, you swallowed thickly, afraid of the truth that burned against your tongue. ‘Why is she bleeding into glasses?'

Exasperated with your indolence, I growled. 'Why does anyone put something into a glass? To hang it from their ceiling? Just because they're made of crystal does not mean they lose their purpose.'

Your eyes blew wide, lips trembling in disgust as you took a step back, craving distance between our bodies. Realization looked so wonderful on you, the dread of death mixed with the sudden eclipse of total awareness of your oncoming fate. 'You're going to drink her.' It was not a question. You knew.

'I intend to, yes.' Crossing an arm over my chest, and resting the index finger of my free hand on my lips, I chanced a step towards you, humming in delight when you stumbled back. Darling, you were like candy in that moment, trying to keep distance between us but still trying to live. Can’t you see, you had never been so beautiful to me? So delectable?

'Are you a...a fucking cannibal?' You said the word like you were learning how to curse, and I wanted to break the purity of you in half.

I shook my head and stepped forward again. 'I'm not in this for the meat, child.'

Oh, your face as you understood my play on your continual use of the word 'daddy' was extraordinary. A concoction of mortification and pained betrayal - would that I could look upon such an expression until the sun dissolves.

'So-so you're a...monster.' You could barely let yourself say it, barely let the word hang in the air before speaking again, and I felt a twinge of wrath that you refused me the victory of relishing the truth after so long. 'That's impossible,’ you rationalized. ‘They aren't real, just horror stories and Halloween tales to scare kids.'

'I am very real,' I said, taking several quick steps toward you. The speed and coordination required of this failed you, limbs unprepared for such agile movements. Tripping over your feet, you collided into one of the bookcases and pressed yourself against it, neither cowering nor begging. You stood to your full height as I leered at you, extraordinarily brave. 'I believe I told you that myths will only cause you pain on that very first night we met.'

'Who is she?' you asked, gaze shifting away from me and onto the woman on the table.

I'd seen it before. Such a human thing to do - deflect and change the subject to buy themselves time. It was a last effort to make me forget who the prey was, to remind me that there were eight chalices nearly filled to the brim with warm blood for me to drink. It never served as a proof of reason for them to live, merely made me want to silence them faster.

Coming to stand directly in front of you, I rolled my eyes and readied to end this conversation. But the smell of you, darling, it was so sweet I simply took you in deep and obliged your request, happy to carry on a little longer; anticipation in the blood always made for powerful drink.

'Her name is Katya. She is twenty-three, homeless, and a prostitute.' Turning my head, I brought my eyes back to her body, the sight of her round breasts gleaming with a dried sheen of sweat, lines of her ribcage raised like a book of Braille.

'Do you only kill those society deems unworthy?'

Your voice brought my attention back to you, gaze snapping back with vigor. Your lips kissed at the word “society” with a disdain that bordered on vengeful. In your eyes, I could see the self-reflection occur, the wheels of your mind transmuting this realization into the iconography of your self-worth. But even then, you did not deflate, choosing instead to war against me, and this, my dear, was perhaps your most extraordinary trait.

'These days, yes.' I sighed. 'Oh, darling, if only you knew how hard this has become. Being me, slowly erasing humanity. It is no longer a means to survive, it has become a test of intelligence. I can't just hide the truth of my identity from you or the world, now I must also hide the truth of you.'

Closing your eyes, you attempted to sort through my words or plan an escape that would be flawed from the moment of its inception. I took that as an opportunity to continue. I would have you soon enough. I’d learned to be patient.

'It is no longer 1650, my darling. Technology and science are against me.’ I don’t know why I had decided on this lecture. Perhaps, in that moment, I was glad to share this with someone who would soon no longer exist to tell. ‘The claim of an animal attack does not suffice. I am lucky that my fingerprints were burned off as a result of my turning, but I am still burdened by weight and teeth marks. And...your colleagues. No matter how insignificant you are, someone will always notice your absence. Someone will always come looking. I cannot afford to not be neat.'

'Neat,' you repeated, weakly.

Again, I looked back at Katya. 'Do you know how long one has to drain a body of its blood after the heart stops?' I asked. You were silent. 'Well?'

'No,' you said, forcefully. 'Unfortunately that wasn't part of my biology exams.'

'It takes two hours for the blood to congeal once the heart stops. I am sure you can understand how difficult it would be to accomplish this task if one is suddenly limited to time and scientific constraints. Oh, of course I could tear open your throat and feast, but again, the mess of you would be against me.'

Under pressure, you were truly a star. Your gaze followed mine over to Katya, slowly and sympathetic, and I smiled at the sound of your breath halting momentarily before wavering an unstable continuation of its rhythm.

'So -'

I cut you off, childlike in my eagerness. 'Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Her heart is still beating.'

It was as though those words alone had ignited an inferno in your soul, adrenaline pushing you to your limits.

'You sick fuck!' you spat, positively venomous. 'She’s still alive and I get to watch her die? I'm not your accomplice!'

'No,' I said, giving you my full attention once more and the full length of my smile. 'You are my dessert.'

The struggle in you erupted with a force. Suddenly, you were trying to fight your way past me, screaming and lashing at me like a rabid beast.

'You fucking cunt! You forced me here and lead me here to fucking die!’ Oh, you were howling, battling against the rationality as a huntress. And, even I will admit, you impressed me with the strength of your tongue while your heart was ever so slowly weakening. ‘You fucking bit me-'

I rolled my eyes and stepped forward, flush against your body and caging you between my arms, pressing you back against the bookcase with ease.

'No,' I said sternly. 'You must be aware of this, my darling. Think of me what you will, but anything that has happened to you was a cause of your own consent. You invited me to your home that first night. You accepted every offer I gave. I never once had to influence my will over you. Do you realize how stunningly perfect that makes you?'

I pressed my face against your cheek when you fell silent, recalling every yes and every please you had ever said, admiring the warmth your skin radiated as I inhaled a deep breath of your scent. My eyes rolled back into my head, then, and it was an extraordinary act of will not kissing you, letting my lips have their fill of your cheekbone.

‘How dare you manipulate my consent?’ you exclaimed, offering the pretense of shock but even then, deep down, I could sense the flames of shame burrowing in your belly.

'I would be so good for you, darling,' I whispered, so close to your ear I was positively humming with the urge to bite it and tear it free. ‘I would make it sweet for you. For you, death would be something sublime. I can take the pain of it away. Every second, with every breath, you’ll beg me for more, to sink my teeth deeper, to suck -’ I took my time to linger on the word ‘suck,’ licking lightly at your jawline. ‘Harder,’ I finished. You shivered and I nipped at the plump sinew of your cheek.

As I spoke, you shut your eyes, teeth coming to bite your lip with a vulnerability that was electrifying. There was a quake to your bones I found myself becoming addicted to and, for a moment, I found that I would miss your sensuous displays fear once they were gone.

But even in this moment, quiet and still and breathing the last, sweet drops of oxygen your tongue would taste, you still were on the edge of choice. Just as you had always been, the thought of finality, the peace of it, teased you. You did not rush to a denial, you simply lingered, considering me and considering yourself, weighing the length of your life in a single moment.

‘Or,’ I hummed, toying with your silence.

‘Or?’ The flutter of your eyes as they opened made me bark out a laugh, the hope you had somehow managed to find rooted itself your irises positively charming. And you chose to believe it, if only for a single, fleeing exhale.

Letting my hand come to your hip, I held your waist firmly, watching you as though I were watching the Devil. ‘I can offer you eternity.’

The slow widening of your eyes enthralled me, the way the blood rushed from your cheeks, leaving you to appear sickly and frail. I saw you then as a statue, waiting to be cracked.

‘Oh, think of it darling!’ I exclaimed in a low hiss, imagining a companion, one I would not need but one that would burn through the world with me, a partner, a lover, a bride. I did not think then of love or lovelessness, only of the blood I could kiss from your lips. ‘I could take you on as my apprentice. Finally become your ‘daddy.’ After all, isn’t that man’s true purpose?’ I buried my face into your neck and inhaled. ‘To breed?’ The words were released as a growl, and I couldn’t resist pressing my hips just a little harder against your groin just to make you whine involuntarily.

‘What if,’ you began, voice dry and suddenly unafraid. ‘I choose to live.’

I reared my head back, far away from your skin, and chuckled, amused by your endless will to negotiate.

‘Darling, that is not a choice you have been offered,’ I chastised, shaking my head. My grip on your waist tightened, demanding that you listen. ‘Do you know what I’ve learned in all my years? The only gospel truth that absolutely rings true? It’s that governments rise and fall, people plead for peace and amnesty, but the only thing that seems to carry on throughout the meaningless wasteland of human life is that everyone craves a little death. War and greed and death, it’s in every living thing’s nature. And I am giving it to you! Twice over! You will never, ever be in such control of your fate as you are now.’

You took in my words, eyes searching my face for some kind of a trick or sign of insincerity. After several moments, you gripped the wrist of my hand that was still around your waist and sighed.

‘Let go of me.’

I cocked an eyebrow and stared at you.

‘Please,’ you said politely.

It is important to understand that you had made a choice. It was there, lingering behind your eyes and I could see that you had settled on something, though I could not have been sure what that choice entailed. This was the tragedy of you, the utter tragedy of your story. From the moment I laid eyes on you, my love, you were always in control of your own choices. There was a will at your core that could never be swayed, and, I assume, if I had tried to use my influence over you it would only have had the weakest effect. This was your greatest gift and, you would argue, your downfall; the total control you had over yourself meant every choice belonged entirely to you, and every choice somehow lead you into my arms.

And, perhaps, the barest shreds of mercy had been left inside me, lingering in the crevices of me unwilling to fully decay, because I obliged you. As soon as I released you, I could read the details of your decision all over the furrow of your brow and the heroic glow of survival resonating from your lungs to your ribs to your hands.

I was only too eager to extinguish it.

My hand had barely left your hip before you launched yourself at me, punching me with a surprising force before starting off at a groggy, sagging run. I sighed and took in the sight of you, your slow moving limp and the haggard way you breathed, quickly moving to plant myself in front of your body. Your shoulders slumped, heartbreaking at the sight of me standing so tall and so unfazed by the brush of your fist with my jaw.

This was not the first time I had been punched, nor would it be the last I imagined, but it was indeed the first time someone had stood before me - the poison of me still coursing through them - and remained tall, and fierce, and unbroken. I hated tarnishing this spirit, a spirit so perfectly suited for the life I lead.

It took little effort, walking you backwards to the bookshelf once again, just a few steps that had you racing away from me. We found ourselves in a similar position, your chest rising in even breaths, eyes locked on mine and choosing to not look away from me. You kept choosing to match me, choosing to keep me near you, choosing me. How was I ever to let you go?

Bringing my face inches from yours, I ran my lips over your slick flesh, the scent of you enhanced by the poison. Your heart beneath your sternum was a hummingbird, fragile and delicate, but the thunder of you rattled like wildfire. Running my hands over your hips, I smelled and smelled and smelled you, leaving the barest of touches against your skin as I spoke.

‘I have thought about killing you since I first saw you,’ I mumbled to myself, unbothered by your small whimper of understanding. ‘In my head, I have planned an infinite amount of ways to break you down.’

‘Fuck you,’ you choked out.

Smiling, I ignored you. ‘I could disembowel you, suck the blood from your still warm organs and feast on you until you were nothing but skin and bone.’

Growling, you raised your knee and thrust it against my groin. With a hiss, I chuckled, and pressed you harder against the bookshelf. Turning your head to the side your lifted your eyes, and fell still, pausing for a moment before you looked back, truly awoken.

‘I will choose how I die,’ you bit out, the power of you so intoxicating. ‘My life and my death are my choice alone.’

Pulling back, I fixed you with a curious stare, intrigued by your ramblings. In all my years, I had never heard these words, and the barest embers of excitement ignited within my spirit. You meant it, every word that spilled from your tongue contained a conviction I had not heard from a mortal since the French Revolution, when men were passionate and the women were lonely.

‘You can give me eternity,’ you said, eyes casting a glance over to Katya. Briefly, you bit the inside of your cheek, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as you considered your words. ‘But you will not make me into an ornament.’ And when you looked at me once more, had I been alive and mortal and small, I imagine I would have trembled. ‘I deny you the pleasure of playing with your food.’

Pursing my lips, I regarded you in silence, hearing the tumble and timber of your heart. No one had ever challenged me, dared to fight me a cruelty that matched mine. In that moment, I had never wanted you more.

‘You know what this life requires?’ I challenged, reminding you of the scandalized expression you wore at the sight of a body. ‘The blood you will coax from people.’

‘Yes.’ For such a quiet word, the echo of it surprised you, catching you off guard before you pulled my hand from your body, gripping my wrist tightly. ‘But I am going to teach you how to really move a woman. And my choice,’ you paused, tone even and commanding, ‘will be your choice until the sun goes black.’

Raising my hand up to the shelf just above your head, you pressed it against an empty wine bottle, one I had saved from a special night on a ship from Calais to Dover in which I had drank every passenger dry. Lowering the bottle to just below your neck, you tilted your neck and I positively wailed in delight.

‘Oh, darling,’ I whispered, utterly pleased into spun gold. ‘I do love it when you choose.’

Pressing the sharp nail of my thumb into your throat, I pierced your skin as through it was silk, burying the finger into your neck and watching the crimson of you spill. Wrapping my free arm around your waist, I held you to me, looking deep into your eyes and into the ravenous war of your soul, and saw the truth of you while I made the pain disappear. As your pupils slowly dilated, I saw the trauma of your brief existence, the insignificance and the pain of it, all of it until the moment you realized life was little more than a series of hurts and this was the moment you would be free of the shackles that bound you to constant survival.

Placing the tip of the bottle beneath my thumb, I slowly removed my nail to ease the bottle into the hole I had created, draining you into the glass. You fell limp against me, humming demands into my ear that made my mind race, already envision you as a creature of war and death.

‘You will never drink from this bottle,’ you mumbled, words garbled and messy, but still I heard them. ‘I want you to remember the death you were denied.’

My mouth watered and my cock stirred, aroused by the torture of keeping you near me, always. No one had learned me quite as easily as you had, so full to the brim of witnessing me. This, darling, was the surprise of you.

When your eyes began to fall closed, so near passing, I removed the bottle and quickly placed my mouth to your skin. In this sense, darling, you were my first - the first I had turned, the first who had learned to challenge me, the first to deny me of things I wanted to call mine. The first I imagined I could truly crave, for any extended period of time beyond the brief affair between life and death. Turning you was an effort I had never imagined would be so easy, letting my poison be pulled to your open pores and ignited into molten gold. Holding you tight, you writhed against me, sputtering and moaning as your teeth gnawed against your tongue.

And when you stilled, I felt the wetness on my cheeks, remembering my own turning - the violence of it and Sonia’s pathetic, glassy eyes - and hated you. Hate, which so easily is mistaken for love, all of it burning together and forcing me to truly, fully remember humanity before it faded into little more than nostalgia. I had sucked you into me, keeping all that human newness and softness in my bones until you stirred against my shoulder.

Glaring down, ready to tear you from me as dead weight, I saw the silver of you, the effervescent nature of your eyes and craved, more than ever, to always see the moon in your irises.

Eight months without you now, my loss of you a tragedy that leaves me so encumbered, and I think of you often, when the moon is full and high and red. Other kills, men and women alike, have come and gone, none as vital and alive, yet, conversely so long past the point of living, as you. The bottle of your blood lingers on my shelf, and sometimes I feel you, hunting and warring against the world much like me. I’ve pressed similar bottles to lithe necks and hoped they would regard me with the same rage as you, missing the way it felt to look upon the purity of such an expression. They never do, and in this I scowl, forever aware that you have left me absent.

The bottle lingers, and at the sight of it, I think, much like tonight, that you were my favourite.

End Journal #826

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sometimesrosy · 5 years

Note

Do you think we will ever get a bellarke kiss? i know we got plenty of other confirmations, but it would be nice for it to be spelt out for me? i want endgame without a shadow of a doubt, is that too much to ask?

I actually believe that The 100 is around 25% ABOUT Bellarke and I believe the end game of that story is romantic fulfillment, because their relationship is NOT platonic. A platonic soulmate pairing is Sherlock and Joan, not Clarke and Bellamy. They yearn for each other and are jealous when the other is with someone else and long for something more, mutually. They are MUTUALLY PINING, which is an awesome story, imo.

It can be hard to tell what KIND of story a person is telling, and so our task as the audience, if we want to follow along and be on top of the story instead of just sitting back and enjoying the rollercoaster ride is to figure out what the story is, what genre it is, what tropes they’re using, what archetypes, what themes, what style... what TYPE of story.

A lot of genre stories are very simple and not surprising, a soap offers melodrama and mix and matching relationships, an action show offers big fights and exciting adventures and a victory to reach for, romances offer love and consummation and if a tragedy pain and loss and if a comedy or romantic genre happiness and unification of the couple.. Right?

So what the hell story are they telling HERE? It IS a post apocalyptic science fiction action adventure survival show, and so we have science fiction tropes like spaceships, AIs, mad scientists, and we have post apoclayptic tropes like quests for redemption, birth and rebirth, scavengers and warriors, mutants, savages, and we have battle scenes and sword fights and gun fights and kidnappings and rescue missions and death.

There is an OBVIOUS Bellarke storyline, and it is OBVIOUSLY (not a delusion) a love story. It IS about their partnership, a soulmate relationship, her head to his heart, their NEED to be together, she is the hero but he is the key, her need to redeem him his need to save her. Their feelings are not platonic, which precludes romance or sexual desire or longing, thus the jealous watching while one is with someone else romantically or sexually. BUT the question is, what KIND of romance is it??? We know already it’s a slow burn, but are we getting our established relationship? It’s what I want, but what I want is not relevant to what story they are telling. I suppose I shouldn’t have to tell you that what YOU want isn’t relevant to what story they are telling, either. This kiss and confirmation you want? It doesn’t matter. Us wanting something to happen doesn’t mean that’s the story, doesn’t mean that’s what we’re getting. That’s the kind of interpretation that leads to people deciding Lxa was the hero and Clarke her reward and Bellamy the villain, or Spacekru were the stars with Echo (WTF!? That doesn’t even make any sense,) the new hero and Clarke was the villain. Or ignoring Marper and Mackson because you ship Minty, when Marper and Mackson are also beautiful? And ignoring the actual story and the actual heroes leads to being disappointed when our wants don’t happen the way we want them to. Also, my opinion about what is going to happen isn’t relevant to what is going to happen, either. I am an observer, looking for textual clues for what story is going to happen. Now I’m a GOOD observer, and I spend a lot of time double checking my theories against the text and against logic and literary analysis thought, but I am still only putting the puzzle pieces together trying to make it fit the story they are telling.

I will say that the theory I have found MOST useful in puzzling out the story is Jungian Literary Theory.

Jung is also an influential force in myth (archetypal) criticism. Psychological critics are generally concerned with his concept of the process of individuation (the process of discovering what makes one different form everyone else). Jung labelled three parts of the self:

Shadow – the darker, unconscious self; rarely surfaces, yet must be faced for totality of SelfPersona – the public personality/mask (particularly masculine)Anima/Animus – a man’s/woman’s “soul image” (the negative that makes a composite whole)

A neurosis occurs when someone fails to assimilate one of these unconscious components into his conscious and projects it on someone else. The persona must be flexible and be able to balance the components of the psyche.

Mythological / Archetypal: A mythological / archetypal approach to literature assumes that there is a collection of symbols, images, characters, and motifs (i.e., archetypes) that evokes a similar response in all people. According to the psychologist Carl Jung, mankind possesses a “collective unconscious” (a cosmic reservoir of human experience) that contains these archetypes and that is common to all of humanity. Myth critics identify these archetypal patterns and discuss how they function in the works. They believe that these archetypes are the source of much of literature’s power. [x]

The Shadow-Persona-Anima/Animus is a particularly good fit for The 100 AND Bellarke. Bellarke ARE the Anima/Animus. In fact, we have seen again and again the dark/light, yin yang symbolism to make us subconsciously connect them as two sides of the same coin, dark and light... and they take turns being the dark and light. If they are the anima/animus, then that means they need to integrate the other (which we saw between seasons 4/5) and it also means they need to be together which we’ve seen in seasons 1-6, and which need has only gotten BIGGER as the seasons have passed.

Oh when I consider this approach more fully, I think that Octavia is the Shadow to Bellamy’s Persona... the girl under the floor, rarely let out, and once free (after losing her animus [lincoln] going out of control and becoming a tyrant that destroys the world until the persona asserts itself and feelings/pain/emotion is balanced once again with purpose/ethics/doing what is right.) You know what? I’m shocked that no one has really delved into the Hades/Persephone/Demeter allegory of Dante/Clarke/Abby. I went with Dante’s Inferno as the allegory I explored... maybe because I didn’t start doing my Jungian analysis until season 3 and they showed us that Blake illustration of Dante’s Inferno, and I took the knock upside the head the show was giving me and went OH YOU MEAN IT’S AN ALLUSION!!!!

I think this show is, well, a mix and match of different influences, and I like that. I like that we get The Divine Comedy and the bible as well as Greek mythology as well as Game of Thrones and Battlestar Gallactica and Tangled and The Beauty and The Beast and Penelope and Odysseus as well as Elizabeth and Darcy. I like that shit. The mythic/archetypal stories can be seen in ALL those references. Bellamy is Han Solo and Clarke is Princess Leia. See I love that shit.

I think in some ways, this show is about healing and becoming whole and making peace with your darkness and choosing to be better and rebirth and redeeming humanity and hopefully in season 7, although it is by no means certain, the healing of the earth itself. It’s about trauma and how we struggle to come back from total destruction, because that’s what post apocalyptic fiction is about and one of the reasons we consume it... because we can see our OWN rebirth in the dramatic, fictional rebirth (and why I hate post apocalyptic fic where the guiding principle is that humanity is doomed and there’s no point.)

Oh wait. You asked about Bellarke and I went into jungian literary analysis and Dante’s inferno and post apocalyptic fic... Okay so here’s the thing. I can not GUARANTEE you that you’ll get a kiss. Because a KISS isn’t the point. The point is UNITY, together, the head and the heart, becoming WHOLE. This is why they could end every season with Clarke and Bellamy together and victorious, but together in a different way, and still with more story to tell... because...wait... each season there has been a DIFFERENT mythic tale of the anima/animus coming together. If the show had ended at season 4, it would have been the sun/moon, always longing, never together. If it had ended at season 5, it might have been binary stars, aligned and moving in the same direction. Now in season 6, we don’t get the ending of our story. We’re still in the middle of it, but Clarke and Bellamy have actually come TOGETHER, and it is in an intimate, romantic way, with that fairy tale “true loves kiss bringing her back from the dead,” aka mouth to mouth aka “the kiss of life,”... when we know that mouth to mouth was not necessary to CPR, but it WAS necessary to the romantic trope of true love’s kiss.

See, this all brings me back to my ORIGINAL analysis on Bellarke after Hakeldama in season 3, when everyone thought Bellarke was dead and CL was the endgame story, and I went, no wait. They are the head and the heart and they can only do it TOGETHER and the main idea is bringing together the opposites/enemies/yin and yang to create a coherent whole that means that Clarke and Bellamy HAVE to be together that’s how this story works. Bellarke is endgame. I don’t make the rules.

Of course I was not aware that it wasn’t considering ONLY romance to be “together,” and the hands metaphor was used instead of fandom’s desire for a kiss, and there are other archetypal light/dark head/heart/ yin/yang king/queen stories than just the simple romance that shippers want. Not that there’s anything wrong with the simple romance. I think season 1 WAS a simple romance for them. It was enemies to friends to lovers... but without the resolution of the lovers part when they decided to drag it out into a slow burn that COULD, if we got to the end of it, be the most fantastic epic love story on tv.

I’ve faced so many years of people telling me I was delusional, I have double checked my theories and compared the development of the bellarke relationship to canon, to romantic conventions, to archetypes, to allusions, to other ships on the show. I’ve watched and charted the relationship growth for all six seasons, and the thing is, yeah they sometimes pull back and they always put obstacles between clarke and bellamy and if I saw the direction going ELSEWHERE, that’s what I would go with, because I am more attached to the story than to my WANTING it to give me my ship. But they are NOT portraying Bellarke as platonic, and they are NOT portraying B/E as endgame, but as a romantic obstacle, family, spy/master, and a “right for now” romance, rather than a Ms. Right romance. And Echo’s story is not being portrayed as her being fulfilled by her relationship with Bellamy, but by rediscovering who she is and reclaiming her life from the people who would use her, who stole her identity. Echo’s story seems to be going in a feminist direction about female empowerment and not needing no man, while Clarke and Bellamy’s story has gone in a “yes I can do it without you but I don’t want to and I need you in my life because I love you and I won’t let you go.” Bellarke’s story has only gotten MORE romantic, culminating this season in that true love’s kiss/back from the dead... which leaves us season 7, to ratchet the epic love story up one last notch.

Which notch? Consummation. So yeah, I think they’ll “kiss,” because the togetherness has steadily gotten more and more romantic every single season and I honestly can’t see what else could come between true love’s kiss and endgame except a season worth of story about how they get from “I can’t lose you, I need you,” to endgame romantic physical and official “we are married and in love” status. But you know, i’m not one of the writers just an observer with some literary analysis. My fave is jungian, but i like the others, too. Except maybe the first one, historical/biographical, because I don’t think that works at ALL unless you understand the text for itself outside of historical biographical context which would be a secondary analysis, and I think fandom prefers hist/bio but never bothers to understand the story being told for itself before deciding it means all sorts of things about context. oh my god rowena stop talking and just post.

#the 100 #bellarke #endgame #jungian analysis #it turns out i'm not doing a 101 class on The 100 but more like a senior level class tbh

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hispeculiartreasure · 5 years

Text

Don’t Wanna Fall - S.R.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2,000

Genre: Angst angst angst angst angst

Setting: Immediately after Infinity War, preceding Endgame.

AN: I am . . . so deeply sorry for this. I’ve been in a melancholy funk for a few days and listening to my Johnnyswim playlist on a loop hasn’t helped. This was inspired by their song “Wicked Game”. Borrowed lyrics appear in italics/ If you haven’t heard it before, go listen to it first. It really sets the mood. This just wouldn’t stay in my heart so I’m making you all suffer with me.

In a split second, the world had imploded. Every single person’s life changed at the snap of a finger. No one would ever be the same.

After the day where everyone lost everything, you threw yourself into your work. You saw a need and had a desperation to be occupied at every second of the day.

People needed to grieve and grief had never been seen on this high of a global scale. Your nonprofit - what was left of it - began coordinating therapy worldwide. You hunted down therapists and counselors that were still living, trained willing volunteers. Support groups, individual sessions, you made it all happen. You fought tooth and nail to make it happen.

Everyone who walked in and out of your doors looked hollow, yet determined. Determined to find something meaningful in the aftermath. Then again, each person had lost someone. Including your staff, including yourself. Your whole operation depended on broken people helping broken people.

The world was on fire, no one could save me but you.

People around you tried to beckon you back out, mentioned you hadn’t been yourself. You laughed in their faces. Who could be themselves after this? You couldn’t help but think that person had died along with the other half of the world. What was the point? It was easier to love no one, to remain independent, to keep everyone at arm's length. That way you could at least pretend the remaining pieces of you could live on.

But then there was Steve.

I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you.

He was good - straight down to his bones, he was good. He was kind. He was clever. He was haunted. For all his strength, he was gentle. For all he had in his mind, he was thoughtful. Still waters ran miles deep and it was too tempting not to explore the open seas.

The last session of the week is the one where you allow yourself to move from employee to participant. You knew you needed it, you begrudgingly sat through it. Your heart was no less shattered than anyone else’s here.

That’s where you met him. He was barely recognizable with his shaggy hair and beard that disguised his features. Without fail, he was always early. The previous session hadn’t quite ended, so he loitered by the door, watching, observing. He watches as you finish your duties, as you take your staff lanyard off and subtly transition into group member.

He finds himself sitting by you every Saturday evening. Both of you were among the quieter ones in the group. Mainly listening. Finding solace in not being the only one overcome by the grief.

Weeks pass. During a break you stand near each other in companionable silence, sipping on the instant coffee you’d prepared hours ago.

“Who did you lose?” he asks, soft enough to make you question if you’d heard it in the first place.

You take another drag of the bitter drink. “Everyone,” you whisper, void of emotion. “You?” From the corner of your eye you can see him still staring straight ahead.

“Enough.” You share a nod of sympathy as the leader beckons the group to take their seats again.

He lingers as the group disperses, thinking he was watching you covertly. He wasn’t.

You take down signs, Steve offers to help you stack chairs. You gather your folders into your briefcase before shutting off the lights. You never question Steve’s hovering. In a strange way you understood why he was still here. You’re glad he was still here.

“Wanna grab a drink?” He nods in relief, following you down the street to an old haunt.

Sitting at the bar together, there is very little discussion. Both of you were tired of talking about the feelings and thoughts that consumed you. For some reason, your souls recognized a kinship in each other. You felt seen by him, a feeling later he confirmed was reciprocated.

His hand covers yours on the surface of the bar, gently squeezing.

I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you.

Somehow you end up on the front porch of your home, Steve by your side.

Eyes flicker to his, finding that searching look reflected. You lean close, resting your forehead to his shoulder. This isn’t healthy, you think. Steady arms encircle you, a nose nuzzles the top of your head. This is wrong. His lips are inches from yours, waiting for you to close the gap. This will only lead to hurt.

This one would only break you.

You didn’t care. You needed to feel something. Anything. He did too. That much you knew.

It’s strange what desire makes foolish people do.

The pair of you stumble through your living room, mouths insistent, needy on each other. Leaping into Steve’s embrace, he takes you into the hall. Past framed photos, past a more vibrant you in a white dress, a man in a tuxedo gazing down at you adoringly. Past faces you know you’ll never see again. Past a you that had happiness. He angles toward what he assumes is the master suite, resting your back against the closed door for a moment to kiss down your jaw, peppering your throat with affection.

He twists the doorknob, drawing you back to the moment. “No,” you breathe. He freezes, leaning back to assess your meaning. Had he been wrong? Was this not what you wanted? “Down the hall.” Fervor is back in your veins, reviving in his. Shuffling toward the guest room where you’d taken up residence, Steve carries you.

He carries you away from the door, from the memories. Away from the room you hadn’t touched since that horrible day. Away from the place you’d woken up, confused by the dirt in your bed, calling for your husband. Away from the spot where you’d turned the TV on, watched the news coverage. Away from the room where you’d screamed in agony at the empty spot next to you. Away from where your husband’s ashes still mixed in with the sheets. Away from the tomb of the life that was. Away from a life that was gone.

All that matters is the man that was making you feel anything other than numb.

Morning has almost arrived when you find yourself watching Steve as he slept. Your head is propped on his shoulder, hand firmly resting over his chest. You needed the assurance of his beating heart to keep panic at bay.

Soon self-conscious - but not embarrassed - eyes rove your face. “Breakfast?” he suggests.

You weren’t here to fall in love. Neither of you were under that allusion.

But someone to shoulder this unbearable burden? Sure.

What you found together in the next weeks, months, years wasn’t quite happiness. But it was as close as you could get in the world you now lived in.

You meld into each other’s lives. You are present for each other. You are salves on the others’ heart. You find a new kind of normal. You finally face the master bedroom, you clean out old memories. You find a confidence bolstered by a man you hadn’t expected. You work hard to get better. Steve holds you as you cry. You hold him as he cries. He opens up, he bears his soul. Together you talk fondly of the ones you lost. You get to know the only people the other has left. He gets angry. He seeks you out to bring him back down to earth. You hate yourself for the hope he brings, the peace that floods your body when he’s near.

A dark, rainy night he appears on your doorstep unannounced; clean-shaven, more put-together than you’d ever seen him. Something was wrong.

“We need to talk,” his voice is deep, toneless.

The hope is throttled by dread.

You nod, allowing him to pass by you. You stand toe-to-toe behind the closed door.

He’s different. For the first time since you’ve known him, he stands tall, straight. There’s a purpose to his step, a reason glittering behind his determined gaze. Even though his jaw is set, you can sense his agitation.

“What is it, Steve?” you ask when the silence becomes too heavy.

“I’m sorry I’ve let this go on so long. We’ve reached a place where you have feelings that I just. . . don’t have. I can’t keep letting us do this when you’re going to end up hurt.”

Later you look back and wonder why you weren’t stunned. Why you didn’t rail against him, call him every name in the book, truly tear him down like you wanted. But you were calm, collected, even-keeled.

You can tell he’s lying.

You’ve come to know him too well not to tell. The twitch of an eyebrow, the shuffling of the feet. The barely-there eye-contact.

“Care to share where this is coming from?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’ve known for a long time. It was nice to have someone around, but I never let myself fall. I can get by on my own. And it’s not fair to you.” He reaches to scratch at scruff that isn’t there, instead moving his hand to rub his neck. “I’m sorry,” it quietly floats to you. Much like the first thing he’d ever said to you, you were only half sure he had said it.

Who did you lose?

Everyone. You?

Enough.

For some reason, he feels a need to say these things; to say that he never shared feelings you had fought for so long. You knew better. You’d felt the love in his eyes, felt it in his hands, felt it in his words.

What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way.

Your confusion dissipates when you finally pinpoint the energy he’s carrying with him.

Fear. Anxiety. Dread. Terror.

Something is about to happen, something is about to change.

As much as he’s saying he doesn’t need you. . . you know that right now the opposite is true.

“Alright,” you say much more steadily than you feel. “Do what you need to do.” You step closer, one hand reaching to rest on the back of his neck, the other tapping aimlessly over his heart. “Whatever it takes,” you murmur.

Steve knows that you know he’s lying.

He hates himself for gathering you up. He hates himself for breathing in your sweet scent. He hates himself for the blow he’s just landed. And he hates himself for staying when he told himself he would leave.

But he can’t leave, he can’t do what he’s about to do without saying goodbye to someone that has come to mean the world to him. Someone who was there for the end of his world.

He mutters your name like a prayer all night, etching you into his memory. Determined to carry you with him no matter where the next step takes him. Every possible moment you feel for his heartbeat. You memorize the pattern so it can play in your mind when you roll over to find the bed empty once again.

What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.

You walk him to the door the next morning, feel his lips on yours one last time.

“Good luck,” you whisper against his mouth.

Those blue eyes flicker, forgetting the charade he’d started when he’d walked into your home yesterday. He wants you to hate him. Wants you to be furious, he wants to be the someone you can channel your anger toward. You only watch him, nothing but understanding on your face. “Thank you. I’m. . . I’m so sorry.” That was the only true thing he’d said since you last stood in this spot.

Nobody loves no one.

“I’m sorry too, Steve.” You squeeze his hand tightly before you swing the front door open.

Finally, tears trickle down your cheeks as you watch him walk away. Somehow you know you’ll never see him again.

You know him in his bones.

Whatever he’s set on doing, it’ll get done - no matter the cost.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Don't Wanna Fall #beka writes

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johnwallacedigital-blog · 4 years

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WHAT ARE PLANT-BASED BURGERS? WHAT ARE THEY ACTUALLY MADE OF?

Plant-Based Burgers? What are they?

Plant-Based Burger? That sounds like an oxymoron, right? But it’s actually not as weird as it sounds. The popularity of ‘veggie’ burgers is on the rise! You may find the terms plant-based and veggie used interchangeably to describe this meatless alternative. Don’t let the name fool you, though. Veggie (plant-based) burgers are not all vegetable-based. They are, however, plant-based. A plant-based burger is basically what it sounds like. It is a burger made of plant products rather than meat. While that may sound unappetizing to some, it can actually have a comparable taste and texture to the real thing. It takes a bit of science to get it right, though. It isn’t necessarily an easy task to figure out the right ingredients and components to make plants serve as a suitable substitute for meat, especially when it comes to taste. Plant-based burgers use proteins derived from plants in place of animal product. This may include peas, beans, lentils, soy, wheat, rice, and of course vegetables. Plant-based burgers also contain fiber. Fiber isn’t present in large quantities, but it is more than you will find in a meat burger.

Not all veggie burgers are created equal. The meatless burgers you find in stores and restaurants have become widely popular and are a convenient way to get your burger fix without consuming meat or meat products. Since they are fairly high on the processed foods scale, they typically contain a significant amount of sodium as well as a few other not-so-healthy ingredients that are added for taste and preservation. Though they do have a few problematic ingredients, there is still something to be said for the veggie burger. It truly depends on what is important to you in your diet. We all have different dietary needs and priorities. A person who has high blood pressure has different dietary needs as someone who has high blood-sugar. How you benefit from veggie burgers will depend mostly on your personal health and nutritional needs.

Though there are now several options available in grocery stores, restaurants, and even fast food chains, you can also make your own! An alternative to the processed veggie burger, is a delicious home-made option! There are numerous recipes for home-made meat-free burgers that cater to various dietary needs. There is definitely something to be said about a good home-made meal. The store-bought burgers are likely to have different ingredients than your favorite home-made variation. Depending on the recipe, you may use cauliflower, zucchini, tofu, beans, peas, etc. The possibilities are endless. And the best part? You can tweak it to meet your personal nutritional needs as well as your taste buds! Of course, the right seasoning is a huge part of any recipe. Afterall, what is the point of a burger without the right taste?

You can find a few popular veggie burger recipes here!

Rising Popularity

The idea of a meat-less burger isn’t really new. Some international cultures have had this idea for countless generations. The idea seems to have gained traction around the late 1900s, achieving popularity in both Europe and North America. Though we’ve been hearing about veggie burgers since around that time, their popularity has truly begun to increase in recent years.

As miscellaneous diet trends come and go over the years, reasons for certain diet restrictions and preference change as well. Plant-based burgers were once desired as an alternative to consuming meat product for altruistic reasons. Many consumers chose a meat-free diet in opposition to what they considered animal cruelty. While that is still true for some vegetarian consumers, there is an upsurge in consumers who choose a meat-free life for differing reasons.

More and more research is being done on the impact that our food choices can have on our overall health. In 2015, the World Health Organization reported findings that recommended a limitation on overall meat consumption. This recommendation was based on studies done regarding the effects of red meat and processed meat. Both were found likely to have cancer-causing properties, with processed meat being the worst of the 2. More research is necessary in this area, but it is safe to assume that the probability of a person being negatively affected by the carcinogenic components of meat is based on the amount of meat they eat. To be clear, the World Health Organization did not say that meat causes cancer, but that there is a correlation between the amount and type of meat consumed and the probability of developing cancer. It is probably safe to say that this new information has something to do with the rise in popularity of more plant-based diets, including the veggie burger.

The business world is taking note of this and capitalizing on it. As we mentioned before, many grocery stores and restaurant chains have added more plant-based meal options to their menu, including the veggie burger.

Currently, there are 2 companies leading the way in the production of plant-based burgers. Impossible Foods and Beyond Meat saw their opportunity and ceased it. You will find their meat-less burgers in some of your favorite restaurants and/or grocery chains. Burger King, Red Robin, Hard Rock Café, Umami Burger are just a few popular chains offering the Impossible Burger at select locations. Impossible Foods has plans to sell their burgers in U.S. grocery stores. You can currently only find their delicious burgers at certain restaurants. Beyond Meat’s veggie burger, however, is available in both stores and restaurants! Their plant-based products can be found in Kroger, Publix, Wal-Mart, TGIFridays, Carl’s Jr., Dell Taco, Dunkin Donuts, and more! You can even order their plant-based patties on Amazon. McDonald’s hasn’t gotten the memo yet, but I’m sure they will soon develop a plan to start selling one of these vegetarian-friendly products as well.

Is it really better for you?

What would your nutritionist say? Assuming you have one. If you don’t, that’s ok. I’m going to tell you what I’ve heard a couple of nutritionists say about the plant-based burger trend. Are veggie burgers really better for you? That depends on your particular health focus. Our bodies do not all function the same. We are all born with a different genetic make-up. Then the environment we are in and the habits we develop also makes changes to our anatomy. What works for you may not work for me and vice versa. This means that just because a particular dietary trend is on the rise and works for your friends doesn’t mean it will work for you. When ironing out the details of your diet plan, you should always consider your individual body and health needs in addition to the typical benefits and restrictions of a specific plan.

As I mentioned earlier, many plant-based burgers are significantly higher in sodium than their animal product counterparts. They are also fairly high in saturated fat. Depending on your personal health and dietary constraints, this could have a negative impact for you. Not all fats are the same, though. You want to pay attention to the ingredients as well as the quantities. There are certain oils and fats that are notably healthier than others. For instance, coconut oil poses much less negative risk than many of its commonly used oil counterparts.

One nutritionist also expressed a concern with the emphasis on protein in general, and recommends a plant-based burger that doesn’t try too hard to look and taste like the typical meat option. Protein is definitely an important part of any diet. But like anything else on the food pyramid, it has its limits and should be consumed in certain ratios. Eating too much protein can actually lead to chronic diseases of various kinds. Too much protein can have a negative impact on your heart, liver, and kidneys. Certain types of veggie burgers are grain-based and made with more real vegetables. This option carries less emphasis on protein and may ultimately be better for you. You can find products like this on the market, or you can make your own at home.

Another possible issue is that many plant-based recipes for a burger contain common allergy triggering products such as soy, wheat, and gluten. This doesn’t mean you can’t have a veggie burger. It just means you have to pay attention to the ingredients. If you have a hard time finding a veggie burger to meet your dietary needs on the market in your area, check out some recipes that you can make at home.

Depending on your reason for choosing a plant-based diet, you’re probably safe with plant-based burgers. Like with any food product, you always want to be conscious of what you are putting into your body. Read the labels. Don’t just limit your research to the daily value amounts listed. Also consider the actual ingredients and how they may individually affect your personal health. Overall, a reduction in the amount of red meat and processed meat you eat should prove beneficial if you consider what alternatives you are using. Though plant-based burgers do come with their own set of concerns, as we’ve discussed, they are considered to be a better alternative for certain health and ethical apprehensions.

#plantbased #burgers #plantbaseddiet #diet

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literallyjustanerd · 7 years

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In His Eyes (Chapter 8)

School is back in! And yet I somehow managed to write the longest chapter yet!

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 5008 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

You can also read this chapter (and all the chapters before it) here!

The night is cold. Cold enough that when Kurt exhales, the air billows out in front of him in a small, translucent cloud. His legs are drawn in close to his chest, his tail hugged tightly around him, and after twenty minutes he has only just lifted his head from where it has been buried into his knees. The moon’s light is weak and milky, but with his eyes he can still see the wind meandering through the tall oak and pine trees that pepper the grounds below him. His lips still feel strange: numb, and not just from the cold. It is as though he can still feel Warren on them, warm, desperate, unexpected, and… welcome? Unwelcome? Kurt still cannot decide. During the brief, fleeting moment they had been locked together, Warren’s hands firmly grasping each of Kurt’s arms just below the shoulder, Kurt’s muscles had turned to melted butter, and he had wondered whether everything was fixed, if everything after the kiss would be the fairy tale he had always secretly wanted he and Warren to be.

But the moment the warmth began to fade, the moment the magic was broken, the all-swallowing pit in his stomach had assured him that no, this wasn’t the part of the story where the protagonist and his love interest finally confessed their true feelings to one another and embraced and kissed and laughed about how foolish they’d been trying to hide it. Instead, it was the part of the story where the protagonist, filled to the point of nausea with a sudden embarrassment and terror, fled the scene, and hid on a roof for twenty minutes to avoid confronting his own feelings, and the feelings of the boy he’d been pining over for months. And now, here he is, huddled against the bitter night, feeling the wind turn the tearstains on his face into small streams of concentrated cold and wondering how he is ever meant to look Warren in the eyes again. Is Warren upset with him for running away? Is he hurt? A sick feeling kicks up in the hollow of Kurt’s chest. Is he angry? He tries to picture Warren in his room, surrounded by the things Kurt had left for him, the evidence of a gesture that now seems childish and unwise. Kurt himself feels childish and unwise. Too unequipped to be in this situation at all. Of course it had burned to the ground.

Fix. Warren had asked Kurt if he thought he was going to fix him. The word lingers in Kurt’s mind, unfolding and reshaping into new and unhappy realisations. Warren thinks of himself as broken, as in need of fixing. Warren thinks that Kurt thinks of him as broken. That, above all, is enough to erase the last of Kurt’s anger, and replace it with something even harder to swallow: regret. Deep, dark, horrible regret, the claws of which tease at his insides, pulling strings now and then to make him remember another cutting remark or lamentable retort he had thrown out in the moments his temper had taken control. He should have stayed. He should have talked to Warren, calmed him, and calmed himself. He should have found a way to defuse the situation. He considers prayer: that is what has always assisted him through these tough situations in the past, steering him towards redemption and reconciliation. But for some reason, he knows that tonight it will be of no help to him. Instead, he lets out a deep sigh, watches the mist of his breath dissolve in front of him, and allows his muscles to relax a little. He will be out here for a while yet, simply because he cannot imagine making himself move from this still, silent reverie. At least here, in the almost ethereal, surreal atmosphere of complete isolation, he can pretend he has only imagined all the events that now plague his thoughts.

You are a fucking idiot. The voice in Warren’s head has been repeating those words, occasionally with different, more scathing words added in. He lies on his bed, splayed uncomfortably on top of his wings and looking up towards the high, faded ceiling. Now and then, another surge of frustration hits him, and he slams a fist into his forehead or kicks the heel of his foot into the wall in anger. The heat of the moment, and the rush of emotions that had come with them have long since passed, leaving him with nothing but a desolate feeling in his stomach. It is as though there is a hole somewhere inside him, and the more he thinks about what he has done, the more he remembers the look on Kurt’s face in the instant before he vanished, he more empty he feels, and without any way to react, the sensation consumes him until it lights every nerve in his chest and fingertips on fire and leaves him to burn alive. The image of Kurt’s face will not leave his mind. His eyes, frantic and defensive, like a cornered animal. He could almost see Kurt searching through his mind and trying to figure out what angle Warren would take now to continue his side of the fight. The look that assumed that whatever Warren had done had to be some new tactic designed to find crueller and more unusual ways to put him down. Imagining the look alone was enough to defeat Warren, to leech all the anger out of him. The idea that Kurt would see him as an assailant, and would see the kiss as some strange new way to hurt him, seethes within his mind and forces him to confront everything he has said to Kurt over the months, every way he had pushed and pulled and otherwise abused the boy’s kind, forgiving nature. If only he had it in him to be able to tell Kurt the truth: he has captivated Warren for months, aroused feelings in him that have confused him to no end. And the kiss? Well, the kiss was the result of too much repressed emotion bubbling over and taking over his conscious mind. Warren drives the heels of his hands deep into his damp eyes, welcoming the pain that blooms out from beneath the sockets. Once more he hears it: you are a fucking idiot. That is the last he can remember before falling into a restless, uneasy sleep.

When the next morning comes, both boys dread facing the real world again. The realm of friends, of amicable teasing and complaints about the usual things like breakfast and homework, seems so far away, and the prospect of pretending to be fine in light of the previous night’s events feels hopeless. Even outside of that, both are acutely aware that part of their argument had been heard by two of their friends, neither of who would have had any qualms in sharing the juicy piece of gossip. And yet, they have no choice, and to avoid arousing suspicion, Kurt forces himself to rise from his bed and dress himself in anticipation of a long, hard day. Warren can get away with not leaving his room: it has been a long, long time since anyone but Kurt has stopped trying to rouse him on the days when he decided he would not face the world of the living. But Kurt has a reputation to keep up. Kurt approaches the table where his friends sit a little later than usual, and immediately knows his efforts to seem light and carefree have been for nought: they are speaking rapidly in hushed tones, talk that ceases the moment Jean catches sight of the blue boy drawing near and chokes off her story mid-sentence. His stomach constricts: how much do they know? He cannot ask – or rather, he will not ask. He does not have it in him to start such confrontations. And so, he sits down with his slice of buttered toast and quartered orange, and tries to tolerate the nausea that accompanies his dread of Warren appearing. Mercifully, in a small reprieve, the meal passes without any sign of him, and Kurt is able to finish eating and slip away from the table before anyone can work up the courage to ask him a question. Scott watches carefully as Kurt leaves the dining hall, tail almost literally between his legs, reminiscent of a hurt puppy in demeanour. He loses himself to thought and speculation, and Peter has to repeat himself twice before he finally gets any attention. “He didn’t show up in our room until late last night,” he says, gaze shifting from the closing doors back to Scott. “No?” Scott replies. “Nope. Had no idea where he was. He was gone when I fell asleep, there by the time I woke up.” “Hm.” “Any idea what might’ve happened?” Scott frowns, eyes still stuck in the middle distance “No. None.”

It is almost not a lie. While he knows as much as anyone else at the table about what specifically took place between Kurt and Warren the previous night, he is at an advantage being the only one to know about the subtext between the two, at least from Kurt’s side. In his mind, a scene takes form: Warren accusing, insulting, denigrating, and Kurt cowering, meekly defending, wishing he had just stayed quiet. As the conversation at the table turns to wondering just what the pair could have been fighting over, Scott rises from his seat and sets his sights on the door. Past the crowd, through the doors, up the main stairs as his footsteps echoed through the empty, cavernous foyer, and along the hallway towards Warren’s room Scott takes himself, fuelled by a deep-down desire to protect his friend. The sound of a heavy bass line and screaming guitar grows louder as he approaches: a clear sign that Warren is in no mood to attend classes today. As he goes to reach for Warren’s doorknob, he feels a momentary breeze, and Peter is next to him, leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the door. “What are we doing?” he asks casually. “Get lost, burnout.” “Whoa. I’m not the one messing with other people’s private affairs. I’m Kurt’s roommate and you don’t see me trying to fight his battles for him.” “You don’t get it.” “What’s there not to get?” Scott drops his arms to his sides in annoyance. “It’s nothing. Not my place to say.” “Ah, come on, tight ass. Let me in on it.” His insistence brings on a sigh. A deep one. He can tell Peter is not about to let up: for someone who can get most things done in a fraction of a second, Peter is relentlessly patient when it comes to gossip.

“Kurt has… a bit of a thing for Warren,” he says carefully. Instantly, Peter’s eyebrows rise with the new revelation, a smile spreading across his face like a child who has just successfully snuck into somewhere they do not belong. In the pause before Peter speaks again, the screeching and wailing of the music stops, leaving a brief moment of silence before the next song begins and the two boys are afforded the cover of noise once more. “Really? What sort of thing?” “I don’t know,” Scott says shortly. “Just a thing. He told me about it the day Warren started flying again.” “So you think this fight they’ve had is about that?” Peter asks, turning to face the doorway as Scott folds his arms and shrugs in response. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.” “God, please tell me you’re gonna go in there and try to intimidate him into talking to Kurt. I so want to see that.” “What?” Scott frowns under his glasses, and Peter is already on thin ice. The boy across from him grins, daring Scott to argue the point, and demonstrate himself as not just a “stick-in-the-mud,” but uptight about it as well. Left at a stalemate, Scott gives a heavy sigh and knocks firmly on the door. Predictably, there is no response, and Scott knocks louder. When more time passes and the two boys are still left waiting, Peter decides to take matters into his own hands. “Warren! Open up, jerkface!” The music dims, the bed creaks, and heavy footsteps sound as Warren approaches the door, swinging it open with a look that instantly shatters all Scott’s hopes of appearing imposing. He says nothing, instead shifting his eyes from Scott to Peter expectantly. His eyes looks sunken and slightly out of focus. If his visitors didn’t know better, they could swear the redness and puffiness in his eyes suggested tears.

Peter looks from Warren to Scott pointedly, cocking an eyebrow in an attempt to remind Scott of his purpose. Scott shakes himself out of his own thoughts and clears his throat, trying to scrape together the conviction to seem authoritative. “I want to know what happened with you and Kurt,” he states, emulating his best teacher voice. Warren rolls his eyes and goes to shut the door, but Peter’s foot blocks his path. He makes a mock tutting sound, smirking like the whole situation was a game. “Come on, Angel,” he jostles. “We just want to help.” “I don’t want you guys to help. This isn’t your business.” “You made it our business when you did something to hurt Kurt,” rallies Scott, glad to have found a place to revive his original intention. But the surge of confidence is short-lived when Warren scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he dismisses in little more than a mumble. The idea that Scott would have the gall to come to him as Ororo had previously, and to talk to him like a concerned school counsellor, ignites a small flame of anger in Warren, and considering the unfamiliar and uncomfortable rollercoaster the past day has been, it is at least a comfort to return to something he is used to. “So why don’t you tell us what we’re talking about?” Peter cuts in before Scott can reply, and all this suggestion earns him is a harsh glare from Warren, a wordless answer to his question. “Look, I don’t know what you assholes think you’re doing letting yourself into me and Kurt’s business, but you’re not going to play mediator with us. Stay the fuck out of it.” Scott’s eyes narrow, and in a movement that comes off as slightly childish and unconvincing, he steps forward towards Warren, lowering his tone to one that he hopes is at least a little threatening. “Listen, buddy,” he begins, and even Peter has to suppress as smirk at how obviously put together the line sounds. “I don’t give a damn about you or your side of this. I care about Kurt. And since, for reasons I still can’t find, he wants to keep trying to bring out whatever worthwhile thing he sees in you, I’m making it my job to make sure he doesn’t get hurt more than he already has been.” Silence sets in. None of the three boys seem to know how to continue without breaking the roles they have set for themselves. Eventually, Warren lets out a heavy, tired sigh and closes the door in one sharp, jerky movement. After a beat, the music is turned up once more, and Scott and Peter are left standing outside the door as though they had merely imagined Warren’s entire, brief appearance.

“What a jerk,” Peter finally says, in a tone so casual and blasé that even Scott has to smirk. “You gotta wonder what Kurt sees in him,” he replies, shoving his hands into his pockets as he begins down the hall. Peter gives a shrug as he follows. “Maybe it’s just physical.” “Can you imagine Kurt liking someone just for their looks?” “Yeah, you’re right. He’s too goody-goody for that sort of thing.”

In Warren’s room, far from the unfeeling and uncaring brick wall Scott and Peter have just spoken to, Warren is wearing a thoughtful, solemn frown, replaying Scott’s words over and over in his head. The anger at his overconfident and under-practiced demeanour has subsided, or rather has been eclipsed by an intense need to known just what motivated Scott’s words. Kurt wants to keep trying. Kurt sees something worthwhile in him. He dimly wonders whether he should change the words in his mind to wanted and saw, but he does not want to approach the thought directly. In the time since the previous night, he must admit he has spent an amount of time planning words he never truly intended to say to Kurt, scripting apologies and explanations and confessions that were supposed to make things better, or at least earn him a second –no, it had to be fiftieth by now, at least– chance. Now, however? While he still believes he could never say out loud the exact words that had been part of his fantasy conversations, the prospect of speaking to Kurt begins to drift back into the realm of possibility. After all, wasn’t it the persistently happy, forgiving, fluid and flexible nature of Kurt that had fascinated Warren in the first place? And couldn’t he try to replicate that, to try and earn Kurt’s trust back? It still seems optimistic, something that hardly fits into the complex puzzle that forms Warren’s psyche, but maybe that is what he needs right now. An action that defies all the rules set by his previous self, that marks a real change into something better than himself. Into something that maybe, just maybe, could be deserving of Kurt’s time and –dare he say it– his affections. But, unsurprisingly, these thoughts are soon beaten down by the same dark force that has kept him from deviating from his usual ways for years. Just as always, Warren is left in the purgatory between wanting to act and being too scared of the outcome to make a move. He writhes on his bed in indecision for lengths of time he cannot know, then paces his room back and forth, reaching for the doorknob a thousand times but never going further. The music he had been playing has long since run out as he perches on his desk chair and restlessly bounces his leg, pent up emotions and desires festering and itching under his skin. By the time lunch finally comes around, the build has become too much, and Warren moves quickly, decisively, leaving his room with the door still open behind him and striding down the hallway with long and slightly hasty steps. There is an extremely small window of opportunity here, and if he misses it, he knows his willpower will be doomed to disintegrate altogether. He reaches Kurt’s door, slowing down subconsciously as he nears it. As the inside of Kurt’s room comes into view, the lines in the script he has frantically written in his head suddenly become jumbled and inarticulate. The door is open, and when he takes one more step forward to peer in and sees that he has made it, his heart still clenches anyway. Peter has already been and gone, depositing his books carelessly on his bed and whizzing off down to the dining hall for lunch. Kurt, however, takes his time, setting his books on his desk and sorting through what work he will have to do that afternoon. He does not notice Warren behind him, observing the way he moves, taking in every detail. There is something missing from him today; he moves more reluctantly, without the energy or fluidity that usually drive his gestures. Even his eyes seem to be duller today, and Warren’s heart plunges through his stomach at the realisation that the reason for his expression is Warren’s own actions. As the seconds wear on, and Warren hears the telltale sound of footsteps climbing the stairs, he shakes himself from his thoughts, and takes the plunge, clearing his throat to alert the boy opposite him to his presence.

Kurt jumps, shocked from his thoughts by the realisation that he is not alone, and for a moment he teleports instinctively away, reappearing in his room after spending a split second outside on the lawn. He looks through his own cloud of deep purple smoke, seeing the figure of Warren in his doorway, and feels a dizzying mix of hope and dread. It is plain to see that Warren is agitated, too, and Kurt is unsure how exactly to react to his sudden presence. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and it takes an eternity for Warren to realise that he will have to offer an explanation himself, since Kurt has no way to request one. “Wanna talk?” he mumbles, hands balling into fists and shoved into his pockets. As he speaks, his eyes flick repeatedly between Kurt and the floor, between where he wants them to be and where his instincts direct them. Kurt does not know exactly what it is that makes him nod, that makes him point to his neatly-made bed and close the door behind Warren as he slinks into the room and sits down on the edge of the bedspread. His wings shift nervously, settling and resettling against his back, unable to find a position that would relieve his discomfort. Kurt hesitates before he sits down, shifting over to put a little more distance between himself and Warren. Both boys look forward, finding a patch of wall or carpet to stare at in lieu of looking at each other. “You been okay?” Warren asks presently. Kurt lifts his shoulders in response. “I’ve been fine.” “Good.” There is a certain insincerity to Warren’s tone, and he knows Kurt can hear it, but he does not know how to make it go away. Neither comments on it, lacking the conviction or the willpower, or both.

“So… You want to talk. Let’s talk,” Kurt sighs, breaking the thick silence. “Where do we start?” At being given a direct question to answer, and at being spoken to with the manner of a lost schoolchild, Kurt summons the drive to give a direct reply, and to make a solid demand for answers to the many questions he has been agonising over. “Why did you kiss me?” Though taken aback at first, Warren is glad to surrender his part in directing the conversation, and sinks a little further forward, forearms on his knees, in preparation to respond. Willing his words past the dam in his throat, he speaks. “Because I wanted to.” “Because you wanted to what?” “Because I wanted to kiss you.” Kurt makes a soft humming sound. “Your timing was a little off.” Surprisingly enough, his remark draws a faint laugh from Warren, a mere sharpened breath of a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Yeah… No shit.”

Outside, the sky is above the mansion is dark, heavily overcast with only sparse patches of blue between the cloud cover. When Warren looks up at Kurt and sees him gazing into the sky outside, he turns his head to face the window as well, and with a newfound resolve, scrapes together a few words from the many mental essays he has written for Kurt. “Look, I’m an idiot. You know that by now, right? You have to.” An uneasy frown takes over Kurt’s sharp, angular features, but as he opens his mouth to reply, Warren holds up a hand to stop him. “I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve treated you worse than crap, and you didn’t deserve any of it.” Warren allows himself a private smile, and with his eyes in his lap he is unable to see that Kurt is now staring intently at him. “Hell, you’re probably the one around here who deserves to be treated the best.” Already, something is different. The light in the room takes on a new quality, polished and crystallised by Warren’s forthright words. No longer is there a haze of uncertainty between the two, intertwining with and distorting their feelings and intentions. Kurt feels as though he is seeing Warren anew, just as he had on the day that he had first seen him take to the sky. Though he wants to speak, Kurt stays silent, sensing that there is still more Warren wants to say. Sure enough, with a deep breath to support his sudden surge of sincerity, the winged boy continues. “I’m so sorry, Kurt. I should have been upfront with you from the start. I’m just… I’m like poison, I guess.” Warren clenches his fists, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Kurt has never before noticed just how striking Warren’s eyes are. A pale, milky blue, with small flecks of darker grey towards the centre. They are pained now, sorrowful, and Kurt’s heart aches as he quickly finds himself getting lost in them and in the mournful sadness in his words. “Any time I get close to people I just end up hurting them. I’ve never been able to make a friend or have a relationship that didn’t go to shit because of me freaking out about them getting too close. Ever since I was a kid, from my asshole father to everyone after.”

It takes a long time for Kurt to find the proper words to reply. He has always known that Warren took the sort of image of himself that belonged in an angsty teen drama, but to hear him say the words out loud is confronting, and it hurts Kurt as deeply as any of Warren’s insults. His instincts tell him to do whatever he can to soothe Warren, to take him into his arms and comfort him, but his conscious mind knows that this is not what Warren needs right now. Coddling will do nothing for him – it is real, genuine talk that stands a chance at helping him. Warren, meanwhile, feels a magnificent weight lift off his chest, leaving him feeling free in the same way he did in the air. Never had he imagined that the one thing he had always detested, always avoided as though it would be his death, would feel so fantastic. The sensation is addictive, and Warren suddenly feels the intense urge to spill out every last word that lies within his still extremely full mind. “I’ll admit that the way you treated me hurt,” Kurt begins softly, breathily, and Warren returns to reality immediately. “It hurt a lot. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a second chance. You’ve been through a lot. You still need help with some things.” “Would you still be willing to offer that help?” Warren feels foolish for asking, especially in such a pathetic, sentimental tone. But this shame evaporates when Kurt gives a small, inward smile that sets off an involuntary flutter in Warren’s chest. Gradually, Kurt begins to realise that the space he had put between he and Warren is too much, and quite diffidently, he shifts over the bedspread, stopping with just a little more than an inch between his own leg and Warren’s. “Would… Would you be willing to accept it?” Too distracted by the sudden closeness of the boy he’d been all but obsessed with for weeks, Warren cannot reply in words. His throat goes stiff, and all he can think about is the fantastic warmth radiating from the boy, and how badly he wants to feel more of it. He musters a nod, a slow but assured gesture. Moments pass, though to the two boys on perched on the edge of Kurt’s bed, they may as well have been on a different planet, one completely their own.

It is Kurt this time that closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Warren’s. Softly, tentatively, nothing like the unplanned and haphazard kiss of the previous night. Kurt slips his hand into Warren’s, who responds by lacing his five fingers snugly into Kurt’s three, his eyes still closed as he returns the gentle, tender pressure. A shudder ripples down his spine and along his wings as he feels Kurt’s other hand against the back of his neck, grazing against him so lightly before it lands that it sends tingles sprawling across his skin. Feeling the intuitive desire to return the gesture, he lifts his free hand and, with eyes still shut tight, lets it feel its way across the bedspread until it finds Kurt’s side. It moves upwards painfully slowly, caressing Kurt’s arm and bringing out an intensely satisfying shudder from the boy as he softens further into the kiss.

When at last the two part, each one is giddy and smiling, and neither one has any intention of fleeing the scene for any other reason than to run to the nearest rooftop and yell to the world what has just happened. Both too caught up with each other, neither knows how much time passes before one of them finally decides to break the quiet. “I never thought you’d actually…” Kurt breathes, his fingers still tightly knitted with Warren’s. He does not even need to finish before Warren nods in agreement. “Me neither.” The two share an open, breathless smile, cheeks flushed hot, and in Warren’s case, bright red. The skin on the back of his neck is cold now, already missing Kurt’s touch. He is struck by another impulse, and acts on it with a smile, leaning in and pecking Kurt on his temple. Kurt smiles in response, the expression as bright as a star and as warm as the sun. He lays his head on Warren’s shoulder, his tail subconsciously curling around Warren, the spade gliding back and forth over the place where Warren’s hip meets his thigh. Left undisturbed in Kurt’s room, the two of them sit for as long as they can together, savouring the perfection of the moment and hoping that nothing would come to end it before they were good and ready to leave each other’s side.

#yay i finally updated #sorry to keep everyone waiting #in his eyes #nightangel #nightcrawler #angel #archangel #Warren Worthington #warren worthington iii #kurt wagner #x-men #x-men: apocalypse #comics #marvel #fic #drabble #fanfiction #xmen

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mild-lunacy · 7 years

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A Reflection on Reflection

I think it’s unsurprising that people in general—and amateur writers in particular—like patting themselves on the back. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with confidence, for sure. And I think the only thing that really works to foster personal growth is a supportive environment. When many people who’re newbies aren’t confident they’ll be able to do something and always do it well (especially with admiration or recognition attached), they default to not trying. This is a shame, since it may stifle real talent, or even just a great source of stress relief or community for someone. People often rely on others to prop up their ego and help with motivation, and this is especially common in the artistic fields.

On the one hand, this irritates me. I feel like art—like any passion—is its own reward. Anytime people proclaim they’d stop without money or recognition, I can only assume they’re not that committed or interested. I mean, I write and I draw because I can’t not. It comes naturally. I can do it more or less often depending on my motivation and energy (which is almost completely unrelated to what anyone else does one way or the other), but I only do it ‘cause it’s natural. I never really related to people who need to force it or motivate themselves to have art happen at all, though I’m aware this is the default state of many people’s reality. I accept that.

This isn’t to imply I’m not interested in feedback. I love feedback. I enjoy affirmation (though I don’t always trust it). But I don’t need attention. It’s just not how I’m built. If anything, I avoid attention. When people imply or outright state that art or writing is inherently social and dependent on social exchange (or recognition), it’s like saying people are. And I get that people are, but I’m people too, after all. I always have to remind myself I’m no one’s default. Needless to say, according to Tumblr, I’m not ‘people’. I think that if I was as sensitive as most writers are assumed to be, I’d be a wreck by now.

I also get tired of some more social aspects of the support culture. One is the enforcement of relentless positivity, where posts outright say you’re not allowed to say anything less than nice, on pain of shunning and shaming, I imagine. When people demand positivity, my impulse is to offer the opposite. I’m stubborn and contrary at the best of times, and emotional manipulation brings out the worst in me.

Two is somewhat more rational, in that I think people never focus on the self-reflection aspect of writing. I’ve literally never seen anyone mention it. Like, the necessity of thinking about your work, being critical, being thoughtful, being reflective.

This is not a minor thing. In fact, it’s a major thing. It’s the #1 thing I was taught about writing in college (granted, I went to a hippie college), but it works. I know it’s personal and maybe private, but it’s not something I’ve seen passingly referenced, even. Every time there’s an opportunity, it’s passed by. I get especially frustrated about this in posts that are trying to be inspirational through negativity, or focusing on the flaws of professional writers (particularly men). ‘Look at how bad men are at writing women!’ the idea goes. ‘Maybe they should quit.’

And it’s not like there’s not a lot of bad writing out there. But maybe ask yourself if your average or equivalent female-written fic or novel is better at writing about men, and then reflect on the results of the ensuing survey.

There’s the underlying progressive truisms that a given minority or social group understands itself best, which may be true. And that every marginalized group deserves its own voice: also true.

But then, it’s further the case that understanding doesn’t automatically translate to expressing well. A voice can also be individual and not really tied to any particular group at all, except externally. That voice is unpredictable and can be universal. That’s the whole potential, the power of art. In some ways, it’s the point of art.

My point is, a little reflection and self-critical observation goes a long way. I know it’s not easy to make that sort of thing popular—it’s difficult, time-consuming, private and being rah-rah about it kind of defeats the point—but for a writer or artist, it’s beyond essential. Being an artist isn’t tragic and isn’t something that thrives on depression (that’s a myth), but the reason people thought so is that depression lends itself to reflection (if ultimately a limited variety). Reflection is what lets you level up. You have to be able to see yourself critically, in the sense that you have to be able to have some sense of general weaknesses to avoid. And the tendency to project, to fantasize, to oversimplify and to fall too much in love with one’s own language—all these are general things that simply reveal themselves differently according to context or circumstances (including the artist/writer’s gender).

My point is, it’s impossible to be a good writer without thinking deeply and openly about human nature. Embracing one’s own voice and transcending it are equally vital for good writing. This is some difficult stuff. This has nothing to do with kudos, but it’s at the heart of what makes a really good story with recognizable characters who seem truly human. To represent humanity you have to understand more than just those who are like you.

It’s hard to talk about this ‘cause I think people assume either it’s impossible or unnecessary or ‘optional’. And in many ways, it is optional, ‘cause you can certainly write popular work by appealing to certain types of people and not others. But it’s very hard to only write about people like yourself and those you know. A lot of writers, male or female, black or white, stumble at portraying categories of individuals who’re not like them, and default to clichés and obvious projection, if not outright fantasy. It’s sad. It’s flat. It’s boring. It requires reflection and some fearless, long-term observation of one’s fellow humans to begin to overcome.

At that point, instead of blindly supporting writers, you begin to realize the extent of the difficulty, and simply appreciate the effort, the dedication and the work it takes to be good. This, too, is an opportunity for reflection. Really, everything is an opportunity for reflection, if you’re a writer. That’s how I know a writer when I see one: we may not always write, but we certainly reflect a lot. Sometimes writers even get stuck on this stage, and reflect so endlessly that they never do write. It’s a cliché, really.

So I do realize that when I say: this is still better than not reflecting, and focusing only on externals. A lot of the work of writing happens without actually writing (although writing alone is difficult enough). This is important partly ‘cause ideally it makes writers less self-conscious, less self-involved. It’s not about us. It’s not about our feelings. It’s about people. It’s about your feelings. That’s where great writing really begins.

#pointless rambles #oh fandom #me myself and i #writing #critical thinking #teaching

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creativeprompts · 7 years

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Character Evolution: Therapy for your Character

Writers are often defined as crazy, myself included. But I use my insanity to help me create multi-layered characters. You see, my characters go everywhere with me, even to my therapist’s couch.

In my opinion, therapy should be mandatory for writers, or at least a Psych 101 class.

Whether you call it a character arc, evolution, or growth, the change in your characters from start to finish is what showcases the theme of your story and makes their journey relatable to the readers.

But, how can you grow your characters if you don’t understand psychology?

In order to emotionally evolve a character, you need to be able to identify why he has chosen not to evolve prior to the moment in time your story begins.

Christopher Volger and Michael Hauge talk about the importance of discovering your characters’ wounds in a fantastic DVD called The Hero’s Two Journeys. But evolution is more than pinpointing a wound. How does your character react to those wounds? Where did that behavior come from? How did they learn to cope as a child?

Recently, my therapist and I were discussing how I learned my coping skills. It was one of those ah-ha moments, both for my writing and my life.

Coping skills are unique to each person. When we are young and in a situation that scares or challenges us, how we cope depends entirely on how safe we feel in our surroundings. Children rarely stand up to adults, so they either trust them blindly or freeze in fear of them. But when we ourselves become adults, we often don’t adjust our manner of coping. Changing those coping mechanisms is impossible unless you can identify them. They are ingrained in us, and ingrained in our characters.

While a script has many players, let’s stick to discussing how analysis relates to our protagonist and antagonist.

In life, whether we realize it or not, we attract people who are familiar, which often means we attract those who mirror people from our childhood – people who either scarred us or who loved us. If our childhood is full of people who ripped apart our self-esteem, we’ll attract those who keep us in that familiar place of insecurity. The opposite is true if we are surrounded by love and support.

Who would your protagonist attract into his inner circle?

You might be tempted to surround him with angelic good guys, but do you really think his life was that boring? And if his life was indeed that dull, your readers would be asleep in five minutes. Let’s face it, today’s audience is too savvy for a remake of Leave It to Beaver.

What is it about the antagonist that might have attracted the protagonist to him? Does he subconsciously remind him of the very person who inflicted his childhood wound? I say “subconsciously” because if he’s conscious of it, there’s no room for discovery and evolution.

Let’s now put your antagonist on the couch.

Obviously, this dude has flaws. But beyond his sexy, bad-boy traits, there must be something humanizing in him. After all, everyone is born pure. However, if you saw We Need to Talk About Kevin (which I highly recommend), that theory might be debatable. But for the sake of this exercise, let’s assume the stork dropped off a perfect bundle of gooey goodness. What happened to him along the way that marred his potential? Find that, and you can create rich layers in his story.

Even if your antagonist is a rotten, serial-killing scoundrel, you must make the audience see a little bit of themselves in him when he’s on screen. Even Hannibal Lecter got the audience to root for him.

Now, apply that type of analysis to all your supporting characters. The more layers you can add to every single character in your story, the more invested your readers are going to be, and the better the talent you’ll attract to the roles.

I doubt many of you would want to pull a bar stool up and chat the night away with a one-note character. No one wants to spend a lot of time with someone who is boring.

If I sat on my therapist’s couch and only shared my healthy qualities, she’d be yawning. Instead, I spill my ugly sins, fears, and flaws, leaving her frantically scribbling in her notepad, truly wanting to help me.

She is rooting for me to change, but I can’t change unless I make a conscious choice to change.

If your characters don’t make different choices than the ones they would have made in the opening scenes, your story won’t advance or have meaning. Your characters have to overcome their internal demons.

That’s the thing about demons, fear, angst, and uncertainty; we can’t hide from them. No matter how much effort we put into hiding, they will consume us and leave destruction in their path. It’s their whole purpose in our lives. It’s why they exist. It’s why we create them for our characters – to add conflict to the story.

Help yourself help your characters.

Start by visualizing yourself across from a therapist, probing you with questions. Will you lie? Will you keep repeating mistakes? Or will you choose to evolve? If your character had your problems, what would you tell her to do?

My guess is you would push her to change.

In my opinion, you’ll never be able to evolve your characters if you haven’t experienced being ripped apart, bawling on the bathroom floor, broken, metaphorically naked and lost.

Maybe the best practice in writing great characters is to learn how to evolve yourself. It might change not only your writing, but also your life.

Change is frightening, but it’s essential for growth and happiness. The same is true for your stories and for those fictional people you get to play with every single day. Sit one of them on the couch today and ask the tough questions, imagining how she would answer, or if she’d squirm, lie and hold back the tears.

Most importantly, really push your characters. I double-dog-dare you to find the question that would make your antagonist cry. As my therapist always says, it’s what makes you cry that shows the real wound.

There’s no way around the hard work of self-exploration and growth, both in your life and in your words. But remember to have fun with it. After all, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Source: Script Mag

#writing resource #therapy for your characters

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nancydhooper · 4 years

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Hot Pockets, Strategy and the Right-Sizing of Trademark Protection?

We’ve covered many trademark and brand management themes over the last eleven years, this falls in the category: The Right-Sizing of Trademark Protection?

As reports emerge about the recent Coronavirus fear driving people to clear store shelves to stock their home pantries and freezers, a Hot Pockets TV ad hit me.

Clearly consumer packaged goods and non-perishable or frozen food products, like Hot Pockets, are likely to enjoy an uptick in demand, at least in the short term.

The Hot Pockets package provides yet another example of the common practice of adding the word “brand” on packaging to help address any fear of genericide.

Even the logo used on packaging during the early 2000s, according to Wikipedia, reminded of the “brand,” generically calling the products “stuffed sandwiches”:

Loyal DuetsBlog followers appreciate our theme that calling something a brand doesn’t necessarily make it so, or keep it so, but it can help to influence meaning.

Yet, noticing that theme in this current example isn’t the point today, except to say it led to today’s unwrapping of existing Hot Pockets trademark protection.

We are fully mindful, of course, that there is no one-size-fits-all approach to trademark protection, but what is true for all, is the need to craft a strategy.

For some brands that might mean a robust portfolio of registered marks, with robust trademark watching/policing, for others it might mean quite a bit less.

There is more and more discussion of “right-sizing” trademark portfolios to help control cost, right-sizing will mean different things, depending on the strategy.

So, as we unwrap what is left of the trademark portfolio for the Hot Pockets brand, we fully appreciate we can’t know the strategy, but assume there to be one.

Hot Pockets has enjoyed great commercial success over the years, leading Nestle to purchase Chef America, then brand owner, for $2.6 Billion in cash, back in 2002.

Nestle still describes the importance of the brand this way:

“What started as a sandwich 30 years ago has evolved into an iconic American brand that’s become a staple in American pop culture!”

While it has been the butt-of-jokes in some comedic circles, it also has enjoyed enormous favorable film mentions, both typical signs of a pretty famous brand.

For example, in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, released in 1999 (video here), Dr. Evil, lovingly inquires: “Mini Me, You Hungry? Not even a Hot Pocket?”

Given the enormous value of the brand, I admit surprise to find only four live U.S. trademark registrations for Hot Pocket(s); and just two being owned by Nestle:

HOT-POCKETS for “pre-cooked, ready-to eat, frozen bread having a fruit, meat, cheese and/or vegetable filling;” (owned by Nestle)

HOT POCKETS for a variety of merchandise items, now spanning four classes of goods (originally seven classes of goods); (record owner is Nestle)

HOT POCKETS for “Warmer pads for medical purposes;” (record owner is an individual in California); and

HOT POCKET HAND WARMERS for “Non-electric pocket warmers, namely, chemically-activated heating packets for warming hands.” (record owner is a company in Tempe, Arizona).

Another question worth asking may be why Nestle’s multi-class HOT POCKETS registration never has been asserted in a TTAB case, despite fifteen such Nestle oppositions over the past 20 years. It may be that Nestle is strategically trying to streamline opposition proceedings and narrow the scope of discovery; most of the oppositions involve the proposed registration of “POCKET(S)” for food items. Or, for skeptics, it might be avoidance of a deadwood challenge.

If deadwood – we won’t likely know until the 2022 renewal is due – but, after cancellation the USPTO won’t be able to conduct non-food product enforcement for HOT POCKETS (without Nestle lifting a finger), as it did in 2011, refusing registration of HotPocket for panties, based on Nestle’s multi-class registration.

Another question perhaps worth pondering is what the strategy might have been to allow a 1984 registration to expire in 2004, instead of attempting amendment to an updated stylization, contending the commercial impression is the same:

We admittedly don’t know why this early registration was allowed to expire without the registrant attempting amendment, but let’s not assume it was impossible, as it looks more than possible, in fact, it looks probable to me.

A significant benefit of seeking amendment to keep an old stylized registration is hedging against the risk of a more rigorous USPTO examination of a new filing.

At one time the Hot Pockets brand was the center of an entire family of related Pocket-formative brands: Lean Pockets, Croissant Pockets, Deli Pockets, Lunch Pockets, Pocket Meals, Pocket Stix, Healthy Pockets, among others (not without controversy) — yet now it appears to be a pair: Hot Pockets and Lean Pockets.

Over the years, nearly a baker’s dozen of trademark registrations for Hot Pockets and marks containing Hot Pockets — all for the sandwich brand — have expired.

The description of goods chosen is a strategic decision too, and 20/20 hindsight is unfair, especially when all facts existing at the time are not available to us, yet many, including myself, advocate for the broadest description of goods possible. So why not register HOT POCKETS for “sandwiches” — without building into the description of goods details of their physical state, composition, or ingredients?

In fact, the USPTO has allowed applicants to broadly claim “sandwiches” without further description since August 2002; the Nestle description registered for the food mark is not only confusing, but more than a mouthful: “Pre-cooked, ready-to eat, frozen bread having a fruit, meat, cheese and/or vegetable filling.”

Let’s be clear, I’m not saying Nestle’s Hot Pockets brand is an empty shell devoid of any valuable legal trademark ingredients, or that the registration pantry is bare, but the quantity of tools for protecting it have declined over the years, begging the question of whether this has been a conscious decision, and if so, why?

There’s been great discussion of “trademark singularity” over at our friend Ron Coleman’s Likelihood of Confusion blog, a topic relevant to this discussion too.

While it is pretty clear now that Hot Pockets (just the words), is not singular in meaning, it would appear difficult to deny that the logo rendition of those words creates a singular trademark, with a meaning pointing to only one source:So, why has that singular depiction of the Hot Pockets brand not been federally-registered? Given the long delay in trying, it might relate to this Office Action, which initially refused the mark as merely descriptive, and for some reason, no attempt was made to overcome it, so the application was abandoned.

Perhaps this illustrates one of the challenges in seeking new registrations when the USPTO can view the original wording/content very differently decades later.

In the end, it’s about crafting an appropriate strategy to the brand in question, and while “right-sizing” should always be a goal, it is a conclusion, not a strategy.

Brand owners and managers, when is the last time you directed your trademark team to audit the appropriate level of your protection for an important brand?

Trademark types, when did you last recommend doing one, and how did it go?

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thepaleadventurer · 5 years

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I don’t know about y’all, but I have a weakness for yoga attire, mostly for the comfortable wear all the pieces are designed to provide, but also for the durability of the clothing. I’ve worn so many clothing items that don’t last longer than a month of usage, just from low-quality materials used. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking, “Why don’t you just save money and invest in better quality clothing?” My issue with that is that I’ve bought higher-end labels, and ended up with the same results. A lot of time those higher prices come from attention to detail, more than quality of material. What I mean by that is that brands will use a more hands-on manufacturing process, rather than everything being done by machines, but at the end of the day, certain types of material aren’t going to hold up whether someone stitches it by hand or if a machine does it.

I’m not bad-mouthing anyone’s profession, because I know tailoring is hard work and it’s rough on people’s bodies, especially their hands. My issue is with the material, not the attention-to-detail. Yoga attire just suits my lifestyle so perfectly because I live a very casual life, filled with yoga, hikes, brunch, beach days, and the like. I’m not saying I never wear nice clothing, I’m just saying that yoga clothes are (generally) made to be more durable for the versatility of being able to be worn in different situations.

Yes, I am also that person who almost always lives in yoga clothes, hate me if you must, but I’ve learned that life is a whole lot happier and easier when you’re comfortable. Insert one of the best clothing subscriptions I’ve seen to date, YogaClub. My issue with most other clothing subscriptions is that they charge you to put together an outfit, AND you still have to purchase whatever pieces you want to keep after that. WHAT?! Sounds like some kind of Ponzi scheme for clothing. Okay, that may be over-dramatic, but if you’re like me, you were probably also thinking that “opportunity” sounds like the biggest ripoff, because we work hard for our money and it feels like companies like that try to pull the rug over us. Oh, and the products they send you are sold to you at retail, so you don’t even have any kind of incentive from it, they just want to get as much money out of you as they can.

Okay, I’ll stop hating on shady business practices (IMO) and get to the good stuff. So, YogaClub starts you off with a PERSONALIZED style quiz, meaning they pick out products that fit your lifestyle and taste, so you don’t have to worry about getting sent some cookie-cutter outfit that hundreds of other people will get that you may not even like. For example, I don’t care so much for patterns or bright colors, just because I know I am planning on working out in these clothes and I don’t want to have to baby them like I would a dress for a special event. I also don’t like shorts, so they never send me those, and a great feature is they ask if there are any areas you’d like to draw attention from, for me, that’s my midsection. I’m not the skinniest of women, and I’m okay with that, but I also want to dress appropriately for my body type and not have to feel self-conscious about people judging me. With that being said, that is a personal preference ENTIRELY. If you have features that others have bullied over, but are still confident wearing whatever pieces make you feel comfortable in your own body, work it! I am not at that point yet, so I set those preference accordingly.

My only issue is that I have to wait around 2 weeks to get my box, but that’s more on me being impatient than the company not being of great quality, because they truly are. I have been a loyal customer and bigger fangirl of this company LOOONNNGG before they gave me the opportunity to be an affiliate. Once my box arrived, it was like Christmas, every single month. I get 3 pieces that make a great outfit, all for a fraction of the price they’re sold online or in store. I’m talking a huge fraction, too. A lot of the times, my pants are the price of the box, and everything else is pretty much free, based on their retail value.

What’s really admirable about this company is that every box that’s purchased, they provide a free yoga class to someone who isn’t fortunate enough to have the ease of access to it regularly. If buying comfortable clothes at a severely discounted rate is enough to persuade you to love this company, helping someone less-fortunate and your karma is just a pretty awesome bonus.

Now, I’m just going to get on with the unboxing and let y’all see for yourselves.

Here’s how the package arrives:

Let’s see what’s inside:

So, this month, I received a sports bra, top, and pants.

The bra is from Glyder Apparel and provides great coverage for this busty yogini, but there is an issue with the side-boob area where it kind of sticks outwards. It’s weird, but not a deal-breaker. The support is on the very light side, but I put that on the aesthetic of the back design. Most of the time, you won’t have good support for busty customers without thicker straps, it just is what it is. I’m still someone who would rather wear a sports bra over a regular bra any day, so I just do what my old chiropractor recommended and layer up on bras. I know that might seem weird, but it’s still a heck of a lot more comfortable for me than having underwires aching my chest and straps digging into my shoulders all day. So, here is what the bra looks like:

The top is from Vie Active, another great brand and its fitted quite nicely. Yes, it does fit my midsection, that area I’d prefer to cover, but I think the pattern and the compression from the pants help counter that. It’s breathable for any workout and I don’t have to re-adjust it constantly during the day, like I do with a lot of fitted things. The reason with that is most clothes are made very cookie-cutter. Sometimes it feels like clothing companies shape their pieces into boxes, as if you have to be proportionate throughout your body, and that’s not the case for most consumers, so I don’t understand why companies still do this to us. Either clothes fit my waist, but not my chest, or vice versa and no matter what, it isn’t flattering and I’m left uncomfortable and self-conscious as all heck. This shirt provides not only comfort for casual wear, but it gives me the confidence to put it through the ringer with workouts, knowing that it’ll stay put so I can focus on improving my body and not yanking my shirt one way or another. Oh, inverted poses? Yeah, they’re safe with this guy. That was a huge plus. I have a bunch of yoga tops that are very flowy and super comfy, but are not ideal for inverted poses, so the shirts must come off, no biggie. But with this guy, I can live another day hiding my undesirable midsection, without having to get over my self-consciousness and remove my shirt for inverted poses.

Here’s what this ride-or-die looks like:

Now, on to the pants. At first, I was less-than-enthusiastic about them because I’m not the biggest fan of mesh and when I first joined, that wasn’t something they asked in the style quiz, now it is. So, these pants have mesh patterns in them which I thought was a recipe for disaster because that’s the material that will falter first, and then there is no saving the pants after that. After wearing them, I was pleasantly surprised how much I liked them. The company stayed true to the color scheme I like to keep to, so I appreciate them for that. The outfit contained colors I prefer, including the pants, so I wasn’t going to make a stink about a return since I ended up liking them. Now, they do ask if mesh is an issue, which I selected yes, because not every article of clothing will end up being a winner like this, because they work with TONS of brands and not everyone gets it right, so I decided not to risk it, but I still don’t fault the company on that. This is probably TMI for some people, maybe everyone, but if I’m being completely honest, I don’t like to shave every day and that was also a concern of mine with the mesh material, because I assumed I’d have to shave to be able to wear them or people could see my stubbly legs underneath. Nope. The mesh material is pretty tightly woven so you don’t really see if I haven’t shaved, but you can still tell that it’s see-through. Speaking of see-through, I know that transparency is a huge issue for people when it comes to yoga pants showing their undergarments when we squat or bend, but I’ve been a subscriber for years and never had a pair of pants that I couldn’t do gymnastics in without being 100% confident that the color of my undies remained a secret.

Here’s how they look:

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Well, how well do those pieces actually wear together?” Worry not, for I shall show you, my pretties. Disclaimer: I am not a model and as I’ve mentioned before, I do not have the skinniest or fittest frame (and I’m not ashamed of that because every body is beautiful), and I also don’t have a fancy studio or a team that will make me look flawless. Part of why I want to blog about my experiences is to show what results really look like without photoshop or any kind of altering or manipulating. What you get is 100% me with all of my awkwardness and that’s it. I have nothing against people who do alter their content, because it’s all a personal preference and that’s how they express themselves through their content, but my choice is to do the opposite and hope it works out.

So, flaws and all, here is how the entire outfit wears, first with the top, bra, and pants:

Then, with the bra & pants:

As I’ve mentioned, I am now an affiliate of the company, so I do receive compensation for purchases made through my links, but my reviews have been and always will be 100% honest. I will never work with a brand that I wouldn’t trust putting my own money into and I hope that y’all continue to hold me to that standard. With that being said, I am so grateful to this company for choosing me to be an affiliate for them, but I want to support companies I love, so I continue to pay for this subscription myself, nothing from this company has been sent to me for free. I think they’re already doing so much good by helping provide free yoga classes to those without easy access to them and I want to continue to support such a generous cause.

If you do want to try this subscription out for yourself (heed my warning: you will fall in love with them), you can follow my link here: YogaClub.

Thank y’all so much for spending some time on my blog to check out this post! If you enjoyed the content, please give this post a like and let me know your thoughts in the comment section and don’t forget to subscribe so that way you get notifications when I post new stuff.

Namaste ❤️

Unboxing: YogaClub (May 2018) I don't know about y'all, but I have a weakness for yoga attire, mostly for the comfortable wear all the pieces are designed to provide, but also for the durability of the clothing.

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vicbab111 · 7 years

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How to stop cheating on someone you love

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You presume your partner has an extramarital affair? The rights and wrongs of these things have actually been debated extensively however one thing’s for sure, they spell cheating. Talking about extramarital relations with your partner or the one you enjoy will assist you in working things out.

And exactly what should the mistreated partner do to cope with this scenario? When they feel that they are not getting adequate love from their partner, they start seeking it outside and therefore, end up having a psychological affair.

If the couple is sexually incompatible or has actually lost the passion and desire, which they when had for each other, it can make them have an affair for sexual satisfaction. The 3rd main reason of an affair is inability to cope up with the duties and tasks that feature a marriage, combined with breakdown of communication between the two partners. And finally, absence of self-esteem; individuals with low self worth typically have a have to be assured that they are still wanted by others. If such people have any issues in a relationship, instead of repairing them with their partner, they prefer to range from them by having an affair.

There can be a number of possible factors for adultery in a relationship. If one has an appearance at the stats, one will discover that the rate of married men and females cheating on their partners is more than the divorce ratio in lots of parts of the world. Emerges the question, what makes people fall for adultery and cheat on their partners?

Remarkably, when researchers and doctors studied the psychology of cheating when in a relationship, they discovered that in almost half of the cases, unfaithful is accidental! It is difficult to accept that a person can be unfaithful unintentionally, but it holds true. In other cases, there are more stronger causes of individuals cheating on their partners.

Sex is one of the most crucial aspect in a relationship, and the lack of it can be a significant aspect for a relationship to fall apart. Couples must be conscious that sexual intimacy is likewise known as making love, as it is considered as one of the best ways to reveal your love and care to your partner.

Typically, when an individual confides to their pals or family that their partner is having an affair, lots of will suggest, “leave him/her … you deserve much better”. As all of us who have actually been in an intimate relationship understand, it is easier stated than done. Breaking away is not the service, specifically if one still likes the erring partner. So, in order to deal with such a circumstance, the first thing that needs to be done is taking control over one’s feelings. Confronting the partner, battling with them, or accusing them of having an extramarital affair will not fix anything. Rather, patiently having a discussion with them about the situation is exactly what is needed.

The unfaithful spouse must be first of all informed that you are aware of his/her cheating. Instead of going into the causes and the factors behind the affair, take a strong stand and ask your spouse whether he/she wants to remain in this marital relationship with you, or would he/she choose to separate. If you desire to stay married to somebody, the other individual needs to be equally prepared to do the very same. If your partner desires a divorce, there is truly absolutely nothing that you can do about it, except for ensuring that you are financially prepared for such a scenario. Consulting an attorney and having an appropriate understanding of exactly what you will get as spousal support is something that you ought to focus on in such a scenario.

Cheating in relationships does not always suggest that a person has a sexual relationship with an individual besides his partner. Emotional cheating or unfaithfulness can likewise be called as cheating with your partner. Not discussing your emotions, your ideas freely with your partner; being dissatisfied in the company of your partner; spending more time with an associate who is just a pal, and so on is psychological cheating in relationship. It is found that guys are more vulnerable to psychological cheating, than females. On the contrary, the isolation caused due to the distant partners in turn lead to spouses actually cheating on their partners!

In most of the cases, marrying incompatible partners, partners not of one’s choice (in some nations), marital issues, or plain low self-esteem, or lack of self-confidence triggers either of the partner to feel detached and separated from the other. Lack of interaction between partners likewise produces a distance between them, finally being the cause for either of the partner to go astray.

In rare cases, a male or a woman really cheats his/her partner for true love. One can not overrule the fact that if either of the partner feels unloved, uncared for in a relationship, he or she is sure to look out of marriage for it. On the other hand, individuals also fall for cash, acknowledgment, fame and power; and can fall out of a relationship for the very same. This results in complete dissolution of the relationship!

Nevertheless, if your partner wishes to remain in the marital relationship with you, the next action ought to be adopting marital relationship therapy. In addition to marriage counseling, you may yourself require therapy to obtain over the injury. Take professional aid for getting to the bottom of the reasons behind your partner’s cheating.

The counselor will recommend a number of things that both you and your partner should do to work out your marriage. Follow these tips, and try to work things out with your partner.

Preparing oneself economically, mentally, as well as emotionally for any scenario, and being strong enough to face any circumstance is the finest method to deal with extramarital affairs. The unfaithful individual might unknowingly leave some signals that can set the partner on high alert!

The cheating person suddenly stops consulting, confiding originalities, aspirations to his partner. He/she might stop making love or want more of it or may even try different and more recent techniques. The unfaithful person is more consumed with his/her appearance; might start to work out, buy a new wardrobe, etc. He or she may constantly select quarrel, providing him chance to not to talk with his partner, disregarding him. Or the opposite, the unfaithful individual might feel guilty in the company of this partner and may act in more loving or caring manner.

The cheating individual might purchase a new cell phone (and not tell you about it), arrange to get his costs in the workplace, never ever talk in front of you, hang up right away on seeing you, erase caller IDs, and so on . Sometimes, he/she may ask theoretical concerns like ‘what is true love’, ‘is it possible to love more than one person at one time’, etc. He/she might appear pleasant, pleased, with no apparent reason!

Nothing, other than your own decision, can help make things easier, you might find this excerpt on dealing with extramarital relations in marital relationship of some help. It is constantly assumed that when infidelity has been found, it is the partner of the individual who cheated, who is deeply and severely affected.

Coming to terms with adultery is certainly not as simple as everybody makes it sound. On the other hand, if you think that you didn’t deserve this after giving your finest to the relationship, it’s probably time to let go. Not numerous of you may accept this, but often the reason for extramarital relations is the void triggered by one’s partner.

Often, it is just plain temptation, and the have to experience something brand-new, to have some sort of enjoyment in life, that results in a private interesting in an affair with someone else, in spite of having a dedicated partner. Betrayal in relationships is certainly incorrect, as in more than half of the cases, cheating even as soon as, merely breaks the relationship. It is believed that if the unfaithful individual is forgiven for the first time, he or she is most likely to cheat again as his mind may view the forgiveness as an allowance or approval of his/her behavior.

The innocent partner is a victim of pain, mistrust, torment, isolation, etc. It likewise makes more complicated if children are involved, or if one of the partner is trustworthy on the other.

Not discussing your emotions, your thoughts freely with your partner; being unhappy in the company of your partner; spending more time with a colleague who is just a friend, etc. is emotional unfaithful in relationship. In many of the cases, marrying incompatible partners, partners not of one’s option (in some countries), marital issues, or plain low self-confidence, or lack of self-confidence triggers either of the partner to feel removed and separated from the other. Absence of interaction between partners also produces a distance between them, finally being the cause for either of the partner to go astray.

How to stop cheating on someone you love One can not overrule the truth that if either of the partner feels unloved, uncared for in a relationship, he or she is sure to look out of marital relationship for it. Not many of you may accept this, but sometimes the factor for cheating is the space triggered by one’s partner.

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Other good resources to check out below:

Signs Husband is Cheating

my husband cheated on me

Why do guys cheat if they love you

How to keep your man

How to keep a man

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