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silverwhiteraven · 3 years

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Happyhoganon: How about a story that has Superman & Ladybug outsmarting Lex Luthor together?

Why are all our Supervillains Bald?

"You didn't have to knock my Partner out like that, you know," Ladybug huffs as she settles Chat Noir into the deck chair of her civilian balcony, feeling miffed about the whole situation. Superman, having the decency to not complain and to cooperate while being lectured, handed her the red and black tent poles, from the red and black-spotted camping trunk her Lucky Charm had summoned earlier, when she wordlessly motioned for him to get them.

"You're right, Ladybug- I'll apologize to him once he's awake," the man in blue and red said as he helped Ladybug untie the shade cover from overhead. For all the gear inside the box, an actual tent was not one of them, so of course improvising was happening. There was a sleeping-bag, of course, but Ladybug had instructed Superman to wear it like a cloak so he wouldn't attract so much attention with his recognizable uniform as they tried to escape and hide from the Akuma. With the ladybug spotting it sported, though, he was pretty sure it did quite the opposite.

Ladybug nodded in acknowledgment of Superman's spoken words, concentrating her focus on the makeshift shelter they were putting over Chat. As a final touch, she pulled a tall potted plant in front of the entrance, completely sheltering Chat Noir from view at any angle. She crossed her arms and nodded, satisfied. Then she spun on her heel and pointed at Superman, who tensed from the sudden change in her point of focus. "Alright, tell me everything you know about this Akuma victim! No more rushed or vague answers; I need to know why Chat was being targeted and how that affected him so much that you had to go and decommission him. Talk, blue boy."

Superman was honestly surprised she hadn't called him Boy Scout like many before. In fact, he half expected her to call him by his civilian name like another black haired, blue eyed figure of justice he knew. Ladybug even looked liked she belonged smack dab in the middle of Batman's nest of children, teens, and adults who could all kick butts and take names.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Superman answered her demands. "Lex Luthor, a common obstacle of mine from back in the States. Started out as a small town millionaire-by-inheritance when I first knew him, and turned into a 'Big Apple Billionaire' when the last of his morals went out the window if his latest sports car." Ladybug looked absolutely baffled by the sudden metaphor, so he quickly rephrased. "Lex's father started making dirty money off the company before he died, and Lex decided to follow suit once he realized just how dirty he could make his hands by applying his high intelligence and military-worthy knowledge to the black markets. I was keeping track of him and came here as soon as I realized something was happening involving him." Her curious look made him give a sheepish smile and point to his ear with a free hand that wasn't holding the sleeping-bag closed around his shoulders. "Super-hearing. I knew what Jupiter sounded like before NASA did."

"Okay," Ladybug looked a mix of skeptical and awed, but nodded then shook her head. "That still doesn't explain how you treated Chat."

A bit warry to answer, Superman looked away, watching the flowers that hid her Partner. "My people have a weakness to a particular type of radiation that comes from our home planet. When that planet was destroyed, pieces of it scattered all over the universe. Earth has a few tons of this Kryptonite from fine dust particles alone, but larger pieces survived entry, too. Lex Luthor has known about the material for years and hoards it to use at any chance he gets."

"Obsessed with the biggest weakness of the opposing hero, I know how that feels," Ladybug sighed, and Superman gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"No doubt. But this material does more than just weaken me, Ladybug. Different kinds have different effects, and some, even in different forms, can affect humans, too." Ladybug tensed at that, glancing at her Partner before locking worried eyed back onto Superman. He gave her a grim expression then shook his head. "I've seen it first hand and experienced it myself, it isn't pretty. I've seen the stuff cause sickness, power weapons, even create Meta's. Earth is not a place for this, it isn't safe like it was back home. Maybe if it ha been around for millions of years, life could have evolved to live alongside it, but..."

"But we don't have that sort of time now," Ladybug concludes, and Superman nods. "So his targeting of Chat-?"

"The radiation of Kryptonite can enhance powers or even cause mind control. Chat Noir and his ability under the control of my Villain and yours? I couldn't see things ending well. I knew things were about to go off the rocker. So when he got nicked and the wound glowed green, I- I'm sorry, Ladybug, but magic and I do not-and I mean REALLY do not-mix well, so I'm at a doubled-and-amplified disadvantage here. Benching your Partner was my only option."

"With M. Luthor Akumatized and making this stuff to his heart's content like that- Now that I know, I have a bad feeling you'd have been right. It doesn't make me feel any better, though," Ladybug sighed.

Superman nodded, accepting of her words. "I won't feel good about it either. I'm just glad it won't be permanent."

"Yeah, if we win," Ladybug adds glumly, and he pats her on the back, hard enough to knock her out of the bad mood. She blinks at him, shocked, and she smiled encouragingly.

"We will win, I promise. It may not be as fast as we would like, especially since it will only be the two of use seeing as the whole JLE branch had to evacuate after Hawkmoth showed up-" Ladybug chuckled awkwardly, remembering how stressed she had been knowing she and Chat Noir were on their own unless a specific foreign hero was there to help them with one of their own villains, like right now- "But we will. I know Lex's weaknesses as a person, as well as where to find what he's looking for. Wonder Woman used to guard a stash of Kryptonite under the Louvre before we had to move it, and only the Heads of the JL know where it is now. And you, well-"

"I know Hawkmoth's weaknesses, and the ones of his Akumas, as well as his goals, too. After all, I wear them on my own ears. Yeah... Yeah, you're right! We can do this!" Ladybug cracks a smile and a glimmer gets into her eyes as her gaze falls on the Lucky Charm camping trunk. "And I know just how to start. Come on, blue boy, we're heading for the Louvre to take down a couple of baldies."

Glad to have lifted her spirits, Superman grins. "I'm at your command, red lady."

#maribat #mlb x dc #Ladybug and Superman #prompt #oneshot

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thefoundationproject · 3 years

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Soft Wars is my favorite thing ever and I am absolutely living for Rex/Bacara. Their dynamic has really shifted the way I look at relationships I have with people in my own life, especially their 'healthy adult conversations' and the things they say vs don't say but still find ways to communicate. I feel a little silly saying that, but it's true.

"We only see our depths in analog" is one of the most profoundly beautiful things I've ever read. No matter how many times I read and re-read it, there is always something new that hits me a little differently, a little deeper than before. The bit about conversations being like lancing a wound. Wanting the people in your life to be for each other what they are for you. The difference between apologizing because it's the right thing to do and apologizing because it makes you feel better. Rex approaching the whole thing via proxy because Bacara won't fully hear it otherwise. It's all so good! I adore their steady, easy love and support for each other, but a relationship is only as strong as its ability to handle the not so easy parts. Rex's misstep with Kit is in the past and it all worked out okay so it would be easy enough for them to continue ignoring it, but choosing to have that conversation anyway is the right choice and they come out stronger for it and I love that.

And then today with "Improvise, Adapt," I think I may have died and gone to heaven. It's the perfect mix of silly and sweet. Rex's throne of pudding crates! Neyo adopting Rex because even allergic-to-mush Neyo can see how important he is to Bacara. 17's meddling, which as far as I'm concerned means that 17 approves and has probably known the whole time. Ponds freaking out because from where he's standing, it looks like Bacara is a jerk taking advantage of Rex'ika. Rex memorizing Bacara's one-liners from Priority chat because he's spent the last three years savoring every tiny piece of Bacara he could get while they've been apart. Bacara knowing before the end of ARC training that Rex is it for him and being willing to put up with Rex's ridiculous family because he loves him.

That last bit may have done me in, but boy, what a way to go. No regrets.

Anyway, all of this is just a long way to say thank you for creating these beautiful stories and being kind enough to share them with all of us. It truly makes my day when I see that you've posted a new fic and I treasure every single one :) :) :)

Rexcara’s entire everything is my favorite everything about them. Don’t know what it says about me that I’m incredibly envious of their relationship but it is what it is! I have most definitely run into so many situations where I’m just like ...’you know what would have been really cool right here? Actual communication.’ So here we go, people talking about their problems, and maybe sometimes not talking about their problems because they don’t have to and the other person understands. And maybe sometimes not talking, but realizing you probably should have and going back to rectify that. All sorts of goodness. (And don’t feel silly! It isn’t silly to wish people would just say what they mean sometimes, and communicate clearly. There’d be a lot fewer misunderstandings in the world!)

I think that might have been the first fic where I started going back to some of the things I’d written before and thinking ‘perhaps the characters really should have talked this through better’. And in doing that I started discovering so much of what makes Rexcara work. They’re open and honest with each other, even when it would be so much more comfortable to not. And they both know each others’ tendencies and how to work with that. Not manage it or work around it, but just … they meet each other half way. They respect each other and acknowledge each others’ needs and, when it happens, they apologize and make amends. That’s just … so good.

Picture Rex’s super, super smug face. He’s the conqueror and the pudding crates are his spoils. He is a dragon hoarding his puddingy loot. He’s a mighty kitten atop his hunted pile of mylar crinkleballs. Neyo, making friends by poking at them until they poke back because it’s how he does it. 17 is the Shebse’s dad, and he’s not gonna stop dad’ing them just because they think they’re all big now. (which… if we’re going with that, does it mean he tacitly approves of the rest of their usual nonsense? Food for thought.)

Poor Ponds. He definitely deserves so much of an explanation. I feel like he tries to do some sort of fiddly, fancy tasting menu and then eventually just goes kark it, and he and Bacara end up having giant bantha burgers and a mountain of fried tubers. And Ponds adopts Bacara (Bacara: I’m older. Ponds: I don’t know what you think that’s got to do with anything), but Ponds does agree when Bacara says he doesn’t want any special treatment and doubly especially not in chat. So Ponds still flaps at him in chat and Bacara still deadpans at him in chat but they’re not-secretly actually friendly. (And Rex makes Pondsthe nicest possible meal and sheepishly apologizes and of course Ponds forgives him but he owes Ponds so many lifeday pictures now and he doesn’t get to complain about whatever dress theme Ponds comes up with. Rex negotiates him down: Rex will dress up in whatever theme, but he reserves the right to grumble about it regardless. They solemnly shake on it and then snuggle.)

Rex has all those conversations with Bacara saved and backed up. Neyo wasn’t kidding when he said ‘87% sap’. They’re both saps. It’s so sweet. Neyo’s gotta dry-heave.

Thank you so much for reading! I feel like there’s just this spiral of love where I love the characters more with every person who loves the characters in turn. It’s so flippin amazing!

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softsebnbuckystan · 3 years

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Soul ties - Part 8 (Bucky Barnes au)

“No, I don't wanna know, Where you been or where you're goin'

But I know I won't be home, And you'll be on your own”

Maniac by Michael Sembello was blasting from Wanda's room as she was going through her closet, looking for something you could wear at the party. You were tapping your feet to the beat and shaking your head softly.

"This is perfect," Wanda said as she handed you jean shorts and a T-shirt. Finding something in your style had been hard, but the outfit turned out really cute on you. "And before you ask, I still have your plaid shirt if you want to wear that."

Your sister knew you too well ; or maybe it was just her ability to read minds. You were pretty sure it was a mix of both. You looked at your watch : five in the afternoon were already passed and you knew Nat was supposed to arrive soon, so you went to the kitchen after changing. Actually, she was already there.

"Nat!"

"Happy birthday, girl! How do you feel about hitting thirty, huh?"

"Surprisingly good, to be honest," you answered as you hug her tight. "I'm glad you came by."

"Me too. Steve told me pretty interesting news about some guy." She wiggled her brows, making you raise yours.

"Not that interesting. Yes, he is my supposed soulmate, but I got married last week, not matter how that's turning out."

"Yeah, sorry I couldn't be there, by the way. However, if I trust Steve's words..."

"Don't? Please." You smiled, making her laugh. You really must've sounded desperate, or in denial – or, once again, both.

"Fine. But I can't promise I'll hold back my thoughts."

"I know you won't," you joked. "Anyway, is the cake already here?" You asked Sam.

"No, Bucky's not back yet."

"Oh, alright. I thought since he left early..."

"He had stuff to do, apparently." He shrugged, showing he didn't know any more than you did. A smirk appeared on his face. "Miss him already?"

"Ugh, I hate you all."

"No, you don't!"

Everyone around you laughed and, frankly, you couldn't hold it in either. These people always had a way of making you forget about your problems, and Darren hadn't crossed your mind until now. Hours went by and more people arrived at the compound. It wasn't supposed to be a big party, but Tony was obviously unable to resist to Peter Parker asking if he could tag along. This kid loved being around here, maybe as much as you did. Once eight hours rang, almost everyone was there, except for Bucky. You were sure he'd eventually show up, even though you couldn't help but feel a little anxious while everyone shared champagne bottles.

"Alright, close your eyes," Sam said, dragging you out of your thoughts. He put his hands on your eyes as you giggled softly.

"What is it now, you asked?"

"Patience, lady."

You couldn't see anything – obviously – but you soon heard voices around you singing you a happy birthday. When Sam removed his hands, your eyes took some time to adjust to the sparkling candles on the big birthday cake. More importantly, it took you a second to recognise the man carrying it. Where had his hair gone?

"Your hair," you whispered once he was close enough.

He shrugged. "C'mon, the candles will melt if you don't blow them out." His own smile quickly spread to your face as you blew out your thirty candles. Everyone applauded and Bucky started cutting it so that people could help themselves. Once seated next to him, you took a bite of your own piece and closed your eyes in delight.

"Raspberries. I love those."

"Yeah, Wanda said it was your favourite," he told you before eating a chunk of cake. "How do you like the party so far?"

"I love it. Everyone I love is here, so I couldn't be happier, really." You didn't even think about what you were saying. Tony's champagne did that to you for sure.

"Everyone?"

"Of course, why do you ask?" You gave him a confused look before it dawned on you. "Oh, I know. Well if he's not here by now, I guess that means something."

"Well I'm not the one saying it. It's your night, anyway, so let's not talk about him and let you have fun." He gently poked your arm – you felt delighted, as it was him who'd made the move this time. It felt as if he was becoming more comfortable around you : you'd noticed he'd been laughing with you a lot more frequently these last few days.

"So, why the new haircut?"

"I wanted some change. New me, old me, I guess." He took a sip of his beer.

"I like it. Can I have some?" You pointed at the bottle. He gladly handed it to you ; damn, this man did not know what one beer might do to you, especially after champagne.

Wanda spotted you from across the room and stopped walking towards you, interrupting her conversation with Scott Lang.

"I hope that's your first drink tonight," she said with a grin. "You don't want to expose your party demon now, do you?"

You chuckled at Bucky's scared eyes. "I'm taking this back," he said, taking his beer back and finishing it.

"Don't worry, Bucky. I'm fine. I'm just a little more outgoing when I drink, that is all."

A screeching sound made you turn your head : Steve had just plugged a microphone into the speakers.

"Alright, so, as you all know, tonight's Y/n's thirtieth birthday. For the occasion, I'm sure she'll gladly treat us to a speech now."

If looks could kill, Steve would've died on the spot, super soldier or not. You never had inspiration for that kind of stuff.

"C'mon guys, she needs some encouragement," Sam chimed in.

Tony and Peter both whoo'ed at you with huge smiles, and you had no other choice than going on that improvised stage which consisted of the space between the speakers. You took the microphone from Steve's hand and Nat handed you a beer.

"Oh my, thanks for that," you said, chuckling. "I want to thank you all for coming. You might have known me for a while, or not, but hum...you guys are family. I couldn't be happier to celebrate thirty years on Earth with you." You raised your bottle in front of you. "To found family."

Everyone drank to that, and you jumped as Sam placed his hand on your shoulder and started speaking in another mic.

"So many emotions there, I love to see it. Now we're not done with you. Remember that night in Brooklyn?"

"Oh no."

"Oh, yeah... we're gonna do it. And you're gonna love it, don't you dare say otherwise."

You stared at Sam before downing your drink. He was damn right.

"Okay Scott, fire away!"

"Toniiight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time..." Sam started singing this fabulous bop as the music soared in the air. You obviously joined him right away.

"I'm burning through the skyyyyy, yeah." You probably were not singing right, but you couldn't have cared less. Everyone around you was singing – more like yelling – along and you finally let go of your last inhibitions. You were singing and dancing, pretending you were the international rock star giving a representation. For once, you saw a wide smile on Bucky's face that couldn't seem to go away, and you decided to have fun with him a little. You pointed at him and smiled as you basically jumped to the beat.

"I'm a sex machine ready to reload like an atom bomb about to oh, oh, oh, oh exploooode!"

He couldn't help but laugh and he even started tapping his feet to the beat as well. You went back to Sam and you ended the song back to back, definitely yelling more than you were actually singing.

"See, I told you you'd love it!" he exclaimed.

You laughed out loud before handing the mic to Scott. "You have fun now, I gotta rest for a sec."

You happily got back to Wanda and Bucky as Scott and Sam were joined by Peter to keep this improvised karaoke going. Your sister was less than surprised, since this wasn't the first party she had with you. Bucky, on the other hand...

"I didn't know you could do that," he said with a grin.

"What, absolutely slay the day with a mic in my hand? Hell yeah I can, only after some drinks though."

"Yeah, I don't know if your cheeks are this red from drinks, dancing or just regular blush."

You chuckled at his laugh, even placing your hand on his shoulder while doing so. When your eyes were done squinting from all the laughs, you froze.

"Darren, I-"

"That science guy let me in."

Bruce shot you a sorry look, raising his hands in the air. "He wouldn't let me ask you for your opinion first anyway."

Damn, you hadn't realised how much everyone disliked your husband. After all, no one had ever been rude to his face, unlike his friends. Bucky turned around to face him and crossed his arms over his chest : his smile was long gone now, as if it had been only a fever dream.

"You put on quite a show there."

"Wow, so not even a 'happy birthday', huh?" You didn't even look down this time : you stared at him, no trace of a smile on your lips. "When I said you could come if you wanted to, I didn't say that so you could come and be condescending."

"I'm not gonna wish you a happy birthday after I saw you hit on that guy in a fucking song!" he yelled, pointing at Bucky. Darren's anger was so unjustified that you would've laughed at him, hadn't you been remotely nice and equally angry at him.

Bucky didn't say a word as he slowly put Darren's hand down. You noticed he'd used his metal arm, even though you knew for a fact he was right handed and usually prioritised his dominant hand. That was quite passive-agressive ; you held back a smile.

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Keeping your cool was not an option anymore, and you walked away from everyone. Contrary to Darren's belief, you didn't like 'putting on a show'.

"We're going home, now," he said firmly. "Your little crisis lasted long enough."

"My crisis? You've left me alone at home for days and now you expect me to come back? You're unbelievable, Darren. And you started pulling this shit before we were even engaged!"

"You never complained about this, so why do it now?"

"Because I can't take it anymore! Is that so hard to believe? Is it hard to understand that I want to be treated the way I deserve?"

You ran a hand through your hair, looking at Darren in disbelief as the anger in his eyes just grew harder.

"You know what?" you continued. "If you have nothing better to say, I might as well just go back to the people who really love me. As far as I'm concerned, this" — you gestured at the both of you – "is over."

You turned around, feeling a huge confidence boost that still wasn't strong enough to overcome your disappointment.

"What's that on your back?" His voice was so low compared to seconds earlier that you looked back at him.

"What?"

He walked up to you fast, but too slowly not to be noticed by Steve and Bucky, who'd been watching the scene carefully. Despite their obvious strength, they couldn't get to you before Darren violently lifted the back of your t-shirt, scratching your back with his nail at the same time. You let out a cry and next thing you knew, Darren was pinned against the wall, held back by Bucky's arm.

"You lied," he whispered. "You do have a tattoo."

Damn. You had always been careful to wear high waisted jeans. All it took was one careless pair of shorts. You had no answer to give to him, so Darren looked at Bucky instead.

"It's you. Right? I fucking knew it." He looked back at you. "I should've known you weren't to be trusted around other guys. You're such a-"

"I think you should leave." Steve had laid his hand on his friend's shoulder to try and calm him down. Bucky let go of your husband and shot you a side glance to check on you. You were crossing your arms on your chest and your eyes had never been more interested in the floor.

"Steve's right," you uttered. "You should go." You walked away with these words. You hadn't even noticed there was no longer any music playing in the room. Silence was oppressing and everyone seeing you cry was not an option. You walked to your room in daze. Once you felt the door closing behind you, you allowed yourself to break down. It was a knock on the door that made you tilt your head up a few minutes later.

--- You have no idea how excited I am for part 9!!! If I wasn't strictly following my self-imposed rule of having two unpublished chapters at all times, I would post it right away. x) I hope you liked this one!! Feel free to give me any notes you may have : I improve thanks to readers.

Message me if you want to be added to the tag list (seeing it grow is making me so happy)!

Tag list :

@ginger-swag-rapunzel @joscelyn02 @coniumalces @writehistorynotthegrocerylist @bluemoon-icecream @lady-loki-ren @simplybombshell

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #james bucky barnes #self insert #captain america #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #cacw #catws #fanfiction #x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader

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twh-news · 3 years

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What is the Multiverse? Five Must-See Alternate Timeline TV Episodes to Watch After ‘Loki’

Look, I get it — multiverse storytelling can be confusing. Marvel’s Loki streaming series is only the latest in a long line of stories that plays fast and loose with the idea of multiple or parallel timelines. Loki follows the God of Mischief (Tom Hiddleston) after he gets involved with the Time Variance Authority, or the TVA, as they try to correct problems in individual timelines. This provides us a chance to see lots of variant Lokis (including our favorite chompy green boy) and opens up opportunities for a lot of zany storytelling that doesn’t necessarily have to impact the primary timeline.

The idea of multiple universes existing at the same time isn’t anything new. Some of the earliest examples date back to Norse mythology, which divided existence into nine worlds. DC Comics first introduced the idea of the DC multiverse in its comics in All Star Comics #3 in 1940, and Marvel later followed suit, starting with their What if? series in the 1970s. While the concept of parallel universes might feel a little daunting to contemplate on your own, these five television episodes will help you understand the magic of the multiverse.

“The Parallel” — The Twilight Zone

When it comes to television that changed the way we think, Rod Serling‘s The Twilight Zone is the forebear of them all. The original series ran from 1959 to 1964 and contained stories from science fiction greats like Ray Bradbury (Farhenheit 451) and Richard Matheson (I Am Legend). Each episode in the anthology series told a different short story, most with the intent of exploring some political or social allegory.

In 1963’s “The Parallel”, Major Robert Gaines (Steve Forrest) is orbiting earth in his space capsule when he suddenly blacks out and wakes up on Earth with no memory of how he got there. He’s uninjured, but the world he’s arrived in doesn’t quite match the one he left. His daughter suspects he’s someone else, his house suddenly has a white picket fence that his wife swears has always been there, and everyone keeps calling him Colonel, which matches his uniform but not his memories. He’s a little shaken until he comes to the conclusion that he’s in a parallel universe, and then takes steps to get back to his own timeline.

“The Parallel” marks the first instance of multiverse storytelling on TV. It doesn’t do anything particularly groundbreaking and is a middle-of-the-road The Twilight Zone episode, but it’s the first, which means it paved the way for everyone else to tell TV stories about parallel universes and doppelgangers.

“Mirror Mirror”/”Crossover” — Star Trek/Star Trek Deep Space Nine

Did I say doppelgangers? If there’s one franchise that has capitalized on the potential fun of meeting your alternate self, it’s Star Trek. In the “Mirror Mirror” episode of the original series, a teleporter mishap sends Kirk, McCoy, Scotty, and Uhura to a parallel dimension where everything is reversed. The Federation has become an evil Empire, Kirk is a tyrant, and Spock has a goatee (that’s how you know he’s evil). The episode started several tropes about doppelgangers (including the whole goatee thing), and paved the way for future Star Trek iterations to really go wild with the Mirror Universe.

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine explored the Mirror Universe more than any other Star Trek series, with stories taking place there over five different episodes. The first of these, “Crossover,” is the most important and sets the stage for the later mirror episodes. In “Crossover,” Major Kira (Nana Visitor) and Doctor Bashir (Alexander Siddig) have an accident inside of the wormhole near the planet Bajor, sending them to the Mirror Universe. It’s been decades since Kirk and co. crossed over, but things are still pretty backwards in the Mirrorverse. Instead of the Federation, there’s a coalition between the Klingons, Cardassians, and Bajorans. Terrans (a fancy word for Earthlings) have been enslaved. The space station Deep Space Nine is instead a mining operation, run by the alternate Kira, the Intendant.

There are few things in the world as enjoyable as watching Visitor play her double role. The entire cast really gets to go for it with their Mirrorverse personas, and you can tell they’re having a blast. The Mirror Universe in Deep Space Nine gave the actors a chance to explore their characters in new ways, and it provided more insight into their individual pathos. Sure, the Mirrorverse versions were the “evil” versions of themselves, but there were still versions of themselves. Kira is a strong leader with a dry sense of humor, regardless of whether she’s the former Bajoran freedom fighter or the Intendant. “Crossover” set up the following four Deep Space Nine Mirror episodes, including episodes where Captain Sisko (Avery Brooks) must pretend to be his doppelganger and deal with the fact that his dead wife is still very alive in the parallel universe. Some of the episodes are silly fun, and some are a bit more heady, but they all get to explore sides of these characters that we’ve never seen before.

“Remedial Chaos Theory” — Community

The NBC sitcom Community frequently made its own riffs on popular tropes, and it had an utter field day with parallel universes. In the season 3 episode, “Remedial Chaos Theory,” viewers are treated to seeing six different ways the same evening could have played out. The friends, who met in a Spanish study group at their community college, are all celebrating Troy (Donald Glover) and Abed (Danny Pudi) moving into a new apartment. When the pizza arrives, group leader Jeff (Joel McHale) suggests they roll dice to see who has to go get the pizza. Abed, who is sensitive to tropes, points out that Jeff is creating new timelines by introducing chance, and then we get to see each of them play out.

What “Remedial Chaos Theory” does is brilliant. It’s a bottle episode, all set in one location with no visible impact on the overall plot. However, by seeing how the situations change each time a single character is removed from the group dynamic, we’re able to learn so much more about the group as a whole. The episode gives us insight into the characters and their relationships by changing up the formula just a pinch and removing one element. In the Darkest Timeline, which leaves Pierce (Chevy Chase) dead and severely maims the rest of the group, it’s revealed that things fall apart without Troy in the mix. At the end of the episode, the prime timeline continues and it’s Jeff who has to go get the pizza. This ends up being the most positive of the timelines, which means maybe the group is better off without Jeff at all. It’s a great piece of character storytelling and even ends with the Darkest Timeline versions of Troy and Abed making felt goatees for themselves before declaring they are Evil Troy and Evil Abed.

“Rixty Minutes” – Rick and Morty

Community showrunner Dan Harmon clearly has a love for stories involving parallel timelines, so it’s no surprise that he expanded on those ideas in Rick and Morty, the adult animated series he developed with Justin Roiland. Rick and Morty is a kind of Back to the Future for twisted adults; it follows the adventures of alcoholic mad scientist Rick Sanchez (Roiland) and his hapless grandson Morty Smith (also Roiland) as they travel through space and time. In the first season episode “Rixty Minutes,” Rick introduces the entire Smith family to the many parallel timelines that exist. He and Morty watch Interdimensional Cable in the A plot, which gives Roiland a chance for lots of fun improvisational gags, but the B plot is more interesting. In order to enjoy his cable watching, Rick gives Morty’s parents and sister a helmet that will let them see through the eyes of some of their alternate selves.

Jerry (Chris Parnell) finds a version of himself that’s a huge Hollywood player who parties with Johnny Depp. Beth (Sarah Chalke) finds a reality where she’s not a horse surgeon, but a human surgeon, like she always wanted. Their teenage daughter Summer (Spencer Grammar) discovers that she was an unplanned pregnancy and that her parents argued about whether or not to get an abortion. In the parallel universes, she either doesn’t exist or her life is hopelessly boring. This leads to a pretty massive existential crisis, but she’s stopped by Morty, who has already had his fair share of timey-wimey weirdness.

Morty takes Summer upstairs and shows her two dirt mounds in the backyard. He explains that he’s not the Morty from this timeline, and that he and Rick had to come here after things in their timeline got too bad. The Rick and Morty in this timeline had just died, so they slipped in unnoticed. Then, Morty gives Summer a bit of advice that shows he’s beginning to grow up a bit on his madcap adventures.

“Nobody exists on purpose. Nobody belongs anywhere. Everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV?” he pleads.

The episode ends with the entire Smith family realizing that dwelling on possible alternate realities will only ever cause problems. It’s a testament to living in the here and now, and is one of the series’ most emotionally resounding moments.

There are dozens of shows with multiverse stories out there, from ’90s sci-fi staple Sliders to the later seasons of Supernatural. These five, however, helped expand upon the trope as a whole, and are worth checking out to improve your pop culture savvy. That, and they’re just a lot of fun.

#loki #loki series #multiverse #article #slashfilm

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nekojitachan · 4 years

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The Waiting Game

*******

Okay, so, still working on GiY ch16 (over half done) and then I’m trying to figure out if I’ll do the A/B/O fic or try more Not in the Stars (or maybe even post bits of the Cat!Neil on here), but for some reason I wanted to get this started just so I can throw it in the WIP pile and have a feel for how it’ll go.

Warnings - suicidal thoughts and suicide attempt in the first part (not very descriptive), and vague mention of Andrew’s past.

*******

Andrew counted down the minutes until Johnny would come to unstrap him from his bed, alone in his room at Easthaven Hospital and high on the latest drug cocktail Proust had forced on him. Hmm, something a little different than last time, something that made his thoughts skitter about and concentration fracture and rage burst into tiny bubbles of laughter which floating through his veins until he wanted to claw them out but his hands were strapped down.

Bah.

At least, for the next two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Then he’d put the piece of metal he’d oh-so carefully hoarded and sharpened the last few weeks to good use and slice open those veins and let those annoying bubbles float free and no more laughter, no more drugs, no more anything.

He was done with it, was done with it all. Done putting up with Tilda, with her abuse and neglect (he didn’t know which was worse), with being foisted off to foster homes and the men who would hurt him whenever she fucked up her life more than usual, only to be dumped back on her when she lied well enough to convince Child Services that she had her act together (what a load of bullshit). Done dealing with his homophobic, ‘Christian’ uncle who didn’t believe him about Drake and the others, about Aaron, who locked him up for being a ‘fag’ and a liar’. Done dealing with Proust, who was more messed up than most of the patients in Easthaven. Done with everyone telling him that Aaron didn’t exist.

He was done with everything.

Just a little longer.

He’d taken to humming ‘itsy bitsy spider’ for some reason when there was a strange tension in the air, a feeling similar to right before a powerful thunderstorm was unleashed, and then his ears popped in a painful manner as two figures appeared out of nowhere – literally, one moment they weren’t there and then the next they were. Still strapped to the bed, Andrew tensed at their presence, even when they stepped out of the shadows to reveal themselves to be two young men about the same age as himself dressed in dark jeans and sweaters, one tall and one short, one with black hair and one a redhead, both with pale eyes and handsome features.

The tall one frowned as he turned to his shorter companion and let out a spat of what sounded to be French but not quite; there was something odd about the language, something not quite right. The shorter companion kept his gaze on Andrew, a slight smile on his sharp-featured face, and replied calmly in the same language.

When tall, dark and bitchy started up again, Andrew clicked his tongue. “You’re rather boring for a hallucination,” he called out. “And rude. At least speak English.”

That made tall, dark and bitchy shut up in a hurry and glare at Andrew, while short, redhead and gorgeous merely smiled and nodded once. “Our apologies,” he said in English, his voice a pleasant tenor with a British accent. “My partner’s confused at the moment, as this is a bit of a detour for us.”

“Detour from what?” Andrew asked, curious despite himself (were those eyes blue? A pale blue?), then scoffed when the redhead merely continued to smile while his ‘partner’ glared. “Hmm, these drugs are even more potent than I thought.” What the hell had Proust given him this time?

Oh well, not that it mattered much anymore.

The redhead spoke in the odd language again, clearly to his partner even though he continued to regard Andrew, and after a brief argument where Andrew picked up the name ‘Kevin’ be mentioned, tall, dark and bitchy vanished into thin air.

“Hmm, nice trick. Can you pull a rabbit from a hat, next? How about a pack of cigarettes?” Andrew wouldn’t mind one last smoke before he kicked off the mortal coil, so to speak.

The redhead continued to regard him silently for several seconds (his eyes were pale blue, like the one vase in Cass’s house, or the knitted sweater Miss Nelson had given Andrew when he was eight years old). “You’re going to try to kill yourself tonight, in less than two hours,” the stranger said in that quiet, accented voice.

An indecipherable emotion jolted through Andrew and wiped the manic grin from his face. “How the fuck do you know that?” Was he going to take the makeshift knife away? Rat him out to Proust? “I’ll gut you if you-“

“Don’t do it tonight, it’s not the right time,” the redhead continued, cutting through Andrew’s threats. “Wait two more nights,” he insisted as he stood there in the weak beam of moonlight that flowed through the small, mesh-reinforced window of Andrew’s room. “Two more nights will be better.”

The small bit of rage that Andrew had managed to work up was swallowed by the meds and curiosity. “Why?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Why then?” Why wasn’t the young man telling him not to commit suicide?

Perhaps this was some sort of drug-induced hallucination after all.

The redhead flashed him a grin as he began to poke around Andrew’s room, not that there was much to see considering the strict rules at Easthaven. “Because this isn’t your proper time. Wait two more nights, and that time will begin.” He opened a drawer, stared into it then closed it. “You’ll get the answers you need then, too.” He turned around and leaned against the small dresser as he stared at Andrew. “You’ll get nothing if you end things tonight.”

“That’s it?” Andrew clicked his tongue while he tugged on his wrist restraints once more. “You’re a pretty pathetic hallucination if that’s all you can come up with to make me postpone things two more days when I’m all set.”

“Hmm, true.” The stranger bowed his rather pretty head (at least Andrew’s subconscious was giving him something nice to look at before his end) in acknowledgement before he held up his right hand with two fingers extended. “Something for each day, is that acceptable?” When Andrew nodded, he smiled, which made Andrew tell his hormones to go fuck off, it was just his imagination throwing him a visual bone before he died. “I’ll do something to make your last days here a bit less difficult, and I’ll owe you a favor, a small one.” Judging from the flat look to his eyes, Andrew had better accept those terms.

“Oh, I suppose that’ll do,” Andrew sang out. “Though you’re not much fun for a figment of my imagination. The magic tricks would liven things up a bit.”

The redhead smiled, his expression lopsided, as he stepped away from the dresser. “I’m not known for my sense of humor. Remember, two more days, and when the time comes, you can ask a favor from Abram. A small one.”

“Who the hell calls their kid ‘Abram’?” Andrew mused aloud, but before he asked the entire question, ‘Abram’ was gone.

That was Andrew’s life – a gorgeous, mysterious redhead appears in it, only to turn out to be a figment of his imagination and right before he offed himself. Still, hallucination or not, he’d made a promise so he intended to keep it, and didn’t go for his improvised blade when Johnny finally showed up to undo the restraints.

When he found out in the morning that Proust was out sick with the flu? He didn’t stop laughing for over a half an hour, which the staff put down to his new medication. There was some talk about altering the dosage, but in the end, they strapped him back down for a few hours and left him alone.

He was fine with that.

(Well, not with being restrained, but with the ‘left alone’ part.)

The two days went by quickly, and part of him hoped that Abram would show up again, especially when he retrieved the blade from where he’d stashed it behind the dresser. After several minutes with no odd tension in the air, Andrew shrugged then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his scarred forearms, and only hesitated a moment before he put the makeshift knife to use.

It hurt, but not any more than what he’d already endured in the past. He welcomed the darkness when it finally dragged him under.

Andrew had planned things so he shouldn’t be found for several hours, so he was understandably confused when he woke up on a comfortable bed in a room unlike any he’d seen so far at Easthaven, dressed in what appeared to be orange scrubs yet were soft and more form-fitting, without any pain in his arms. When he tried to move, he found his body paralyzed.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

It seemed that he wasn’t entirely paralyzed, as he could turn his head to see a woman who appeared to be in her thirties with light blonde hair pulled into a bun approach his bed, a friendly smile on her face; she was dressed in orange ‘scrubs’ as well and a white lab coat.

“Where am I, and why can’t I move?” Andrew asked as he tried to sit up again.

“I’m sorry but it’s standard protocol,” the woman explained as she touched some sort of computer panel near Andrew’s bed. “All new patients are, uhm, similarly restrained until they’re informed about what’s going on. The others will be here in a moment.” She gave Andrew a nervous smile. “I’m Abby, Abby Winfield, and you’re all right. You’re safe here.”

She did something to raise the upper part of the bed he lay on, so he could see that he was in a room full of monitors and touch screen panels, was in something that looked right out of a science fiction movie. Just as he opened his mouth to tell her to let him go or else, three people entered the room through a sliding door – an older man with dark skin and grey-shot black hair, a younger man with similar features but a lighter skin tone, and a middle-aged woman with grey-shot brown, curly hair. The two older adults wore a mix of orange, white and black, while the younger man wore all black and had something on his left cheek.

“He’s up at last?” the old man called out as he approached Andrew; his orange shirt was sleeveless, which left the tribal flame tattoos on his forearms exposed. “It’s about time.”

“Let me go before I break everything in here, including the four of you,” Andrew gritted out; he realized as the anger at being helpless in front of strangers (let alone still alive) built inside of him that the damn drugs were no longer in his system.

He began to suspect that he might not be in Easthaven anymore, and that Abram wasn’t a hallucination.

The young guy (was that a ‘2’ on his cheek?) shook his head. “There’s protocols we have to follow and-“

“Andrew – may I call you Andrew?” the woman with the brown hair asked as she held up her hands in a placating manner; she gazed steadily at Andrew in a way that made him focus on her and eventually nod. “Thank you. It is practice to keep all new recruits restrained at first, but I can tell that you don’t like it. If you promise to behave while we explain things to you, I’ll undo them.”

“Betsy, I don’t think that’s-“

The woman – Betsy, apparently - waved aside the others’ concern and continued to gaze at Andrew until he nodded in agreement. Once he did, she looked at Abby until the woman (a doctor?) did something with one of the panels, and suddenly Andrew could move again. He slowly tested out his arms and legs then sat up some more while he pulled back the left sleeve of his shirt.

The wounds he’d inflicted on his inner forearm were gone.

Abby noticed what he’d done as she slowly approached the bed with a glass of what appeared to be water. “The nanites healed your injuries as well as removed the drugs from your system. Here, you’re probably thirsty.” When he merely stared at her, she set it on the small table near the bed. “It’s just water, I promise.”

“You’ve met Abby, and I’m Betsy Dobson,” Betsy explained as she went to stand at the foot of Andrew’s bed. “This is David Wymack and Kevin Day.” She motioned to the old man first and then the young hothead; Andrew’s eyes narrowed at the mention of ‘Kevin’. “Kevin was the one who went back to your time and brought you here after you attempted suicide.”

“My time,” Andrew murmured while he thought about how Abram and his partner had appeared out of thin air, how Abram had mentioned it not being Andrew’s ‘proper time’.

“Look, kid, time travel is real,” Wymack said with what was probably meant to be a kind expression. “You’re not in the twenty-first century anymore, but the thirty-seventh. Long story short, shit started to go down by the end of the twenty-first centry and the world got fucked up. While some things are better now, some things aren’t and the population is one of them. After some geniuses figured out a stable way to travel through time,” Andrew noticed how Kevin twitched right then, “others came up with the idea of going back for things that wouldn’t be missed. Sometimes that’s items, and sometimes that’s people.” He looked Andrew up and down. “You’re one of those people.”

Andrew realized that he didn’t crave a cigarette any longer and wondered if those ‘nanites’ had fixed that for him, too.

“Aah, did we break him?” Wymack asked Betsy after a minute’s silence.

“No, from the research I’ve done on him, Andrew’s the taciturn type, especially in a situation like this. I’d say that he’s taking everything in so he can make an informed decision,” Betsy said as she continued to regard Andrew.

He gave her a two-fingered salute in return and picked up the glass of ‘water’, from which he took a careful sip; when nothing adverse happened, he cleared his throat then spoke. “So who are you?” he asked Wymack, since the old man seemed to be in charge.

The question made the old man stand up straighter and fold his tattooed arms over his chest. “David Wymack, leader of the Foxes, which means nothing to you, I know. What I do with Abby’s and Betsy’s help is find kids like you who deserve a second chance and bring ‘em here, then put them to work on that whole ‘going back in time for items that won’t be missed’ thing.”

“And if I don’t want to join your gang?” Andrew asked as he held on to the glass; it didn’t feel normal, so probably some sort of polymer, but it was still a potential weapon if thrown.

“Then once Abby gives the all clear, we help set you up on your own,” Wymack told him without any obvious tells that he was lying. “But you came as a recommendation, so….”

Before Andrew could speak, Kevin jumped in, a tablet in his hand which he appeared to read from. “Andrew Joseph Minyard, born 1984 in Oakland, California to Tilda Mary Minyard, nee Hemmick, no name listed under ‘father’. Indication of above intelligence IQ but never formally tested, five stints in foster homes while your mother faced charges of drug possession or child abandonment. When you were thirteen years old, the two of you moved to Columbia, South Carolina to live with your maternal uncle, where you sent to multiple counselors for ‘anger management issues’ until being admitted to Easthaven for destructive and delusional behavior shortly before your eighteenth birthday.” He looked at Andrew as he set the device on a table. “I came for you when you attempted suicide; you were close to death so it was easy to leave a body double we’d prepped for the event, especially since we know they won’t be thorough in an investigation into your death considering the circumstances and the institution in question.”

There had been looks of pity sent Andrew’s way from Abby and Wymack at the brief summary of his lousy life, which he ignored. “Why me?” That was what he wanted to know; he could ignore the improbability of the whole ‘time travel’ thing for the moment, he wanted to know why him.

Why bother to waste so much time (ha) and energy on a broken piece of flesh like him?

Why had Abram showed up the other night for him?

“Because someone like you won’t be missed,” Wymack said as he rested his knuckles on a table and leaned forward. “Your family will be eager to put your death behind them and move on, and Easthaven too – just another statistic they’ll want to bury.”

Harsh, but true; only Nicky would miss him, Andrew knew. And no one would listen to Nicky.

“It’s been worked down to a science, you could say,” Kevin explained as he rubbed the back of his left hand, which Andrew just realized was covered with a fine mesh of gold wire melded into his light brown skin. “The best types of people to retrieve from the past – those whose families won’t look into their deaths or disappearances, or those who die in accidents resulting in unrecoverable bodies or bodies easy to replace with copies.”

“And if we’re to be perfectly honest, bringing forth people with some sort of mental or physical trauma is thought to be ideal, as we’re taking them from an undesirable place and giving them a new beginning,” Betsy added. “I’m not fully onboard with that, but it’s also in part why you were selected.”

Andrew gave her another salute for that then thought about his options; no one said he could go back to his own time, which really, not a good idea (Proust, Luther, Easthaven). The only ‘good’ thing back there was Nicky, who was just as fucked up as him thanks to Luther.

Here? Where the mysterious Abram said was ‘his time’? He was free of the drugs, of Easthaven (of Proust), had people who appeared willing to be honest with him and to offer him a job (of stealing things from the sound of it, not that he cared). A new beginning.

He also was owed one favor (a small one) from the mysterious Abram, who so far had kept his word.

Andrew clicked his tongue as he folded his legs. “There better be decent benefits with this gig, and I refuse to wear orange.”

Abby and Betsy smiled while Kevin appeared offended and Wymack sighed. “Somehow I knew you’re going to be a difficult one.” He nodded once to Abby then straightened up. “Let me know when the midget’s cleared so I can have Kevin show him around.” He sighed again when Andrew gave him the middle finger.

Andrew fell back against the pillows while Abby chided Wymack about being rude and Betsy offered to provide him with information about his new ‘world’, and thought about how no one had mentioned why he’d been brought to the Foxes’ attention. No one had mentioned Abram and his bitchy partner.

*******

I guess I get to it when I get to it.

One thing - years ago I read this short story in some sci fi collection where there was a character who’d been brought from the past to the future and whose job was to go into the past to steal things before they were destroyed. So that’s the inspiration for this story. I wish I still had that book (it’s the only story in it that really stayed with me), but sadly, with moving about it was handed off to a better home.

There’s reasons for Neil as Abram and Jean with him (just partners!), and obviously end goal as Andreil. I’m having fun with the small twists here.

#nekojitachanfics #mumbling into the void #aftg #aftg au #andrew minyard #neil josten #kevin day #jean moreau #abby winfield #betsy dobson #david wymack #neil as abram #tw: suidice

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talesmaniac89 · 4 years

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Choices - Sam Ending - 7

New to Choices? Start Here

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Summary: Choices is an interactive Supernatural choose your own adventure story where your choices determine the outcome and whether it’s a Dean x Reader or Sam x Reader. Go to the intro to start your story now!

Triggers: Dark, hostage situation, reader death, pain, violence, blood, torture, angst, loss, blood, serious injuries, heartbreak, gore (series levels blood, torture and fatal injuries).

Choice: [You chose to try and get loose]

Y/N = Your Name | Y/H/C = Your Hair Colour

---

No.

You had to get out of the chair before the Winchester brothers reached you. You refused to be used to hurt the two men that had already suffered enough for endless lifetimes. And for all you knew they could already be coming your way, following the sound of your not so gentle introduction to the smiling pictures on the wall.

They must have heard it. Even if the gunshot was still ringing in their ears.

You were a big girl. You could take care of yourself. After all, you wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with Sam, not just be protected. Feeling the muscles in your shoulders and arms tense painfully from the way they were wrenched behind your back and tied to the chair you kept your eyes on the witch as you tried to get your hands free from the tight binding without alerting her.

“I can think of a good few people that would pay good money for you girl… Even more so if I throw in the two other parts of the set bumbling around downstairs,” Clearly your wicked witch was less caught up in avenging the male witch whose life had most likely just been snuffed out downstairs and more focused on any possible gains for herself.

God, you hated the industrious ones. They talked too much.

“Those two ‘parts’ just killed your boyfriend bitch,” You spat back, hoping you could catch her off guard or shut her up by using what little knowledge you had about the pair. You didn’t know too much, but you knew they were somewhat of a Bonnie and Clyde duo, killing their way across the great US of A in some twisted way to prove their love.

Yet, the witch clearly only had a hex bag where her heart should be as she shrugged off her lover boy’s death with a painted smirk. Taking another step closer to you, she pushed a carefully styled curl behind her ear, the way blue eyes focused on your arms, you knew you weren’t fooling anyone with your little attempt at getting loose unnoticed. But, fuck it, you weren’t going to stop trying.

“He died for a good cause… Me, “

You couldn’t stop the barked laugh that left you. Damn, industrious and a god complex, now you really wanted to shut her up. Permanently. You nearly felt sorry for her dead partner downstairs. Having to put up with that.

“Well, then you better start thinking up what cause you’re dying for. And fast,” You spat instead, keeping your eyes on her as you let your anger radiate off your body in heavy waves. No way you’d let her think she’d won or feel even remotely safe.

Copying her cocky smirk, you watched her take an unsteady step away from you. Even with you tied securely to a chair, your glare had the effect you wanted it to have. Earning you a few seconds of silence to focus and find a way out of this mess.

You couldn’t get your wrists loose, and she’d taken your weapon. You needed to improvise. Preferably when her legs were still shaky on those dangerously high heels. If you could knock her down you could take her, even if you were tied to a damned chair.

Watching her carefully, you waited for the right moment. Waited to see that flash of a black heel lifting from the carpet just enough to leave her unbalanced and unsteady. Squaring your jaw, you let your shoulders tense as you watched and waited, until... There!

As soon as the moment arose you kicked your legs up, connecting with her stomach and knocking her off balance. Sending her stumbling back over the carpet. Just as soon as your booted feet connected with her stomach they were gone again, landing with a soft thud on the carpet as you lifted yourself awkwardly up, still tied to the chair.

Taking a step forward and twisting, you used your chair as a battering ram. Knocking the witch to the floor as you gritted your teeth against the onslaught of pain through your bound wrists. Damn it, that stung like a son of a bitch. But you’d had worse.

Not giving her time to get up or out of the way you quickly sat the chair down again. All your weight hitting the seat and travelling through the chair’s legs into the delicate wrist you’d pinned under it. The satisfying crack of bones and the agonised scream leaving the bitch below your chair more than made up for your own stinging wrists.

Lifting your chair again, you were ready to aim for her other wrist. But clearly she was quicker on the uptake than you had planned for as she rolled out of the way and, using her unharmed hand, sent you flying across the room with a single word spell.

Shit.

You could do nothing to lessen the blow as you went flying across the room and hit the wall back first, your own wrists and shoulders taking the worst of the blow. Something was dislocated, and possibly broken, you noted. Squaring your jaw against the pain, you bit back a scream you wouldn’t give her the pleasure of hearing.

Through the ringing in your ears you could hear Sam and Dean yell for you.

The mix of the witch’s scream and your own violent assault against the bedroom wall easily clueing them into where you were. Yet, with the wind knocked out of your lungs and the searing pain shooting through your arms and chest you were too out of it to stop the words spilling out from behind the witch’s gritted teeth as she focused her power on the door. Effectively sealing the room and keeping the Winchesters out just as one of the guys ran into the door with a thud.

“(Y/N)!” Sam’s voice was muffled but panicked through the wood as his fists hit the wood over and over again. But you didn’t have the breath yet to call out to him past a weak croaked cough. Your lack of a response only served to drive the hunter harder. The door shook violently on its hinges as he tried to force his way past the spell.

Yet, the witch didn’t leave you with much time to focus on Sam and Dean’s desperate attempts at coming to your rescue. Blocking the shaking door once she stepped into view in front of you. She looked like a mess, a furious mess, but a mess all the same. Clutching her broken wrist close to her body, blue eyes ice cold with frozen fury and blood red lips curled back in a vicious sneer.

“You bitch! You broke my arm, so I’ll break you,” Her words were guttural, and in complete contrast with the timeless, delicate outfit she was wearing as she nearly screamed them at you.

Yeah, you were fucked. You couldn’t move, and you were still bound to the ruins of the chair.

Before you could even consider finding a way out of it, you were moving again. Another flick off her uninjured wrist sending you flying up and away from the broken pieces of the chair, leaving you only tied to parts of the frame of it. Before flinging you against the ceiling and holding you there with a vicious smirk down at the broken pieces of wood on the floor below you. Barely giving you enough time to realise what she was doing before she let you fall down on the splintered wood and had them dig into your skin.

“(Y/N)! Don’t you dare fucking hurt her!” Sam’s words reached your ears just as new fresh waves of pain flowed over you. But you didn’t have time to answer him.

Hell, you barely had time for a strangled gasp before her hand was in your (Y/H/C) hair, fisting it and pulling it up. Hard. Squaring your jaw, you let your teeth grind against each other to stop from crying out at the stinging pain of your scalp. Spitting out the blood that had pooled in your mouth from the cut on your lip straight in her smirking face.

“Hair pulling isn't one of my kinks. And even if it was, you’re so not my type,” You croaked. You knew you didn’t sound even a little bit threatening, and that your words would only serve to piss her off more. But fuck it, you weren’t going to give her the pleasure of thinking she’d broken you.

“Then I guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns, won’t I?” The sickening glint in her eyes only had you feeling nauseous for a split second before her spell connected with your head, travelling through strands of (Y/H/C) hair and into your skull to echo and expand.

The screeching sound was so loud, and it hurt. You wanted to cover your ears, but your wrists were still tied behind your back as you screamed out in pain. You couldn’t hear Sam or Dean; you couldn’t even see anything past the black spots in front of your eyes. It sounded like someone was drilling directly into your skull and it wasn’t stopping. It was only growing stronger and louder as you choked on your screams and tried to force your broken body into a little ball.

You could feel something warm and wet at your ears. Whatever the spell was, it was making your ears bleed as you fought against the screeching sound and painful vibrations echoing in your head.

“Fuck. You!” You managed to force the words out between one scream and the next. Your own stubbornness unable to control your tongue as your words only egged the witch on, sending new waves of painfully high frequencies into your skull.

Your vision was blurry, and you couldn’t focus on anything but the pain coursing through your veins. The world around you, going black just as you watched blood red lips shape words you couldn’t hear.

---

You didn’t know how long the sounds had been going for. But your throat was raw and burning around wordless screams. You didn’t have any voice left to scream with as the witch kept scrambling your mind and sending new shots of pain through your skull. Only stopping to slap you awake when you fainted or to send you flying against the wall and cutting into you with more broken pieces of wood.

But suddenly, just as quickly as it had started, the screeching in your head was gone. The sudden shift in volume leaving your ears ringing as you looked up at her. Spitting out blood and gritting your teeth for another manicured palm across your face. But it never came.

The witch was turned away from you and towards the door.

As the real world started bleeding in through the onslaught of pain you heard Dean and Sam’s yells and watched as the door finally shook off its hinges, exploding open in a burst of wood and bullets.

Sam.

Your eyes were focused on the hunter in front of you, his eyes panicked and pained as they locked with yours across the room. So, you missed how the witch turned back towards you, her arm raised and palm flat.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you!” Sam’s angry shout was the first words you’d heard in an awfully long time, or at least it seemed like a long time. You’d been in pain for so long that time had stopped meaning anything.

But as the words left Sam, the spell left the witch, sending broken pieces of wood flying towards you just as the sound of the gunshot echoed through your mind. Sending fresh waves of pain through your skull just as the broken wooden leg of the chair pierced through the flesh of your heaving stomach. Leaving you effectively nailed to the white wall.

Crying out in pain, you once more tried to get your hands to move. To pull the wood out of your stomach as you gasped for breath. Excruciating agony was flooding your veins, burning them to a crisp as you choked around copper blood and salty tears you hadn’t noticed you were crying.

“No!” Watching through tear blurred eyes you saw Sam drop the gun in his hands as he ran to you, sliding to his knees onto the mess of rubble you were in the middle of. Hazel eyes dark in pain and panic as big hands shook, looking from the wood through your stomach and up to your unfocused eyes.

“What do I do? Dean! What do I do?!?!” His fingers brushed against the wooden leg and you gasped in pain. The involuntary whimper that left you dimming the light in his eyes even more as they lifted to connect with yours again. The ray of light you normally found in his eyes sputtering out as he watched you. There was no longer sunshine, just the last flickering flames of a broken candle.

“I know it hurts… I’m sorry,” Sam’s breathing was ragged and raw as he moved a shaking hand up to wipe feebly at the tears staining your bloodied cheeks. The hunter not moving out of the way as Dean slid down next to him, your best friend taking your limp hand in his as he muttered curses under his breath.

“I’m sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I…” Sam was rambling, panicking. Too terrified to think straight. Your injuries had to be bad, you noted. He looked so heartbroken, so lost. Of course, you could feel the pain. Your world was nothing but pain now. But the broken look in hazel eyes still solidified it more than the waves of torment washing over you and pushing your life out of your body.

He was blaming himself. You couldn’t let him blame himself.

“Sam…” You winced as the word made pain flare up from where you were pinned to the wall. Coughing and gasping through the new shots of pain, you weakly squeezed Dean’s hand as your blurry eyes focused on Sam’s heartbroken features.

“I’m sorry I can’t come home to you…” Your broken voice was barely even loud enough to count as a whisper, but you couldn’t let the pain win. Not before you got your words out. And so, you forced the small tendrils of life left to you to hold on, just for a little while longer as your words left you.

“No no no… (Y/N)...” Sam’s voice was growing in volume where yours was falling short of being anything more than a breath. His trembling hands fidgeting in the air around you, yet not finding any place to land, anywhere to soothe better without hurting you more.

“You can’t leave me… I can’t keep going without you,” The man who held your slowly fading heart let his forehead fall against yours, pleading with what little life was left in your dull eyes. Sunshine eyes clouded with unshed tears, like two heavy summer storms, but you saw the truth behind his words in them. And that hurt you more than dying did. You were abandoning him, though you’d promised you never would.

“Don’t say that, please. You deserve love Sam… You deserve the world. You were my happiness, my home,” Gritting your teeth you forced yourself to focus, pushing out the words though your sentence ended in a weak coughing fit and the taste of blood on your tongue.

“No (Y/N)... You’ll get through this, you hear me?”

You didn’t have the energy to answer as you gave Sam a shaky smile. You were so tired. You couldn’t even feel the heat off of Sam’s forehead where he leaned his against yours. You were just so cold.

“Don’t you close your eyes on me. Don’t go to sleep now. You’ll be fine. You have to be fine,”

Sam’s voice sounded hollow and far away though you knew he was right there, right in front of you. You wanted to go back to him. You’d promised to never leave him. But your body wouldn’t listen. Your eyelids were just too heavy. You were just so tired, and you needed to rest.

Just for a little while.

“Hey… (Y/N)!” The last thing you heard was your own name. Spoken as a broken plea just before the darkness won and pulled you under, into painless nothingness.

Leaving behind a shattered man and a broken promise.

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You reached the end - You got Ending 7: Sam: Casualties - Bad Ending

[Click here to return to the start and try again]

[Alternatively, click here for the full masterlist breaking down each path] Note that choices are named so it may spoil the experience.

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Please tell me which ending you got in a message, comment, ask or through a reblog. This took a lot of time to make, and I want to hear from you guys, and see if you enjoyed it. That way I’ll know if I should make more as well as know which parts you enjoyed/where I can improve them.

I already have some ideas for some other ones; an undercover office based one that’s fluff vs. smut… Plus another hunt based one with TFW. But I won’t start them if it doesn’t seem like there’s any demand for them.

You can also tell me which ending you got by clicking here to answer my poll.

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kimyoonmiauthor · 3 years

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Other Kinds of Writing than “Pantsing” improvisation or “plotting” Outlining

So, usually people set up a false binary, because why not Europe the world and make everything a binary... so I’ll give other options of how Writers write. (From my vast reading of author notes and interviews and pros and cons of each...) ‘cause whatever you are doing might not be working the best for you, so why not try other ways?

How the Story is written

Improvisation

This means just start somewhere and let your subconscious take over the plot. The downside is if the readers figure this out (which there are markers for it), then they can guess ahead of you by figuring out the best gut punch for the time. The markers for it--though people don’t believe me... are excessive set up at the beginning of scenes, larger plot holes and repetition of plot points which were not caught during editing. I can tell you wrote the story this way when you keep trying to remind yourself of previous plot points in the text. Slash those when you edit. Look specifically for plot holes because your subconscious is likely to change their mind about certain things and you need to track them separately. Famously, Jack Kerouac was known to do everything on impulse and thought it was the highest form of writing. He didn’t want a single word edited. Advantages: Being impulsive can lead to some crazy ideas which can feel new. This is particularly good for character impulsive decisions. Or characters who go by their gut. The characters also tend to be a lot more willful, but it also means you need to keep them occupied with interesting events. Suspense and Thriller tend to benefit for such writing. Writing is fast, editing is slow.

Disadvantages: OMG, the editing is a nightmare. You have to write down every plot point on a separate piece of paper and then make sure you didn’t screw it up. It’s terrible for High Concept plots and where things have to come together neatly in a certain order to make sense. (Which is why Agatha Christie didn’t use it for And There Was None and it tortured her for a year since she was used to improvising everything. She explicitly said she’d write it like everyone did it and then drop the final clues to make it click at the end, which is a sign of an improviser or at most a milestone type.)

(Strict) Outlining (Separate sheet of paper)

Means you write down the plot points one by one. Sometimes writers use a spreadsheet so they can visually see what is happening at the same time. She whose name shall not be spoken, does it this way.

Sometimes it’s just a list of bullet points. The markers for it: It tends to be much neater in plotting. Things interlock neatly. If you have a large complex plot, this is one of the ways to do it. The markers for this are more spotting the way the plot comes together and also often unfortunately marked by flat characters because the event chain was thought of without the characters.

Tolkien from everything I’ve read of the man, mostly outlined his stories. I have a flagging suspicion on one story--which is my favorite, which is a bit more impulse-written because it’s much more introspective and philosophical--two things that don’t do well with outlining. Most epics, for this reason in the modern sense are done with outlines. Some, but not all mysteries are outlined.

Advantages: Having a large interlocking plot suddenly come together can be satisfying. All those desperate parts seem like it’s great. The events come back together. Less editing is always good.

Disadvantages: Flat token characters who don’t have to be there and have cursory agency merely to move the plot along. For Newbies, the plot twists aren’t that interesting and don’t interweave properly with the character’s set ups or choices. The events, then, feel like what the writer wanted to happen, rather than what would have naturally happened. (You can fix this, though, by thinking through the character and how they change and be willing to rework your outline every time the character makes a different choice than expected--don’t fall in love with the event chain--fall in love with the character agency to make change.)

Also, if you screw up one event because of lack of research, it can send your entire book into a tailspin since the point of outlining is to neatly get everything to come together.

Don’t forget to put in some “God events” on purpose. You can throw people off and make them guess it wasn’t heavily plotted by putting a few seemingly random events at the beginning that click or are red herrings which lead to dead ends.

Versioning

NK Jemisin did this... It combines a bit of the outlining with improvisation, but it tries different versions of the same events. I have a suspicion that Patrick Rothfuss also does a bit of this with his claim he also outlines... but I’m not 100% sure on that. This might explain why the books take so long to write. (Versioning and outlining don’t marry too well for speed. If you’re backing up, and then having to rework the outline based on backing up, that’s a total slow down every time.) Markers: There are very few markers. Sometimes people may spot dead end plots, but if you did a good job editing, you took those out.

Advantages: If you edit well, then no one will notice the difference. And you are 100% sure this is the best sequence of events for this character. Also helps when the character is extra bit willful for reasons you can’t crack.

Disadvantages: Time--it takes so much more time to edit the draft. Plus there are versions you have to, by nature of the project throw out no one will get to see. (Wasted paper and energy). Plus it’s super hard to edit because you have to choose which of the many paths you will take and justify it to yourself before making final drafts. How do you know you’re not doing it because you’re enamored of the idea, but it’s not the best version after all? Bad for indecision.

One sentence at a time

Chuck Palahniuk does this. One sentence, perfects it, then moves to the next.

Advantages: You are sure that sentence is perfect and therefore, the whole book doesn’t need editing by the end of it.

Disadvantages: The amount of time it takes to write the book is slow. The wording might also feel pretentious or overworked.

Milestones

I used to play this game called “Mille Bornes” which means milestone. A milestone in a person’s like are things like they were born, married, died, had children, etc. So the idea of this is that you set out things that the character has to hit in order to get to the next set of events. In order for cause A, they need to hit this event first. Because the outline is looser, it still allows them to act within the framework with agency. Also because it’s not a huge outline one has to rework every time, it allows the writer to bounce around more because they already know what their character is going to do to react to said event.

Mercedes Lackey, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey all said they used this method. Markers: The plot doesn’t always have that neat clicking sound feel to it. But the character seems to hit important events in regular well-paced order despite that. You can trick the reader by spacing the events and word count for those events differently. Usually these people pick out the ending ahead of time to make sure it doesn’t wander too much. But the ending can also feel a bit flat if one isn’t careful. If you don’t trim your events, side plots can overtake your story where there is no meaning to the overarching plot. Slash those. Newbies who use this method often end up deviating hard from the main point and that’s how one catches them.

Advantages: Takes the advantages of outlining and makes it looser. Takes the advantages of Improvising and gives it structure. Disadvantages: Editing still is a chore. Pacing might also be harder if you aren’t able to predict word count well. People can get too married to their event structure without regard to how the character has changed. They can box the character in. For the reader it feels half directed, and half not. It’s a bit harder to predict, but if you run out of event chains, and the reader guesses your tastes, they will be able to plot the entire book ahead of you and then you’re dead in the water. So plot against your preferences and towards your preferences too. Flat characters for this method are your worst enemy. The events you don’t find exciting, you might skimp out on. Make sure to rework the “boring” events. And cut as many side plots as you possibly can.

Order the story is written:

Linear Forwards- Plot from beginning, start there until you get to the end. Most writers tend to rely on this method and can’t think otherwise. Mercedes Lackey in her notes, beyond making notes about scenes she’d like to include, Anne McCaffrey, Agatha Christie (from how she said she writes), Sir Conan Doyle (Who, BTW, outlined a fair bit, though not completely--you can feel a bit of his impulsiveness peak through), Jane Austen (from reports of her manuscripts etc) and the bulk to writers stick to this method.

Linear Backwards- Know the ending you need and figure out the events that led there--mysteries do this a fair bit. Also some Japanese authors play with this quite a bit.

Skip around- Usually better for thematic or tone plotting. Or High concept. When you want a certain feel for the book, sometimes it’s better to choose on themes and events, write them quickly, then edit. Editing is a pain when done this way because places and seasons can shift by accident. Watch for plot holes. Diana Gabaldon skips around by using a bit of research and then making a scene out of it, and then stringing it together later.

Mixed- Bounce around between the methods... super messy. Lots of editing. And also sometimes lots of skimping on the “boring” bits, which isn’t a good idea.

Try ALL of them in different types and orders. Find which one suits you best and which one you struggle the most with. Get good at the one you like, then try to defeat them all and find out how people react to the story being written that way and what you need to delete and edit per way you wrote it. If there are more ways people write books... then try those methods too.

#Writing #writing advice

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Bill Meyer: Lockdown pickers 2020

You don’t need me to tell you that it’s been a hell of a year. The pile-on of environmental disaster, the COVID pandemic, people being blasted with teargas for having the temerity to suggest that living while Black shouldn’t be a shooting offense, 70 million-odd Americans endorsing and abetting buffoonish fascism, and the virtual evaporation of live music — and that’s just off the top of my head.

Still, 2020 has been a great year for recorded music. Working from home and not going out at night has meant more time to play it, and while the supply and production chains have been undeniably wonky (oh yeah, I forgot to mention our departing president’s efforts to drown the US Postal Service in the bathtub and the Apollo Masters factory fire; really, fuck you, 2020), a lot of good records have made it into my house. The year has also yielded creative musical responses by creative music makers to the loss of live performances. Chicago Experimental Sound Studio provided a platform for The Quarantine Concerts, a series of live-streaming and prepared video performances that took us into performers’ homes, basements, back yards and pottery studios (I’m talking about you, Terrie Ex). No, live-streaming is not the same as attending a concert. The experience of community and shared space can’t reach you through a screen. But hearing Joe McPhee send a shout-out from his basement Batcave to Peter Brötzmann, seeing Arto Lindsay struggle with the orientation lock on his phone and getting drawn into the layered environment that Olivia Block created with film projections, played sounds and no help from an intruding cat delivered some of the same authenticity, disaster and wonder that concerts at their best can provide. And if you have had the chance to attend some concerts since March (I’ve seen three; two appearances by improvising ensembles involving Dave Rempis in a park on Chicago’s north side, and an all-outdoor edition of the Hyde Park Jazz Festival on the south side), you probably already know that live music events aren’t the same, either. The feelings of communal trust and safety, the internal shift that says “yup, this is where I’m supposed to be,” is gone. We have a lot to recapture and rebuild once the pandemic passes.

The sales and streaming platform, Bandcamp, became a hero simply by virtue of simply treating musicians like people who need a hand rather resources to be sucked dry and discarded. The monthly Bandcamp Fridays, when the company refrained from taking its cut and passed that percentage along to the artists and labels, afforded fans a direct way to help out folks whose work was getting them through the day, and allowed people who had lost all their performing opportunities a chance to make a little money. Some players took the opportunity to release music solely through Bandcamp. English soprano/tenor saxophonist John Butcher has issued seven titles collectively dubbed The Memory of Live Music. They are a sequence of previously unreleased, archival concert recordings monthly, all splendid musical statements, but also reminders of what we have been missing. Chicago saxophonist Dave Rempis’ Aerophonic Records likewise posted live recordings of short-lived ensembles like the Outskirts that he’d never gotten around to documenting, as well as one-off encounters, such as a marvelously wooly 2012 concert with guitarist Terrie Ex and drummer Tim Daisy at Milwaukee’s Sugar Maple.

But Bandcamp also gave some musicians an opportunity to create outside the frameworks of physical recordings and performance in physical proximity. Soprano/tenor saxophonist Ingrid Laubrock and her husband, drummer Tom Rainey, used her Bandcamp page as a conduit for Stir Crazy, a semi-weekly series of home recordings. Each installment lasts 15 or 20 minutes, and it might be a free improvisation, a run through a friend or inspirational elder’s compositions, or a topical commentary, such as the loving, skeletal performances of tunes from the American Songbook that they offered a few days after the election. And jazz clarinetist Ben Goldberg has kept a Plague Diary of nearly-daily sketches for clarinet and electric keyboard. Some celebrate friends, colleagues, family members, and historical figures; others simply work out an idea. It feels a bit like an invitation to look over the guy’s shoulder and see how his notions come into being.

Other parties made the circumstances of the time into a premise for new work. Mary Staubitz (Donna Parker) and Russ Waterhouse (Blues Control) reached out to fellow musicians to contribute to Distant Duos. Each candidate’s mission was to improvise for five minutes while thinking of another player, who would likewise improvise for five minutes while thinking of their counterpart. Then Waterhouse and Parker would combine the tracks. The circumscribed duration and prior acquaintance kept collaborations by the likes of Kryssi Battalene / Jayson Gerycz and Jeb Bishop / Joseph Mauro charged and focused. And the Swiss label Insub instituted Distances, for which it enlisted eight composers (including Michael Pisaro-Liu, Ryoko Akama and Sarah Hennies) to devise pieces to be performed by two physically remote musicians (such as Mike Majkowski & Cyril Bondi, or Cristián Alvear & Violeta Motta). Each contribution consists of two videos, one a sequence of interviews with the composer and the players, the other a split-screen projection of the music being played. And if you want to take the music home, you can always buy it on Bandcamp.

But the response that compelled me most is AMPLIFY 2020: quarantine, an online festival of new work initiated by Estwhile Records’ Jon Abbey. On March 12, as concert seasons canceled and countries went to lockdown, Abbey and a circle of associates invited sound artists to contribute newly recorded pieces. Over the next six months they posted 240 pieces to Facebook and Bandcamp. Most were solo works, but several were blind duos for which musicians with shared histories and separate addresses submitted solo pieces with the understanding that they’d be mixed together. At the end of the festival, Taku Unami combined sounds from all 240 pieces into a final entry, “All Together Now.” The works encompassed paint-stripping noise, solemn études, field recordings, electronic music, musique concrete, improvisations, compositions, and works that combined several of the aforementioned methods. The contributors included people you probably know (Tom Carter, Toshimaru Nakamura, Sarah Hennies, Vanessa Rossetto), others I certainly didn’t (Fangyi Liu, Asha Sheshadri), and one who also writes for Dusted (Michael Rosenstein). They made diaries of their circumscribed days, laments for lost experiences and memorials for friends who died during the festival’s duration. There are too many good ones to name, so I’ll just single out a couple performers whose work especially touched me. Reinier van Houdt’s first piece, “drift nowhere past (22 march 2020),” marvelously captured the still loneliness of life that had shrunk to what you could perceive through a window or a screen. Five subsequent monthly instalments came to feel like notes of progress from an ongoing search for purpose and grace. And the radio captures that make up Keith Rowe’s “GF SUC,” recorded as Black Lives Matters protests arose around the world, imparted sadness beyond words; I’ve heard no music that was truer to the tragedy of this time.

Bill Meyer

#yearend 2020 #dusted magazine #bill meyer #experimental sound studio #dave rempis #hyde park jazz festival #bandcamp #john butcher #aerophonic records #stir crazy #plague diary #distant duos #distances #live music #improvised music #jazz #quarantine concerts

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justincourtneypierre · 4 years

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In 2007 I was recording part of the third Motion City album “Even If It Kills Me” in New York with Eli Janney and Adam Schlesinger at the helm. My memory is not my greatest asset, but I believe it was winter and I believe it was a cold and miserable experience. New York. Not the recording session. Recording with Eli and Adam was one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had working with Producers. Eli was very soft spoken, calm, and chill compared to Adam’s intense, and frenetic (dissecting and reassembling several ideas in the blink of an eye whirlwind) force of nature. They were a good team.

I did not know Adam outside of making this record. I enjoyed his music, his many bands, the songs from movies and television shows he wrote, and the music he produced. So I guess maybe I did know him - through all that. I don’t know. The point here is that I wanted to offer a little moment behind the curtain to let you all in on what I experienced working with the man, to celebrate his essential brand of brilliance in the studio.

There is a song that stands out for me from that session. It’s called “Antonia“ (you can find it anywhere if you’re interested in hearing what I’m about to write). The original idea was fairly straightforward in terms of structure. Again, apologies if any of this is inaccurate... For once I had a great problem. I had too many options for lyrics, as the song is a laundry list of things I loved about a certain imaginary woman, the nuances, the weird stuff (I borrowed heavily from Tom Waits’ “First Kiss” in this respect). Anyway... I really only had an A part and a B part and they went back and forth for an eternity. Matt Taylor ended up writing the chorus music, which solidified the whole thing.

Then Adam got a hold of it.

He ripped the entire thing apart and dug around in its guts, throwing what felt like hundreds of ideas at us at warped speed, eventually helping us reassemble a far superior version of the song (you can listen to a live demo we did of the track on the 10th anniversary reissue of the album if you want to compare and contrast). It was amazing. He suggested that we do the little walk down B part on EVERY rotation instead of just the last two. When going to the chorus for the first time he had us not sing for two rotations, which was fucking bonkers. But it totally worked. Blew my mind. He had us add a solo (I’ll get to that in a minute), and before the solo had us double the little tag that would normally lead us back into the next verse. But instead of doing that, I got to lay down a “ripping” solo (which led to me on future albums doing way more of that sort of thing). I had never written a solo under duress before. He had me just play along (terribly) and improvise solo takes. He recorded maybe 8 takes in total and then cut and pasted the parts he liked together, even moving parts around to the front that I played at the end. It happened so fast. Then he played what he thought the solo should be back to me and I was floored. It was incredible. My only request was that I be given some time to learn this new cut and paste solo so that I could do it for real in a single take (if possible).

That day is suddenly coming back to me, flooding waves of nostalgia, a moment in time I didn’t pay enough attention to when it was happening (story of my life). Maybe that’s just what happens when someone dies. Things that you chalked up to just another winter day in a studio in New York now have more weight. I was working with, and I rarely use this word, a true genius, an artist unparalleled, a great fucking man, and I didn’t even realize it fully until years later. I’d run into Adam at festivals in Europe or randomly in New York here and there and it was always great exchanging brief and simple pleasantries. We were not close, but when you work intensely with someone on a piece of art, and you pour your soul into their hands, and allow them to reshape it into something new, something excellent, something you couldn’t have done on your own, you become forever tied to them in a way.

He will be missed by so many. He leaves behind a continent sized hole where his magic used to reside. My heart goes out to his family and close friends. I can’t imagine what they are going through on top of this slow motion horror show we all find ourselves living in. Please take a few hours and listen to some of his work and share it with others. Turn people on to him, rediscover him, or simply continue to enjoy the art he put into the world. My buddy Tony Thaxton put together a great Spotify mix of songs of his. You can check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/22qybPKx9zwSMXvBh9nLWX?si=dM9Y2IKnS_KQLhpP1UbTBg

Also, here is the only footage I could find of myself with Adam in the studio: https://youtu.be/499HPJ_rI1Q

I was working out a guitar lead for the song “Can’t Finish What You Started” around the 2:45 mark. We lost a lot of footage after Hurricane Sandy, so unfortunately these 8 or so episodes are all we have of that recording session.

So yeah... Maybe you’re a fan, maybe you’re a friend, maybe you didn’t even know who Adam was. Hopefully this tiny glimpse of my experience with him fills your heart with a little more joy. There is definitely sadness when I think of him, but there is much more joy. The world was made better by him having been in it. We still have his music. We still have his essence. Let’s listen. Let’s love. Let’s feel. Stay safe out there, good people. I hope to see you on the other side of this when all is said and done. Much love. -JCP.

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mikauzoran · 4 years

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Lukadrien: Études: Fifty Kisses: Forty-Third Kiss

Études: Fifty Lukadrien Kisses: Forty-Third Kiss

(Prompt Forty-Three: A kiss pressed to the top of the head.)

“Okay. Sit here so that I can help you,” Luka instructed, patting the spot on the couch between his legs.

Louis eagerly climbed up and held his hands out for the baby. “Papa, I can do it. I know how. You showed me.”

“Yes, but it’s very important that you do it exactly right,” Luka replied with a calming tone and a soft smile as he eased Hugo down into Louis’s arms, letting Louis support most of the weight but keeping a hand under Hugo’s head. “See. You’re doing it. You’re doing a good job, Loulou.”

“I’m a good big brother,” Louis announced proudly.

“Yes, you are,” Adrien affirmed, chuckling as he came up from behind, leaning over the back of the couch to press kisses to the sides of Louis and Luka’s heads in quick succession. “I’m really proud of you, Lou.”

Louis giggled happily as he looked back over his shoulder to Luka. “Can I feed him? I wa’a feed him.”

“It’s not time now, but I’ll come get you when it is, and you can give him his bottle, okay?” Luka offered appeasingly.

“Oookaaay,” Louis sighed, obviously disappointed but, oddly, not making a big deal out of it.

“No one is paying attention to me,” Emma whined, coming over from where she’d been coloring at the kitchen table to hang off of the back of the couch. “All you guys do nowadays is bring home new babies and fuss over them, and no one is paying attention to me.”

“I’ll pay attention to you, Sweetie,” Adrien offered, giving her inky black hair a gentle pet.

“I want Papa,” Emma asserted, pulling away.

“Emmie,” Luka chided. “You’re too old to be acting like this.”

“Pay attention to me,” Emma demanded sulkily. “You never pay attention to me anymore since we got them.” She pointed accusatorially at her younger brothers.

“I’ll pay ‘tention to you, Emmie,” Louis offered.

“Hey,” Adrien called softly, reaching out again to place a hand between Emma’s shoulder blades and guide her towards the parlor. “Come on. Let’s go play piano together. Show me how good you’re getting.”

Emma grumbled under her breath but consented to be led away.

They sat down side by side on the bench, and Adrien began leafing through the piles of sheet music that had somehow accumulated over the years.

“How about this? I know you and Luka were working on this one.” He placed Debussy’s Petite Suite for four hands on the stand in front of them.

Emma grumbled under her breath but ultimately put her hands into position. “Ready? I’ll count six and then we go.”

“Ready when you are,” Adrien assured, doing a quick scan of the key and time signature and determining that he should be able to sight read without too much trouble. It wouldn’t be perfect, but his father wasn’t there to critique the performance, and Luka and Adrien made a point of not exacting perfection from their children or themselves.

They played the first movement of the piece, En Bateau, with all the serenity of a peaceful body of water mixed with the exuberance and fun of a sunny day of sailing.

It wasn’t perfect. Emma was still learning, and she didn’t have a real love of the piano that inspired her to play over and above what was required to progress in her lessons. Adrien didn’t expect she would ever truly be good, but she was good enough. They mainly had their children take lessons for the personal enrichment of learning a skill, the sense of accomplishment when a piece went well, the discipline learned from practice, the cultural experience of being exposed to music, and so that they would all have an activity in common as a family. It didn’t matter that Emma was mediocre.

“You know…” Adrien cleared his throat at the end of the first movement. “This is my old piano.”

“Mmhm,” Emma confirmed disinterestedly, picking out pitches, improvising a wandering tune.

“I used to play like you and I just did with my mother.” He swallowed down the emotion that welled up when he thought of her. “That was really special for me…. I never really liked the piano until I met your father, though.”

Adrien’s fingers started to move on the keys, harmonizing with Emma’s melody.

“Luka was the one that made me really love piano…. I realize that you don’t love piano right now, Emmie, but I hope you’ll like it better someday because, as special as playing with my mom was, what’s even more special is sharing this with you. It’s like…all three of us are connected by this piano. Maybe this means nothing to you right now, but…I hope that it will someday. I hope someday you’ll play this piano with your own children.”

Emma stopped playing to look up at Adrien in surprise. “You’re not going to give it to Louis or Hugo?”

Adrien blinked down at his daughter. “Well…I mean…you’re the oldest. It only seems right to offer it to you first.”

“But…” Emma bit her lip, looking down at her hands and hesitantly picking out dissonant keys before hitting on a sequence that worked. “…It’s your piano. I just thought you’d want to give it to your own children.”

Adrien stared at Emma in shock. “What?”

“I know that I’m not really your daughter,” Emma mumbled.

“Who the hell told you that?” Adrien tried not to snap, but he couldn’t help the seething edge to his voice.

“I figured it out,” Emma confessed. “After Louis was born. When I started to go to school and I realized that everyone else had a mommy and a daddy, but I didn’t. And the other kids said that I had to have a mommy because everyone has a mommy except for the girl with the braids whose mommy died, so I asked Auntie Juleka because my cousins don’t have a daddy, so I thought the kids at school were wrong.” Emma took a deep breath and switched keys into C minor. “Then Auntie Juleka explained how Auntie Rose was really my mommy and how you and Papa were really my cousins’ daddies but how you and Papa were raising me instead of Papa and Auntie Rose because Auntie Rose is in love with Auntie Juleka and Papa loves you. So…I know I’m not your daughter…and I know that Louis and Hugo and Josephine and Violetta are your real children, so it makes more sense to give the piano to one of them.”

“Emmie,” Adrien called gently. “Look at me.” He stilled her hands with his own, wrapping his fingers around hers.

She looked up at him with Luka’s ice blue eyes.

“Baby, you may not be mine biologically, but that doesn’t make you any less my daughter,” he explained, voice almost cracking with emotion. “I have been there with you every step along the way: when we first found out you were coming, your first photos on the ultrasound, when you first started to kick, the day you were born…. I’ve fed you and clothed you and bathed you. I’ve changed your diapers and held you when you cried. I’ve taken care of you when you were sick and sung to you when you’ve had nightmares. I’ve been there for birthdays and holidays and all the boring, normal days in between. I taught you how to brush your teeth and tie your shoes. Emma, even though I’m not related to you by blood, I have done everything a father is supposed to do and more. I love you just the same as I love Louis and Hugo.”

“But you don’t fuss over me the way you do them,” Emma mumbled, voice small and sad.

“I did when you were little like them,” Adrien countered. “You were too young to remember, but I held you and fed you and carried you around in a sling just like I do Hugo.”

Her eyes widened. “You did?”

“I did,” Adrien confirmed. “In fact, you got even more attention than Hugo because, at that point, you were the only one Luka and I had to worry about. We lavished all of our attentions on you. You didn’t have to share with another sibling like Louis and Hugo. When you were a baby, it was all about you all the time.”

“I don’t remember,” Emma giggled.

“Trust me,” Adrien chuckled, pulling Emma into a hug. “We were at your mercy…. I’m sorry if it feels like we’re neglecting you lately with adding Louis and Hugo to the family. I promise you, we don’t love you any less even though we’ve got two other children to love now. Do you think it would help if Luka and I made time to do things with just you? Would you like to have Daddy-Daughter time? Maybe go see a play together or the ballet or maybe just go to Angelina’s and get hot chocolate and mont blancs? Just you and me?”

Emma pulled back, eyes going wide. She drew in a large breath and exclaimed, “Angelina’s! Can we? And then Tom and Sabine’s for macarons! Can we?”

“This afternoon,” Adrien promised.

“Yes! Thank you, Daddy!” Emma trilled, leaning in to give Adrien’s cheek a kiss.

“You’re very welcome, My Little One,” Adrien cooed, nuzzling her midnight black hair. “Never forget that you have two parents who love you very, very much. Not everyone is lucky enough to have that, but you do. Please don’t ever doubt that. If you ever start feeling neglected again, say something, Darling. I never want you to feel like that, okay?” He gave her one last squeeze and then let go to look her in the eye.

Emma nodded. “Okay…. I’m gonna go draw some more now, okay?”

“Okay, Sweetie.” Adrien gave her a pat on the shoulder and let her go. “Have fun.”

And she was off, racing past Luka on her way back to the kitchen.

Adrien smiled sheepishly at his husband. “How long have you been standing there?”

Luka grimaced, readjusting Hugo in his sling as he came over to Adrien at the piano. “Louis got tired of holding the baby since it wasn’t feeding time, so he went to color pretty much as soon as you and Emmie left. I’ve been loitering in the doorway since then, listening to you guys play Debussy…eavesdropping on your conversation…. Are you okay, Perfect Fifth?”

Adrien winced. “Still kind of smarting that my daughter’s been thinking that she wasn’t really my daughter for three years.”

Luka leaned in and gently placed a kiss to the top of Adrien’s head.

Adrien stood up to wrap his arms around Luka, resting his head on Luka’s other shoulder, opposite Hugo, careful not to jostle the baby.

Luka held him tight, and they just stood there breathing in and out, letting the time tick by unaccounted for for several minutes.

Adrien took a deep inhale and pulled back. “Thanks.”

“Any time, My Love,” Luka assured with an adoring smile. “…Want to play something together?”

Adrien motioned to the piano questioningly with his head.

Luka nodded.

A shy smile slowly spread across Adrien’s lips. “Okay, but I’m not as good as you, Monsieur Professional Pianist Agreste-Couffaine.”

Luka shrugged. “You’re not bad. I’ll let you bottom.”

“I’d hit you for that, but you’re currently wearing our son,” Adrien snorted.

“That’s okay. You’ll get me back for it tonight, I’m sure,” Luka chuckled, sitting down on the bench and flipping the Debussy score to movement number three, Menuet.

“I most definitely will,” Adrien promised, already concocting plans.

Luka smiled coyly. “But seriously. Which part do you want to play?”

“The bottom part,” Adrien grumbled, sitting down to Luka’s left and lightly hip-checking his husband. “I like the low registers better.”

“I know you do,” Luka laughed.

“I’m going to bite you,” Adrien threatened…and then actually carried through.

#Lukadrien #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Adrien Agreste/Luka Couffaine #Adrien Agreste #Luka Couffaine #Kissing #Writing Prompt #Mikau's Writings #Études: Fifty Lukadrien Kisses

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flipsideds · 4 years

Text

“ oh, haha... ” a default response to a very non-default situation –– a little post-show, barside rendez-vous with an older man who insists nour has been singing to directly to him the entire night. “ flirting ? i... ”

gentle eyes gloss over the banquet hall’s dimmed lights, bright smiles, flickering electric candles... “ . . . what’s that ? ” and then he’s off, gin and tonic in hand. three strides and it’s already half-drained. yikes.

or, alternatively : greetings loved ones!! my name is linc ( 21 / est / she/her ) and here is the ever so graceful, ever so unintentionally magnetic nour al-busiri! below the cut you’ll find a messy run-down. i am so excited to plot & write with all of you !!

( i’m scheduled for a tonsillectomy tomorrow so i’m gonna be so grateful for the distraction, y’all have no idea. )

if you want some great mood-setters for this beb’s backstory / insight into his soul, slap on some jacob collier, kevin garrett, or charlie burg ‘n let’s get cookin’ !

so this is all copy-pasted from a discord chat with devon bc i improvised nour’s entire life story over a span of... 10 minutes ?? bahaha pls enjoy i apologize in advance. ( i also put this in normal text size bc it is v long and i don’t want anyone hurting their eyes !! protect dem beautiful retinas <3 )

h i s t o r y .

his parents met in grade school in egypt, but then didn't reconnect until their masters studies crossed paths in london... immediately fell head over heels again ( had they been searching for one another in crowds since being 6-7 years old?? maybe... ). graduated top of their class, accepted job offers in london in the biopharmaceutical realm. but then. when nour was 3...

they were involved in a freak monorail accident on their way back from a science conference in amsterdam. the babysitter paid 80 quid to watch the kids for two nights became their sole protector in this world. british authorities had trouble contacting other kin, but managed to reach mr. al-busiri's mother, rashida, who was still living in dahab with her second husband, zaim.

the al-busiri's came from old money. so off nour goes ( and potentially his older bro if i decide he exists... potential wc with a rami malek fc tbh ) to live in the city which, unbeknownst to him, sparked his parents' storybook love.

so nour grows up in this like... picturesque seaside childhood. collects shells. bonds with his grandmother and her husband. they encourage him with school, etc. but he quickly shows that he excels at maths and... music? wow. that's unexpected. gets his first piano at 5. first guitar at 6. by 8 1/2, he's managed to hodge-podge together a little recording studio for himself in his bedroom, and he's constantly serenading his friends at school.

( death tw / illness tw ) then comes zaim's stroke. he lives for four months after, but he loses his ability to speak. his motor skills deteriorate. nour and his grandmother do their best to tend to him –– she's already about 40% down the macular degeneration path, but hasn't told him yet that her vision's going. so 10 y/o nour does what he does best: unconditional love and support, delivered through the gift of song. zaim dies after requesting his favorite song: 'blackbird' by the beatles, sung in verses alternating from english to arabic.

after, it's just nour and rashida against the world ( maybe his brother too bergorghre if i decide he's a thing ) . rashida's forced to come clean about her vision the day she can't for the life of her find the bloody pen she just put down so she can finish signing off on nour's choir trip permission slip. ( it's right next to her, to her left, just out of her closing field of vision. ) things progress more rapidly after that. by the time nour's 16, his grandmother is legally blind. it's not an uncommon sight to see him at the markets or strolling along the beach with her on his arm. she refuses canes as long as nour's around. ( “ don't rob me of my youth, nuri-nuri [ my light ] ” )

despite her growing dependency on him, she encourages him to apply to unis all over the globe. by the time college apps roll around, nour is somewhat of a local household name: he plays summer concerts, coffee shops, and is even asked to play at his teacher's wedding ceremony –– and his neighbor's cat funeral.

acceptances roll in. julliard. berkeley. chicago school of music. he chooses chicago, because there's someone there. someone he connected with online a few years back, a friend, but... could turn into something more. this hopeless romantic heedlessly ventures off to find out if this boy in chicago might... be someone. something more.

spoiler alert: he gets to chicago, starts music school. and each meet-up they set? gets pushed. sometimes it's traffic. a cold. transit trouble. can't get work off, sorry. things with ma are really tough. the excuses kept coming but... nour's naive. he believes every word. but in his second year of uni, things....... start getting suspicious. by chance, he spots this man in the window of a coffee shop downtown. overjoyed, he texts as much. but ... messages go read and unanswered. phone calls dwindle.

his music suffers. so does his muse. so much so that he's tempted to drop out, to throw in the towel, to just...... go back home. he speaks with his grandmother each day on the phone. she's doing well, stop worrying, nuri-nuri, your uncle is taking good care of me. nour goes on dates. thinks about chicago boy. thinks about him a lot.

he's 20 when it happens. sat on a stage in a little dive bar, tuning his acoustic guitar for an opening number, and there. those eyes. he knows them.

they talk after the show, in the alley. share a cigarette. and it's almost like... maybe things are finally clicking. maybe this is finally their shot.

except chicago boy ( neil ) says they have to stop talking. that he had to just... see nour for himself. see that he's real. hear him sing, and... move on. nour doesn't buy it. pushes back. asks why the hell neil'd come out now only to slink back to the shadows. things get heated. neil yells. and the men... the men who hear and come running ? they think nour is the cause of it all.

( hate crime tw, violence tw ) how many kicks does it take to break to the center of a broken heart ? twelve. how many broken ribs does it take to immobilize a probably terrorist, dude ? four. shattered wrist. snapped ankle. broken arm. cracked skull. and neil scuttles off like nour's bad meat. bad blood. like he asked for this.

chicago school of music receives a call from weiss memorial three days later.

nour never gets his degree. he breaks his apartment lease. flies home after he heals, spends a year with his grandmother and uncle. just... creating. writing, playing, trying to fill that void with something. but then things with his uncle get heated. he wants to put his own mother in a home, sell the estate, pocket the cash. nour fights it, but he's got no legal bearing.

the nursing home concept never takes hold, though, because his grandmother's still sharp as shit and refuses to sign anything nour doesn't read first. eventually the uncle grows tired of fighting and stops trying, just... slinks back to his husband and keeps his mouth shut. nour's grandmother pressures him to go back to chicago, make that city wish he never left. take back his own story. together they work to find a live-in aide they trust. freshly 22, nour ventures back to the city that broke him.

he finds cheap housing, a gig. the malnati, seems legit. good money. good exposure. and then he meets @ryderxmms –– they form one night stand. when not scheduled for malnati banquets, you can find nour providing vocals ( and occasional keys ) in the dive bars / parties the band lands gigs at.

g e n e r a l .

nour creates like food and drink don’t exist, sunlight is an illusion, and all the human body needs for sustenance is sound. he can find his way around just about any instrument under the sun, but his main poisons are piano, acoustic guitar, and digital recording tools –– think jacob collier and you’re right on the money.

actually, i’m stealing a lot of jacob collier discography and pegging it as his creations. this kid’s got an experimental sound and loves it.

he grew up speaking english and arabic equally, but because he learned english in london and then continued in egypt, he does have a mild brit-arab accent. it’s v cute, i promise.

looks like he’d be a total lothario, yeah ?? but. he’s so shy ? so sweet ? get him on a stage and he’s shameless but plop him in a bar and eye him up and he’ll honestly just smile nervously and pretend you’re looking at someone else.

love languages : singing to his succulents and plants before his 5am morning runs. facetime calls at times least convenient for him, but most convenient for you. little notes written on napkins, smiley face doodles included. candy bars. lingering a little longer in doorways after saying hello, just to see you smile.

he’s got major water sign vibes. birthday comin’ up in march, woot woot !!

he often wears very simple statement pieces. he likes rings, crystal pendants, leather bracelets. soft tees layered with embroidered jackets, metallic blazers. somehow he pulls off mixed media and crazy prints that should never go together ? he just... is so easy breezy.

he often wears his hair wild ‘n curly, unless the gig he’s got mandates a more streamlined look.

falls in love.... 14 times a day ?? really.

has a scar across his left temple from the incident with neil. will probably write it off as a bike riding accident. ( he doesn’t know how to ride a bike. )

don’t let him cook ever, okay ?? unless you want him to literally do this.

pls come at me for all the plots ? i’m so open for all the things !!! y’all got me on discord, so feel free to slide on into my dms. i promise i will be so thrilled <3

#intro.#☼ –– gimme that afterglow ! inspo.

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aboleth-eye · 5 years

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Hello! Would you have any advice for new DMs/things you wish you had been told when you started DMing? I'd like to try it myself, but I've only ever been a player, and just figuring out where to start is a bit overwhelming! Thank you in advance!

Great Question! Here are my Lessons Learned from when I ran a game for the first time!

There are Four Lessons I wish I’d known when I got started: Have Your Resources Handy, Start Small (3 Parts), Things Go Awry, and Have Fun Together! ((This is going to be a very long post, so I’ll cap it a little less than halfway down))

1.) Have Your Resources Handy!

If this is your first time running a Tabletop RPG system, even if you’ve been playing for years, HAVE THE BOOK(S), WEBSITE(S) AND/OR PDF(S) NEARBY! I’m serious about this, guys! Playing a game or watching someone else play is a totally different monster to running it!

When you first declare to the group that you’d like to host a game, I recommend you read the rules over at least two or three times before hand–start with a deep read first to get it all in your head, and then you can choose to speed read once you’ve had some time to digest the rules.

But even if reading ttrpgs is your thing, have the resources within easy reach. Either have your laptop available with open tabs to any pdfs/scans of the game source material and any relevant websites (like standard reference document pages), and/or have a physical copy of the game book with you. If you are running certain monsters or encounters, I also recommend you copy down any stats and information to a separate text document (on laptop or printed) so you won’t have to page through stuff during the game.

2A.) Start Small: The Setting

If this is your first time or fiftieth time running a tabletop roleplaying game, and you are running a new system for the first time, limit the scope of project to start. Writing campaign and world settings can be very intense, and it is very easy to write something too specific and railroad people into your lore and world.

For instance, don’t create a massive world with a continent of named cities and landmarks! Don’t plan out every inch of your world, or else it’ll turn into a “fill-in-the-blank exploration” story instead of an organic world you can change as your group learns and grows!

My first campaign started in a very specifically written city on the edge of a vast magical desert. I planned out a timetable of events that would catapult the players into the “open-world”. The players noticed this and didn’t appreciate it.

Also, do not bog your players down with Lore! I’ve gone into campaigns where you need to know information “for backstory”! This is your first campaign, it’s good to know what to introduce and when! A group of starting adventurers typically doesn’t need to know your world’s entire array of deities, pages and pages of history, and legends “that shaped the world”! You can introduce these things at character creation IF THE PLAYERS ASK, and then slowly dish things out as the characters live in your world.

It’s also good to not ties yourself down to specific placement of towns, countries, cities, landmarks, etc. Leave the map blank save for the starting area, and any broadly defined areas such as forests and mountains. Once characters finish their first missions and adventures, they’ll explore! With all the “white space” of your world, you can insert places and things as you journey with the group!

One of my favorite encounters when I was very new to D&D was when we accidentally burned down a forest. We were fighting a massive tiger with a pixie NPC in a forest, and the pixie just trapped everyone (tiger included) in entangling vines. Our pyromancer in the party tried to set the beast on fire, and they rolled a critical failure.

The beast was set on fire and died! And so did the pixie! And now there’s a raging forest fire we have to run from! We get an oxcart running and we take shifts to outrun the magical fire–FOR THREE DAYS! It was an incredibly tense situation, and it was fun to add “an entire forest” to the pyromancer player’s list of things they set on fire.

You know what would have made all that suck? If the DM had decided: “Okay, you pass through this location which is a lich’s hideout and have to face that; then the next day you’ll have to ford a river with the tired oxes. Finally, you’ll be passing through this county’s border…”

We just burned down a placeholder forest, and all the consequences that came with it came AFTER we were finally safe! The DM didn’t bog us down with heavy lore and their maps during a tense situation; they kept the focus on the action at hand.

Prioritize the players’ story before your own! That’s the lesson I want to make absolutely clear. You aren’t telling your story with friends as the characters; the Dungeon Master/Game Master/Storyteller is the worldbuilder who tells the character groups’ story as they interact with the world.

2B) Start Small: The First Encounters

Another item I want to bring up is Do Not Start Your Campaign with a “Unique Encounter”! Start your campaign setting with a simple task for the players to face. Here are the kinds of challenges I mean: defeat a bunch of zombies in a graveyard for a reward, go into a mine full of bats to retrieve a homing beacon, follow a simple mystery to find a girl’s lost dog, etc. The Players’ should be introduced to your world with something simple to follow–that way they can make their marks and introduce how they roleplay to the story.

Do Not try something you’ve “never seen before”! Don’t have the characters whisked off to another plane or world while they slept! Don’t have the players face fifteen or so mooks at once during an ambush! Don’t have your characters struggle to tread water or leap floating platforms while fighting a monster! These kinds of encounters instantly put players on guard and feel railroaded! Give them the chance to decide how they integrate themselves into the adventure.

My first campaign violated this rule. When the players left the city to enter the desert, they were suddenly beset by 12 monstrous scorpions! And me, in my ambitious tunnel-vision, thought it’d be interesting to have each scorpion have its own turn. I rolled twelve Initiatives for the scorpions and it was a LONG combat when it clearly didn’t have to be.

It all looked so good in my head, but when you get players involved you can tell how grueling and boring something like that could be. I learned a lot that session.

That combat ended the campaign for me. I decided to go back to the drawing board because that kind of thinking was not going to fly for me and my friends.

Instead, give your players a task that could easily be solved in one or two sessions! Do not give your players “only one way” to solve this! For instance, if your first challenge is to get past some guards, let the players come up with the solution themselves. They might decide to fight the guards, use magic/science to teleport past them, go off on a side quest to become guards so they can infiltrate them, or even walk up and attempt to socialize with them. You as the storyteller/DM merely narrate the results of whatever the characters do; just bridge the gaps and think of consequences from the players’ actions.

ALSO! Have a time limit for your first session, or plan breaks for food/drink/stretching. This activity of DMing can be very stressful, and you might need a break to take stock of what problems and choices occurred during play.

2C.) Start Small: The Players

Have your players build starting or low-level characters (I typically start with 3rd level for D&D). The low levels will mean most powergaming and gamebreaking attempts by certain types of players will be nipped in the bud right from the start. It will also typically limit the powers and abilities of your group (so you won’t have to memorize or look up high-level stuff until much later).

Another thing I highly recommend is that you are present during character creation! Do not let people determine/roll character abilities and stats without you. Either be physically present when dice get rolled and abilities get determined, or be present digitally in a chatroom, discord or roll20 when electronic character sheets get filled in!

My first campaign I allowed one of the players to bring a character from a friend’s campaign into it. The original DM ended the campaign; and even though I had played in that campaign alongside this character I had no clue what they could do. This made things challenging because this character “suddenly” remembered they could fly–so I had to add aerial combat onto my plate during the first fight of the campaign.

It made the situation tense, especially with my bad early encounters (see the 12 Scorpions combat above).

3.) Things Go Awry

If you’ve come this far, there’s one last piece of advice I want to give you. Your first campaign is gonna suck in one way or another.

I don’t mean that to be disheartening; I want you to think of it as a learning experience. Whenever a person learns a new skill or engages in a new activity for the first time, it’s always gonna suck. (Even if someone has a “natural talent”). You as the DM/Storyteller are going to notice problems crop up left and right; especially if you don’t take the advice I offered above. For instance, if you start learning to paint with a new medium or start a sport you’ve never tried; you need to practice with the tools and techniques you’ve prepared to see what works for your style of learning.

Running a roleplaying game is a very unique mashup of activities. There’s typically a math element you need to consider behind every action the players take. You need to workout your improvisation skills to bridge connections and gaps your players make. You need to get in front of a group of people (sometimes more or less experienced than you) and tell a story that keeps their attention. It’s a stressful mix of being an improv actor, a storyteller and the physical laws of your world.

Hopefully your players will understand when things get crazy and overwhelming. Gametime might come to a halt because you need to look up a specific rule or wording that you aren’t familiar with. It’s okay. Until you get to know how your game world runs with your players in it, it is totally fine to take a breath and think things through. Oftentimes you can ask your players for help in making a determination or house-ruling.

Last note on this topic: Get Feedback! At the end of the session, be bold and ask your players if they enjoyed the session, what they liked and what they didn’t like. Feedback is how DMs get insight on how the game is playing out. While you’re DMing, your mind is on a million different topics; let the players tell you how they felt during gameplay, so you know what made them feel good or bad on the other side of the curtain.

4.) Have Fun Together!

This is something that needs to be said, if I’m honest. Running a game can be a stressful activity that “ruins” some things about it now that you are “behind the curtain”. This is your first session, in what you hope to be a series of games where you and your friends make all sorts of memories.

However, some DMs get incredibly discouraged and no-nonsense when they run a game for their first few times. That is understandable, especially if being the “mastermind” is a challenge you haven’t prepared for. A few sessions in and you might find the game isn’t fun for you and/or your players. That might be a sign that you need to take a break from hosting–use that time to think how you can make the game fun for everyone, or if this campaign just needs to be scrapped!

The priority of the DM is to bring people together. If a game system, campaign concept or player actions aren’t making the group (you included) happy; it’s better to stop things and take stock before things go too far. It is never fun to admit your game isn’t viable or enjoyable, but hopefully you’ll have new experience you can take with you the next time you try your game.

And heck, if you find you prefer playing at this time, that’s fine! Even if this attempt didn’t have the results you expected, there is nothing to stop you from trying again later if you wanted. But now that you know how it is behind the curtain, you are naturally more observant to how your own DM/GM runs their games and you can learn from it.

Remember how good the game system/lore/etc made you feel! It’s why you wanted to DM in the first place; you recognized you had a story you wanted to tell, and this ttrpg had the tools to bring it to life! No matter what problems arise when you’re behind the curtain, the game should still bring you enjoyment whether you play or manage the game. Do not give up on the game just because of one bad session or two!

When I decided to end my campaign, it really was a painful decision. I loved the world as it was in my mind, but I was not executing it well so that my players enjoyed it. I got feedback after that terrible 12 Scorpions combat, and decided to take some time to think about everything. Our group went back to our original DM, with other members trying to DM in that time; and honestly I didn’t DM until I started a small separate group months later.

During that gap in DMing I digested what I liked and didn’t like about my campaign, and had more time to reflect on the rules. I decided to take a few steps back and learn from my mistakes. I still made mistakes the second and third times I DMed, I make mistakes even to this day.

But at the heart of it all, I love games so much that I want to constantly make my stories and worlds even better, even to this day.

I take the struggles of DMing as learning experiences, rather than let them define me as a writer, storyteller and game master. I use them as stepping stones so I don’t fall through the gaps again. I may have started out with a bad first campaign, but I would never take those mistakes away.

I hope these lessons were helpful! I love D&D and tabletop roleplaying games so much, and love giving out advice on how to make the experience your own. I hope this helps a lot of new people bring their stories to life! Also, I hope I helped everyone’s expectations into the right state of mind.

Good luck and happy gaming everyone!! Much love!

– Aboleth-Eye

#aboleth eye #d&d ask #d&d resources #dm resources #lessons learned #tabletop games #tabletop resources #dm inspiration #tabletop inspiration #game night #tabletop story

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magefeatheredfic · 5 years

Text

It’s not technically Valentine’s Day here yet, but I’m getting ready for bed so I figured I’d slap my @mysmevalentinesdayexchange fic up real quick! Happy Valentine’s Day to @leiram-art I really hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: Saeyoung x MC

Rating: G

Word Count: 4,500

All throughout their lives, ice cream had been the rarest and most treasured treat for the Choi twins. When they were young: because they had no money, because they weren't allowed to leave the house together, because they weren't allowed to ask for unnecessary things - or even necessary ones. When they were apart: because Mint Eye offered luxuries like sweets few and far between, because the mere thought of ice cream reminded 707 of the person he'd been, and the person he'd left behind; above all, because neither of them felt very deserving of it at any point in that span of time. Now that they're reunited: because Saeran's anxiety prevents him from leaving the house almost as effectively as their mother had, and because keeping it in the house seemed like it would taint the speciality of it, ruin all their memories of ice cream as the highest reward.

But it's still cold enough in February that the ice cream parlor nearest to their apartment is almost always empty, even on Valentine's Day, and an empty shop is the most inviting kind to those with anxiety. Saeyoung has been awash with loneliness ever since he weaseled himself out of his job as an agent - “Nothing is stopping me from getting a girlfriend anymore, and I still can't manage to find one!” - and Saeran's mental health is still trying to bounce back from the seasonal depression, and both of these conditions are only exacerbated by the impending doom that is the lovey-dovey holiday. As such, the brothers decide to treat each other to a nice ice cream outing on Valentine’s day, so that neither of them is stuck moping around the house over their lack of partnership.

The bell above the door jingles when they enter, catching the attention of the girl behind the counter. “Welcome!” she calls, glancing up at the boys and throwing a bright smile their way.

“Oh no,” Saeyoung whispers, coming to a halt just inside the doorway, one arm held out to stop Saeran in his tracks as well.

Saeran looks down at the hand on his chest, brows furrowed, then looks to Saeyoung. “What's wrong?” he asks. Saeyoung nods his head toward the cashier.

“She's cute,” he answers, sounding positively mortified.

Saeran sighs, pushing Saeyoung's arm aside and continuing into the shop. “Wait!” Saeyoung hisses. He grabs Saeran by the sleeve, tugging his brother back. “I need time to prepare myself!”

“Prepare yourself a little closer to the counter, so I can see what flavors they have,” Saeran says. “You look like a creep hovering in the doorway.”

Saeyoung groans, and follows Saeran across the dining area. Saeran examines the case of ice cream flavors, while Saeyoung tries to control his breathing. Talking to beautiful women as an agent, when he simply needed to use them to finish a job, had been easy. Flirting with any cute girl he saw when he knew he wasn't allowed to have relationships, and therefore it didn't matter whether or not she reciprocated, had been a piece of cake. But actually approaching a girl who looked cuter than anything his imagination could have cooked up, and smiled like she might actually understand his sense of humor, when he was free and able to have romantic intentions? Speaking to her face to face?

Saeyoung felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest.

“Are you guys ready?” her voice chimes, startling Saeyoung out of his thoughts. His eyes dart up to her face, and he feels his cheeks heat when she smiles at him. He smiles back, but his mind blanks itself of all verbal responses. Luckily, Saeran speaks up.

“I think so.”

The girl turns her attention to Saeran, but Saeyoung can't take his eyes off of her. “Cup or cone?” she asks. Saeyoung watches the way her lips wrap around the question, the way her tied-back hair swings over her shoulder when she turns to grab Saeran's choice of cone. “And what flavor would you like?”

“A scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate.”

Saeyoung's eyes follow her as she ducks down to reach into the display case, scooping out Saeran's order. She steps a little further down the line, stopping in front of the toppings display. Saeyoung finally manages to tear his eyes away when she glances back at the pair of them, asking Saeran, “Any toppings?”

Saeran steps over to take a look at the options, while Saeyoung pretends to be incredibly interested in the menu board hanging overhead. “Chopped peanuts. Please.”

She hands Saeran his cone once he's confirmed that he doesn't want any more toppings, then returns to Saeyoung. “And for you?”

Saeyoung allows his eyes to return to her when she addresses him, and his lips return the smile she gives him without any input from his brain. It doesn't occur to him that he should be replying until she prompts, “Cup or cone?”

“Ah!” The question manages to startle Saeyoung out of his stupor, and kick his brain into gear. Her interaction with Saeran had been so standard and plain, he wanted to immediately separate himself from any idea she might have that he and his twin were identical in personality as well. “A cup, please,” he replies. His eyes flick down to her name tag, and he leans in as he reads it. “MC.”

Her smile brightens when he uses her name, and she bats her eyes at him when she turns to grab his cup. “And what flavor would you like?”

Saeyoung blinks, his smile falters. He realizes that he has not so much as glanced at the flavor options. His eyes drop down to the display case, and he hums thoughtfully. There are too many flavors for him to make a quick decision, so he improvises. Leaning his arms on the display, propping his chin up on one palm, he fixes her with a bright grin and asks, “What does the chef recommend?”

MC snorts out a laugh, glances from side to side, then leans over the glass. “Don't tell the other patrons, but we don't actually make the ice cream ourselves,” she tells him in a playful stage whisper. Saeyoung reels back with an exaggerated gasp, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“What a scandal!” he proclaims. “I don't think I can eat here if you didn't milk the cow yourself out back of the shop!”

Saeyoung watches the laughter bubble up and spill from her lips, and his heart melts. Off to the side, Saeran rolls his eyes, licking at where his ice cream has started to melt down the side of his cone.

When her laughter dies down, MC straightens up. “If you really wanna know what I'd pick, though, we just got in this new specialty flavor that I am obsessed with.” She taps the glass, pointing to a tub of light yellow ice cream. “It's honey buddha flavor, based on the chips!” Saeyoung's eyes widen as they snap down to read the label, confirming her claim. “Some people don't like the saltiness of the flavor mixed with the sweetness of ice cream, but I think it's a perfect combo!” She reaches for a sampling spoon, but Saeyoung waves his hands to stop her.

“Say no more!” he announces. “I'll take three scoops of the honey buddha flavor. You, miss MC, have exquisite taste!”

MC beams at the silly compliment, and when she ducks down to scoop his order, Saeyoung thinks he sees a hint of a blush on her cheeks. When she stands and starts toward the toppings Saeyoung follows her automatically, not wanting her to walk away from him, even just those few steps.

“And for toppings?” she asks. “Do you like nuts, too?” The sparkle in her eye and the quirk of her brow tell Saeyoung she knows exactly what she's doing when she adds, “Or do you prefer cherries?”

Saeyoung waggles his eyebrows in return. “Can't a man enjoy both?” he answers, his voice low.

MC fakes a gasp, covering her mouth. “It appears we both have scandalous secrets!” She giggles, before lowering her voice. “Don't worry, I'll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

Saeyoung slathers his words in exaggerated sincerity, pressing his palm to his heart and giving her a slight bow. “You're the truest friend I've ever made in an ice cream parlor.”

The pair descends into a fit of laughter, causing the few other customers sprinkled throughout the shop to turn in their direction. Saeran steps away from them, waiting by the cash register at the end of the counter to avoid any unwanted attention. MC takes a few deep breaths to calm herself, but her voice is still is still bubbly when she asks, “So, chopped nuts and cherries?”

Saeyoung nods emphatically, still chuckling. “And sprinkles, too! Rainbow, not chocolate.”

“A honey buddha sundae with nuts, cherries, and rainbow sprinkles?” MC asks dubiously, though her grin is still in place. “That has got to be the most interesting sundae I’ve made in a while.”

“Then I guess I’ve got to be the most interesting customer you’ve had in a while!” Saeyoung’s heart thuds through his chest at the brazen line, but he’s on too strong of a roll to let his anxiety stop him. To his surprise, MC’s smile never falters.

“Oh, definitely,” she confirms. Saeyoung grins widely, a soft chuckle escaping from his lips, and MC's cheeks flare. She ducks her head as she loads on his choice of toppings, hiding her blush behind the fringe of her hair. Saeyoung watches her fondly, admiring her embarrassed side just as much as her joking side. When his sundae is complete, she hands it to him over the display case, then heads toward the register.

“Ah, sorry for the wait!” she apologizes to Saeran upon seeing him waiting at the register, as if she had fully forgotten he was also there.

“It's no problem,” he replies with a shake of his head. MC sends him a thankful smile, and proceeds to type their order into the register. Saeran glances up at Saeyoung, who’s watching MC's fingers tap at the screen with the most smitten expression Saeran has ever seen his brother wear. He stifles a sigh, marvelling at how utterly hopeless Saeyoung can be; he knows that Saeyoung won't take the final leap to close the deal on his own, so he tries to nudge the pair in the right direction.

“Your boyfriend must hate that you have to work on Valentine's Day,” Saeran comments in what he hopes is an offhand manner. MC chuckles anxiously, her fingers pausing momentarily in their task.

“I'm sure he would, if I had one,” she says, looking up at him with a tight-lipped smile. “As it is, I'm free to work while everyone else is out on their dates.”

“A national tragedy,” Saeyoung laments. “A girl as sweet as you deserves someone to spoil her on Valentine's Day. Hell, every day!” The sincerity in his voice catches him off guard almost as much as her. MC laughs, but it's jittery, as if she isn't sure whether or not he's still joking.

“Yeah… well,” she pauses, unsure of what to say. Her eyes flick from Saeyoung to Saeran, back to Saeyoung, and a grin spreads across her face. She gives an exaggerated shrug. “I think I'd rather be single than out on a date with my brother.”

Saeyoung laughs, the return of the joking atmosphere putting him more at ease. “That's fair,” he concedes. “Though you have to admit, I couldn't ask for a more handsome brother.” He takes a wide sidestep to throw an arm around Saeran's shoulders, tugging his twin against his side. “He looks just like me!”

MC giggles as Saeran shrugs easily out of Saeyoung's hold, a well-practiced art. “Platonic dates are healthy,” he defends, despite his exasperation. “That's what our therapist tells us, anyway.”

MC brings a hand to her mouth to try and stifle her laughter, unsure of whether or not Saeran is joking. “In that case, I won't hold you up any longer,” she says. “Your total is…” She glances at the screen, pauses, and her gaze returns to Saeyoung. “Actually, I need a name for the order first.”

“Saeyoung.” He gives a goofy smile along with his name. “I'm Saeyoung.”

“Okay, Saeyoung,” MC replies, returning his grin. “Your total's going to be…” Saeyoung pulls out his wallet and pays her the specified amount, and as the twins start to walk away, MC calls, “Have a great day!”

Saeyoung turns back toward the counter, holding his ice cream aloft and giving MC a deep bow. “Already accomplished!” he announces. As he straightens up, he says, “I hope yours is even better.” MC smiles and waves them off, and the brothers find a table across the dining room, near the front window. Saeran watches in mild horror as Saeyoung digs into his loaded sundae and melts into his chair almost immediately.

“Dare I say, this is almost as good a combination as real honey buddha chips and Phd. Pepper!” He scoops up another spoonful, making sure all of his toppings are represented, and holds it out toward Saeran. “Try it!”

Saeran stares at the spoon, then flicks his gaze up to Saeyoung. “Absolutely not.”

Saeyoung shrugs, taking the bite himself. “Your loss; more for me!”

The brothers make idle conversation as they finish off their ice cream, discussing the tentative plans for the RFA’s next party, the success of Jaehee’s cafe, the reasons why Vanderwood has kept in touch with Saeran but not Saeyoung. The conversation lulls as Saeran finishes his cone, and Saeyoung absentmindedly stirs his melting ice cream while staring dreamily off into space. Saeran follows his brother’s line of sight, and finds him watching MC as she wipes the fingerprints from the glass above the display cases. Saeran rolls his eyes as he turns back toward Saeyoung.

“Do you have any idea how hopeless you are?”

“Eh?” Saeyoung drops his spoon, startled from his daze by Saeran’s words. Saeran shakes his head.

“I have no space to complain about not having a girlfriend; I never leave the house,” Saeran starts off. “Meanwhile you complain about wanting one all the time, then a girl flirts with you like that and you still don’t ask for her number.”

“You can’t just ask a woman for her number while she’s working, Saeran!” Saeyoung replies, picking up his spoon and pointing it at Saeran accusingly. “It’s disrespectful and predatory. It’s in poor taste!”

“Staring is predatory too, idiot.” Saeran leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand as he levels Saeyoung with his unimpressed gaze. “Besides, it’s different when she clearly wants you to.”

Saeyoung’s mouth snaps shut, the response he’d prepared dying on his lips. He squints at Saeran, leaning across the table, and whispers, “Tell me what you know.”

Saeran sighs. “Obviously you were flirting with her, right?” Saeyoung nods. “And she was replying in the same way. So she was obviously flirting with you, too.”

Saeyoung sits down, frowning. “Well, we were just joking around. Just because I meant it in a flirting way doesn’t mean she did, too.”

Saeran buries his face in his hands, taking a deep breath before looking back up at his brother. “Okay, well. Did you hear her ask any other customers for their names?”

Saeyoung looks down at the table, thinking. “Well, no,” he says, looking back up. “But that doesn’t mean any-”

“It means she wanted to know your name, specifically. She certainly wasn’t looking at me when she asked.” Saeran leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s single, she has your sense of humor, she clearly likes you as much as you like her. Why are you making excuses?”

Saeyoung’s eyes fall back to his cup of melted ice cream. He swirls what’s left of the concoction with his spoon, watching the trails of color bleeding from his sprinkles. “You of all people should know,” he mutters. “Saeyoung doesn’t flirt, 707 does. Just because she likes Seven, doesn’t mean she’ll like Saeyoung.”

Saeran’s shoulders fall, guilt over his prodding hitting him in the chest. He forgot sometimes that Saeyoung had almost as little self confidence as he himself had. He casts a glance to MC and wracks his brain for something he can say to convince Saeyoung not to let her slip away. He could tell the two of them would be good together.

“You know, something my therapist told me, back in the early days when I refused to talk to anyone… was that if I didn’t want people to abandon me, I couldn’t just assume that they would and push them away first.” He turns his gaze back to Saeyoung. “If you want her to accept you for more than just your jokes, you shouldn’t just assume that she won’t. There’s probably more to her than jokes, too.”

Saeyoung turns his attention back to MC, watches the way her hair swings as she walks, the small smile that curves her lips as she works, and he wonders what she could be thinking about. He wonders if she’s thinking about him.

“Make up your mind soon,” Saeran says softly. “We’ve been done with our ice cream for a while, and we can’t keep sitting here forever.”

Saeyoung stands from the table without looking at Saeran. “I’m gonna do it,” he says, and Saeran cracks a smile.

He takes a few deep breaths as he crosses the dining room, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do. How long had it been since he’d asked someone out? Had he ever asked anyone out with actual romantic intentions, and not just as a joke or a ploy? He couldn’t remember. He clears his throat as he approaches the counter, catching MC’s attention. She smiles as she turns toward him, and all thoughts fall from his head.

“Hey! Did you enjoy your sundae?” she asks.

“Oh! Yes! It was delicious. A perfect combination!” Saeyoung gushes, and MC chuckles.

“I’ll have to try it myself one of these days, then.” She smiles at him for a few moments, and when he doesn’t respond, she asks, “Did you need anything else?”

“Ah, um. Well!” Saeyoung fumbles for words, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck anxiously. MC cocks her head to the side, watching him curiously. He takes another deep breath, and tries again. “Well. I know this is inappropriate to do, and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable! So feel free to say no! But. If you’d like. I’d, um, I’d really like to take you out to dinner tonight. So you aren’t alone on Valentine’s Day.”

The bright smile that breaks out across MC’s face could light the entire shop. Saeyoung’s heart flutters in his chest.

“I’d love to!” she answers, before quickly reeling her enthusiasm in. “But… it’d be almost impossible to get a last-minute reservation on a night like Valentine’s Day. How about another night?”

Saeyoung grins, cocking an eyebrow at her, ready to tackle the challenge. “I’m very resourceful,” he promises. “If anyone can manage a last-minute dinner reservation on Valentine’s Day, it’s me.” MC laughs, and pulls a napkin from a nearby dispenser to write down her phone number and what time she would get off that afternoon.

“I’ll definitely be impressed if you can manage something tonight,” she says as she hands him the napkin, “but don’t be embarrassed to set the date for another night.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” Saeyoung smiles widely, then returns to the table where Saeran waits for him.

“Told you so,” Saeran comments simply, but Saeyoung pays no mind to the tease. He grabs Saeran by the sleeve and tugs him toward the door.

“Come on, I have arrangements to make!”

The twins go home, and Saeyoung starts his preparations. He calls in every favor he’s owed, and asks for more on top of them. It takes time, negotiation, grovelling, and a healthy dose of teasing being dumped upon him, but he manages to get everything sorted out and ready by the time MC gets off work. He gives her time to get ready after letting her know that their reservations are made, and when she texts him her address he sets off to pick her up.

Saeyoung pulls up to MC’s home in his cheetah-print porsche, wearing his best suit, with a bouquet of red roses in his arms, and the surprised laughter that rings from her lips when she opens the door is worth every penny and every ounce of effort he’d spent. She runs back inside to put the flowers in water and then reemerges, taking Saeyoung's offered hand and following him down the driveway to the car.

“I hope you didn't rent a car this flashy just to impress me,” MC teases.

“Rent?” Saeyoung gasps, affronted. “Are you implying that my precious Purrsche is a lady for hire?”

“Purrsche?” MC asks, laughing with disbelief. As they approach the car, Saeyoung pulls open the passenger side door for MC to get in, while also stroking the vehicle's hood lovingly.

“It's okay, baby. She didn't mean to call you a lady of the night,” he murmurs to the car. “She just needs to get to know you! She'll see what a classy woman you are!”

With a small smile on her face, MC pets the dashboard. “Deepest apologies, Madam Purrsche,” she says, earning her a grin from Saeyoung.

“See?” he says, with a pat to the hood. “You two will be fast friends.”

After ensuring MC is safely inside, Saeyoung closes her door and goes around to the driver's side to climb in as well. As they drive, MC asks questions about what kind of restaurant they’re going to, how far away it is, whether she’d dressed up enough, or too much, and Saeyoung answers them all cryptically. When they reach their destination, sooner than MC had expected, she gazes up at the building Saeyoung leads her toward with a confused furrow to her brow.

“Is… this a restaurant?” she asks, prompting a nervous laugh from Saeyoung.

“Well… not technically,” he answers. “It’s a coffee shop owned by a couple of my friends. They close early in the afternoon, so they said they’d let me borrow it for the night.” He fishes the keys to the shop out of his pocket, unlocking the door and holding it open for MC. The inside of the cafe is decorated with red and pink streamers, heart-shaped balloons coating the ceiling, and vases of vinyl roses on every surface. Just inside the door waits a blond boy in an ill-fitted suit, two menus in his hand.

“Welcome to Saeyoung’s Valentine Bistro!” the boy greets. “My name is Yoosung, and I’ll be your server tonight. I'm really glad you're real, because when Saeyoung asked me to do this, I thought he might be pranking me!”

“Yoosung!” Saeyoung hisses, but MC laughs nonetheless.

“A pleasure to meet you, Yoosung,” she greets, bowing to him slightly.

“You too! Let me show you to your table.”

Most of the tables in the cafe had been cleared away, lined up against the walls, leaving only one table in the center of the dining room. Yoosung leads the pair to this lone table and sits them down, leaving them with the menus as he heads off to fetch their drinks.

“All dishes prepared fresh by Chef Saeran,” MC reads from the top of the menu, a smile on her lips. “Let me guess, your brother?”

“Clever girl!” Saeyoung praises. “Believe it or not, he was much harder to wrangle into this than anyone else.”

“Saeyoung… this is beautiful,” MC marvels, gazing around the redecorated coffee shop. “You really put all of this together just this afternoon?”

“I told you I was resourceful.” Saeyoung smiles at her, watching the wonder on her face as she takes it all in. Her smile falls slightly as she turns back to him.

“But… why?” she asks, and anxiety starts to claw at Saeyoung's throat. Had he gone too big too fast? Was his grand romantic gesture too much for her? Did she not believe he had really accomplished it in one afternoon, and now she thought he was stalking her? Dozens of possibilities race through his mind in a matter of seconds. The disappointment must show on his face, because she quickly rephrases. “I mean! It's wonderful! I just don't understand… why you'd go through so much trouble for someone you just met.”

Saeyoung’s expression softens into a smile, and he reaches across the table to take her hand. “I can't really explain it,” he says sheepishly. “There was just something about talking to you that felt… right.” MC mirrors his smile, rubbing her thumb gently over the back of his palm. “For a long time I wasn't allowed to have any emotional attachments because of my job, so I don't have a lot of experience in dating. But something told me that if I didn't go all out for you, I'd regret it.”

A blush rises to MC's cheeks, and she breaks eye contact to take one last glance around the cafe. “Well, this is definitely all out,” she says with a laugh. Returning her gaze to Saeyoung, she flashes him a playful smile. “You could have taken me to Burger King and I would have been impressed.”

Saeyoung laughs, relief lifting the weight from his shoulders. “I'll remember that... for next time?” he says, his voice hopeful.

And when MC smiles, Saeyoung's world lights up.

“I can't wait.”

#mysme fic #mystic messenger fic #mysme #mystic messenger #saeyoung x mc #my fic #sfw #I really hope you like it I had so much fun writing this fjksljf #i'm always so anxious to write seven bc I feel like i never get his character Quite Right #but!! I had so much fun with this thank you for the opportunity!! big love happy valentines day~

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

Text

Smoke/Mute oneshot in which, as usual, utter chaos happens and I attempt an explanation as to where these pink Siege skins came from. (Rating M, crack + some sexiness going on, ~2.7k words) - written for @glockchen who asked me to write anything about these skins and I could never say no to you ♥♥♥

It starts with a simple drawing.

As it’s a perfectly normal morning in Hereford, the canteen, including the kitchen, is in complete and utter chaos: Caveira has followed through with her threat of disgustedly pouring what she calls bleached bullshit (also known as refined sugar) into Dokkaebi’s collar because the Korean woman forgot to buy ‘proper’ sugar, sparking a small war in their corner of the room, Blitz is currently burning the third batch of eggs and looking to his boyfriend for approval (and Rook reacts with a pained smile), and Bandit is surreptitiously trying to trip everyone walking past while pretending to be an angel in Montagne’s direction.

Mute and Smoke are sitting somewhere in the middle of all this, only half listening to Sledge’s tired mantra of they’re all adults they can clean up after themselves don’t get up let them make their own mistakes and learn.

“Gargle is such a typical, ugly English word”, Maestro muses and feeds the Scotsman a bite of his cheesecake because who needs breakfast food when there’s cake. “It’s onomatopoeic, agreed, but if the love of my life told me ‘I just gargled with maple syrup’ I wouldn’t care how sweet the kisses were because it’d be the same as if I proclaimed myself to be moist. Ugh.”

“I dunno, it can be pretty romantic”, Smoke shrugs and surreptitiously rolls his eyes at Mute – it’s clear why, the two lovebirds next to them are once again wholly lost in each other. “I sometimes gargle with Mark’s come and he never complains.”

Sledge chokes on the cheesecake and looks like he’s about to protest the mention of bodily fluids while he’s eating (and Mute gets ready to retaliate by pointing out the bright purple lovebites peeking over the Scot’s collar as well as the faint bruises on Maestro’s neck), when there’s a sudden, dramatic entrance. The door flies open and in strides Tachanka, head held high, stance proud and a fond smile on his lips.

Most of the ruckus dies down over the abrupt change in mood as the Russian makes a beeline for the fridge, carefully stepping over Bandit’s outstretched foot, avoiding the two flailing women and ignoring the sharp smell emanating from the stove. Now Mute notices the piece of paper in Tachanka's hand which he unfolds and then pins to the fridge door with a few magnets. From this distance, all Mute can see is a whole lot of pink.

Seeing as most pairs of eyes are glued to the old man by now, Tachanka grins and addresses the room with his booming voice: “If you ever ask yourself why the hell you’re still here – this is why.”

Curious, Mute leaves the quiet argument of what constitutes as revolting behind and joins the small crowd gathering around Tachanka, catching a better look of what seems to be a child’s drawing. It’s hard to make out at first as more than half of it is just a mix of different shades of pink, but eventually he identifies it as Tachanka himself holding what looks like a little girl, only his uniform has been recoloured from his usual olive and he’s displaying a horn as well as a mane and even a tail.

If he’s honest, it’s adorable. He knows the story, Glaz told it with a sheepish Tachanka modestly brushing him off but smiling appreciatively anyway: on their last mission, the old man heroically rescued a girl and made sure to carry her to safety and even reunite her with her parents. Judging by Tachanka's expression, it’s one of the most touching fan letters he’s received and he’s immensely proud, as he should be.

At least until Blackbeard steps up and snorts at the display. “Not at all your colour, I’m sorry to say, this looks like the gayest version of you”, he points out. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Says the guy with the man bun”, Pulse shoots back immediately.

“Is that bold-faced envy I hear? At least I have hair, Jack.”

“Yes. Too much of it. I’m just waiting for you to start stealing Sébastien’s plaid shirts.”

“I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to experiment with non-traditional looks, thank you very much. When’s the last time you changed anything about your appearance? I’ve seen your driver’s license. The only new thing about you are your wrinkles.”

Mute considers texting Smoke to stop demonstrating his ability to shove an entire piece of cake into his mouth and instead witness this rare American-on-American smackdown but forgets all about it when Tachanka, who’s been listening with a decidedly unimpressed scowl, chimes in: “You call yourself confident but mock this gift I got? Just because it’s pink?”

Belatedly, Blackbeard realises his mistake of potentially angering Tachanka of all people and tries to backtrack. “Well, I mean – only because you’d look silly wearing it. The picture is cute, but you in a pink uniform -”

“What’s wrong with a pink uniform?”

“It’s not really – it’s too visible, and you in pink is just laughable.”

“What’s wrong with me in a pink uniform?”

Mute is failing to suppress a grin by now. While Tachanka sounds perfectly calm and pleasant, Blackbeard is getting more and more flustered by the second. “It’s not a manly colour. You agree with me on that, right? You’d look stupid.”

“Pink used to be a boy’s colour, you know. A softer red, in a way. I think it’d suit you, it’d go with your hair.”

“I’d rather drop dead than be caught wearing something like this”, Blackbeard mutters and then wisely retreats before Tachanka's good mood dissolves into something else.

Amused, the Russian turns to Mute and mirrors his grin. “Confident in his masculinity, hm?”, he repeats doubtfully.

“We can actually make a pink uniform for you”, Mute suggests, causing Tachanka to perk up. “James has dyed clothes before.”

“Would you? I’m beginning to like the idea more and more. I can wear it during training and dazzle everyone.”

“I’ll even do you one better. Just wait a few days.” The two of them nod at each other and Mute returns to his table where Maestro is currently praising the soothing quality of green tea for an upset stomach. “James, I know what we’re going to do today”, he announces with a glint in his eye.

“Are you sure these are the correct measurements?”, Smoke complains for the nth time around the needles between his lips. Doubtfully, he holds up the patterned trousers and frowns at them, visibly dissatisfied. “They look too short, babe. They look like they’d fit me.”

Odd, isn’t it?, Mute thinks and bites his cheek until he trusts himself to reply without sounding highly entertained. “Those are definitely the correct measurements, I’m sure.”

“I bet you’re bloody grateful I can sew or else you’d still be watching Youtube tutorials.”

“I’m glad your mum made you fix the clothes you ripped on the daily, yes. Teaches you about the value of your time.”

“Teaches me not to buy expensive garb, more like. How’s your unicorn coming along?”

Mute takes a moment to inspect his work. After airbrushing one of Tachanka's helmets a lovely shade of pink, he started to add a few more personal touches he expects the Russian to enjoy: a pair of bear ears which Bandit owned – and no, Mute didn’t ask for details –, an actual unicorn horn he improvised out of a few available materials plus a mane made from faux fur which Frost generously donated once she caught wind of their project. He’s currently gluing letters onto the monstrosity since the rainbow he added for good measure has dried already. All in all, it’s solid work and he’s happy with it. If this doesn’t make Tachanka's teammates question some of what they thought they knew about him, then nothing will.

“See, I get why we’re making two of these abominations, babe, even if you haven’t told me the reason outright”, Smoke murmurs more to himself than directed at Mute, “but why three? Did anyone else want one? Are we gifting one to Dom? You know he’d wear it, especially with this sexy leopard print. Christ, we’re not giving the old man the leopard, are we? Because I’m sure he’d say something like ‘I have the underwear to match it’ and thank you, now we’ll need some brain bleach.”

“He’s not the only one I know who’d have matching knickers”, Mute states drily. “And Dom isn’t the only one I know who’d wear this.”

Smoke stops messing with the hem and throws him a deeply distrustful look. “Babe. Are you serious?”

“I have the perfect ears to go with it too.”

His quiet statement makes his lover’s brows rise. “They’re for me, aren’t they.” It’s not a question and so Mute doesn’t answer. “Really though – are you taking the piss or does the thought of me wearing this stuff actually turn you on?” Mute steadfastly refuses to respond and instead focuses on lining up the letters playfully. Maybe he could add glitter, yes, in any case he needs to not think about Smoke in a leopard print uniform, absolutely not squirming on his lap, the rappel harness flattering his thighs and soft mewls -

The rustling of clothes catches his attention and when he looks up, Smoke is half naked already. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on, what does it look like? You want me to wear this, so I will.” He pulls on the finished pieces of his uniform and poses only partly jokingly. His arse looks amazing and Mute forgets how breathing works for a moment, resisting the urge to reach out and cop a feel because then they’ll never get it all done. “Bloody hell, this is tight.”

“Yeah”, Mute agrees distractedly and openly disregards the concept of eye contact entirely in favour of ogling other body parts, “like I said: definitely the correct measurements.”

Grinning, Smoke walks over to where he’s sitting and buries a hand in Mute’s hair to drag his head forward and smush his face into his exceedingly prominent bulge, ignoring the slight resistance and massaging Mute’s scalp once he’s started mouthing at the growing erection rubbing against his cheek. “Why don’t you get the ears, babe?”, Smoke hums and seems not at all perturbed by his unusual attire.

A few days later, Mute stands outside of Blackbeard's room, taking a deep breath and checking the time again. The American’s daily schedule is rigid and thus he’s been asleep for more than an hour at this point, not at all disturbed by the commotion outside of the base. They invited everyone interested, distributed beverages and promised a show, meaning there’s a sizeable crowd outside waiting for the main event to happen – whatever it’s supposed to entail.

Tachanka's uniform garnered a lot of approval, and Mute was especially proud to hear almost everyone complimenting his admittedly fabulous helmet, but the real treat hasn’t even surfaced yet.

Once he deems himself ready, he barges into the room and starts shaking Blackbeard awake rudely. “Get up, Jenson, come on, we need you, there’s a situation.” He does his best to appear urgent, and to his credit, Blackbeard is up on his feet before he’s even processed anything that’s going on. “Hostage taken in London, we need to fly out ASAP, get dressed and let’s go!”

He left the door open to let just enough light in for the American to not crash into his furniture as he stumbles about the room, getting dressed and mumbling something incoherent. Mute leaves him no time to think, talking rapidly out of his arse and ushering him out of the room and down the corridor. Blearily, Blackbeard allows himself to be manhandled and merely responds with a few grunts, but once they’re outside and in the middle of the sizeable gathering, he realises that something is off.

Being greeted with cheers, Blackbeard looks around in confusion until his gaze lands on Tachanka toasting him with a can of beer. “The fuck are you wearing?”, he asks and eyes the unicorn helmet in disbelief.

“The fuck are you wearing?”, Tachanka shoots back good-naturedly.

Finally, Blackbeard looks down at himself. He’s clad entirely in pink, mirroring the Russian perfectly. “What”, he says helplessly.

“I told you it’d go with your hair.”

And while the two start bickering immediately, with Blackbeard pompously proclaiming his intent to undress this instant and Tachanka amusedly egging him on, much to the audience’s delight, Mute feels a tug on his sleeve, turns around and mutters a curse under his breath. “I told you not to wear this outside”, he hisses and tries his best not to glance down at Smoke’s dangerously tight trousers.

He’s wearing the full outfit sans mask, and the cat ears which allegedly pick up on brain activity and move accordingly are perked up in excitement. Smoke was amazed by them the first time he put them on and refused to take them off for an entire evening – and admittedly, Mute’s heart melted a little every time Smoke looked over at him and the ears shot up instantly.

Right now, however, his heart isn’t the body part most touched by Smoke’s appearance.

“I’ve been a naughty kitty”, Smoke purrs and begins wrapping himself around the taller man, “you should punish me.”

And while the whole thing in itself has nothing erotic about it, it achieves the desired effect nonetheless as Mute is overcome by the sudden urge to stuff Smoke’s mouth.

Before he can act on it though, Bandit appears by their side, ignoring Blackbeard's repeated insistences that while pink is apparently a feminine colour, there’s nothing wrong with femininity, it’s just not for him (and Tachanka merely lets him talk with a partly disbelieving, partly entertained smile). “Have you seen Gilles? I don’t know where he is.”

“He said something like ‘I have one of these’ when he saw Chanka and then disappeared”, Smoke informs him helpfully and receives a concerned frown. “No idea what he was on about but he seemed excited.”

“Well, he better not be -”

Bandit trails off in horror and neglects to shut his mouth, so Mute and Smoke follow his line of sight while most of the noise around them dies down as well. It quickly becomes clear why: Montagne’s standing in the doorway to the base, wearing – well. What is he wearing?

Only on the second glance does Mute discern the butterfly pattern, noticing that it even continues over his balaclava, harmonises well with the hot pink helmet and – are those feelers?

Montagne catches sight of Smoke’s attire and nods approvingly. “That’s… a choice”, he states. “Maybe a little too racy but I don’t dislike it.”

“What do you think is going on here?”, Bandit addresses him weakly and looks torn between wanting the ground to swallow him whole and wanting the ground to swallow Montagne.

Now the Frenchman seems to be questioning himself, expression turning sheepish. “Isn’t this… these aren’t designs for breast cancer awareness? I thought -”

“See! That would be the only acceptable occasion for a man to ever wear pink!”, Blackbeard tells Tachanka triumphantly while pointing almost accusingly at Montagne, sparking yet another discussion now involving most of the people present.

“Does it look bad?”, Montagne wants to know sadly and only cheers up once Bandit has walked over to reassure him and started to play with his antennae – Mute can only imagine the amount of willpower it takes for Bandit not to make a thousand inappropriate and/or sarcastic jokes at once.

Not that he’s in a much better situation, seeing as Smoke is attempting to seductively meow in his direction. Sighing, he grabs Smoke’s wrist and drags him along. “You look hot but please never pretend to be a cat again. Promise me, James.”

“If I do, am I allowed to wear this on a mission?”

Smoke’s bright smile is going to be his doom one day, he knows this. He predicts quite a lot of arguing about the use of this particular outfit but can’t really say that he minds, not when they do most of their fighting in bed.

And maybe he’ll tell Smoke to put the mask on this time as well.

#rainbow six siege #smoke #mute #smoke/mute #tachanka #blackbeard #fanfic #oneshot #okay look I don't genuinely think mute has a thing for animals #don't @ me please #also these ears exist and they're adorable

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buzzdixonwriter · 5 years

Text

Four Movies About Movies

If you love movies the way I do, you’ll appreciate the quadruple goodness Netflix is currently offering.

First off, Shirkers, a wild story about a lost film made over 30 years ago by a group of female Singaporean punks and their con-artist film school professor.

Of course, being a Singapore punk back in the 1980s meant you looked like an anime fan girl, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Wikipedia sums up the basic premise: “In 1992, Sandi Tan, alongside friends Jasmine Ng and Sophie Siddique, as well as film teacher Georges Cardona shot the independent film Shirkers. After wrapping, Tan, Ng, and Siddique left the footage with Cardona as the trio went to study abroad for college. However, Cardona disappeared with the footage and the trio never saw or heard from him again. “20 years later, and 10 years following Cardona’s death, Cardona’s wife emailed Tan, informing her that she was in possession of the footage for Shirkers, minus the audio tracks. In the proceeding years, Tan decided to digitize the footage and use it to make something new - a documentary about the making of the film.”

Shirkers is a delight. It captures the edgy exuberance of youth (and contrasts same with the middle age reality the three teens grew into) and offers an insight into the culture of Singapore, squeaky clean on the outside but containing its own forms of social rebellion.

Cardona, the bogus film school professor, is one of a long line of cinematic con men who tried to get a project off the ground with nothing more than a smile and a shoeshine.

That he comes across as more misguided than malevolent may be part of Tan’s shading of the story, but it may also reflect something about the man himself: Never fully satisfied with who he really was, always wanting to build and embellish on that life, but while reckless apparently never cold hearted or cruel.

It’s a wonderful movie and extremely thought provoking.

Another cinematic con man can be found in The Other Side Of The Wind and They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead, both released through Royal Road Entertainment.

It’s the savvy film company that releases not one but two movies based on an infamous lost / unreleasable film.

We’ll start with They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead, a documentary about Orson Welles’ struggles to complete The Other Side Of The Wind and incorporating a lot of footage from that project that couldn’t be used in the final assembly (among other things, actors were replaced or changed parts).

While one could cite Welles as the titular con man, in truth there was a legion of schnooks, scammers, and slickee boiz attached to The Other Side Of The Wind over the years. The film was a hard luck project from the gitgo, getting mixed up with deposed shahs, revolutionary governments, and international embezzlers.

By the time all the dust had settled and some sense could be made out of the complicated rights’ claims, Welles and 90% of his cast had died. What little bit he had assembled was analyzed, his copious notes and interviews were pored over, and in the end The Other Side Of The Wind was finally released.

Was it a good movie?

Well…let’s say it a movie, an Orson Welles’ movie, and let it go at that.

The Other Side Of The Wind had a long genesis, starting shortly after Hemingway’s suicide and evolving over the years to become a story about a macho film director.

However, the Great Big Shocking Reveal that Welles planned in the 1960s / 70s had become pretty passé by the 1980s and is now kinda corny. It’s valid in the movie as a period piece but that works against the film; it’s not a living document but a look back at a different era, a different attitude.

The conceit of The Other Side Of The Wind is that it’s a documentary about the last film / last night of a legendary film maker, J.J. Hannaford (played by John Huston). “The Other Side Of The Wind” is the uncompleted film he is shooting at the time of his death; it will remain uncompleted because the star stormed off the set (part of the aforementioned Great Big Shocking Reveal) and Hannaford, faced with a hostile studio and investors who have puled their cash, dies in a car crash, possibly a suicide.

The bulk of the film takes place at Hannaford’s home during a birthday party for him; it is shot using various film gauges and stocks to represent different film crews / journalists / film buffs recording the same event.

It’s a very free flowing / highly improvised affair with moments that can pass from brilliant to banal and back again in a flash (how much of this is because Welles’ was unable to assemble it the way he envisions, and how much is just a lack of material is open to debate).

A grim joke running through the bigger film is that “The Other Side Of The Wind” (i.e., the film-within-the-film) is constantly being interrupted during its various screenings, so there’s no way of appraising it as a totality.

“The Other Side Of The Wind” was Welles’ attempt to ape the free form film making style briefly popular during the late 60s and early 70s.

It actually looks like a Russ Meyer film of that era, beautifully photographed, filmed with striking images, and lots of naked ladies.

Lots and lots and lots of naked ladies.

There’s a story about Alfred Hitchcock working on his supposed last film at Universal (in reality, the studio indulging an old man who made them a fortune by giving him an office and a secretary and the chance to hang out with old film making friends). Hitchcock worked on a script with a writer he’d used in the past, but the further they got into the story, the more the writer realized what he was writing had nothing to do with what could possibly be filmed and released by a major studio, but rather were the erotic fantasies and fetishes of a doddering old man.

“The Other Side Of The Wind” has that kind of feel to it, and while it’s well done and memorable, lordie, it ain’t good. That The Other Side Of The Wind manages to rise a couple of notches above that is a credit to Welles and his posthumous collaborators.

Rounding out our list, Filmworker is a fascinating story about Leon Vitali, a successful young worker who landed the choice role of Lord Burlington in Barry Lyndon and become so mesmerized by Stanley Kubrick’s directorial prowess that he abandoned his acting career to becomes Kubrick’s assistant.

This isn’t the kind of story one expects to see about a talented film maker, a story about an acolyte who remains loyal and steadfast decades after the master’s death.

While Filmworker references most of Kubrick’s films, it focuses most tightly on Barry Lyndon, The Shining, Full Metal Jacket, and Eyes Wide Shut.

There’s a wealth of fascinating material here, including R. Lee Emery crowing about how he stole the role of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from under Tim Colceri in Full Metal Jacket, and the intricacies of finding a compatible work around for Kubrick’s obsessive directorial style vs child labor laws.

Vitali’s own career and early life, especially the not-at-all-positive influence of his father, are also delved into.

By the end of the film, one feels happy for Vitali: Looking back, he thinks he made the right career choice, and if he’s happy with the way things turned out, who are we to question that?

#movies #Shirkers #The Other Side Of The Wind #They'll Love Me When I'm Dead #Filmworker #Stanley Kubrick #Orson Welles #Leon Vitali #film making

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